by Jace Killan
Spencer returned the smile, feeling the confirmation of his prayer, deep down. God would watch out for Spencer and help him return safely.
Then he thought of Amrie, his wife of two years, and his son Che.
He had received a ton of grief for the name as people assumed Spencer had named his son after the infamous communist Che Guevarra.
He hadn’t. Che in Argentina, where Spencer served a two-year mission for his faith, meant, “dude.” Still, he found himself explaining his reasons to every operative, analyst, and officer that asked the name of his son.
Amrie would be waking up soon. He’d call her when he finished the op. She didn’t know about it yet, and there would be little he could tell her other than he got the bad guys and well, he was alive.
The Ospreys followed the Blackhawk that veered from the Euphrates to a clearing a quarter mile away and landed. The men filed out and crouched low until the birds left.
With the new moon, they were little more than shadows. They wore dark camo and painted faces. In Spencer’s left eye, the world illuminated green from night vision. He checked his site with his gun eye. It too showed green through the glass.
They started their short trek to the compound, splitting into three groups of six: Alpha, Bravo, Charlie. Chorch took the lead of their group, Alpha. They were going through their identified point of entry while the other two groups circled and maintained the perimeter until they were inside the wall, then Bravo would join Alpha in the exfiltration and assassination.
A twelve-foot wall marked the perimeter generally accessible through a steel-reinforced sliding gate. There would be guards at the gate, so Chorch had suggested they enter over the wall. They identified the least patrolled area by satellite and had practiced the maneuver every day over the past week.
“Hold,” sounded the analyst who watched the op from the Pentagon via satellite.
Chorch held his hand, making a fist, though the six of them had stopped when hearing the order.
The voice said, “There are five combatants outside. Two at the door, one nearby on the wall, one at the side, and one in back. All hostiles are carrying short range firearms.”
The satellite images of the compound flashed through Spencer’s mind. They were lucky that there were only five. In all, the analysts anticipated a dozen to fifteen armed men on the premises.
“Alpha, you’re a go.”
Chorch pointed at the wall, and as they had practiced, two men hurried to the base of the wall and crouched. Spencer, pushed his M4 to his back, then raced at the wall, jumping off their hands and grabbing the ledge above.
He held firm as one, another, a third and Chorch climbed up Spencer’s back like a ladder. They pulled Spencer up, while the last man, Rico, a wiry, skinny kid from Houston, backed up and ran halfway up the wall. He jumped grabbing Chorch’s outstretched hand and popped over to the other side.
Spencer climbed down and settled in the low-ready, nestled into the shadows. Chorch gave an expected nod.
Spencer crouched, using his knee as support and raised the barrel of his long suppressed firearm. He adjusted his site once, settling on one of the men standing just inside the closed gate. He shifted his rifle over slightly, noting the distance to the second man.
“Alpha’s in position,” announced the analyst. He returned a moment later, “Bravo’s in position.”
Spencer held his breath, waiting for the order. As the analyst counted down from three, Spencer exhaled slightly then retained the remaining breath just after “one.” In quick succession he fired two shots, hitting the first man through the nose and the second under the left eye. Both men fell to the ground motionless.
Rico had simultaneously shot the hostile off the wall, who fell outside the compound, while another of Alpha shot the man positioned at the back.
Bravo slid open the gate and retrieved the two fallen men that Spencer had shot. Bravo dragged them outside the compound then circled toward the remaining hostile within the wall.
Spencer heard two wisps in the distance and the confirmation in his com, “Hostile down.”
There were three entrances into the actual compound, one close to the gate Bravo had entered and the other two by the other two fallen hostiles, at the side and in back.
Spencer followed Chorch with the rest of Alpha, toward the back of the compound. There were no windows around the perimeter. The center of the compound, however, was an open courtyard so that the occupiers could enjoy the outdoors in perceived safety.
Sure, they feared drone strikes, but that’s why ISIS kept a good supply of hostages and women and children around.
Chorch knelt by the closed back door, and searched for alarms or booby traps. He nodded, giving the all clear. Spencer sited his rifle at the door, watching as Chorch pushed it open to a short hallway.
Spencer entered first making no sound as he stepped. Chorch followed and three of the other four would be right behind, as they had practiced. One man would stay at the back, posted as guard.
Bravo announced that they’d entered the side door and were clearing the western rooms of the compound while Alpha cleared the eastern.
Spencer crept right, into a large kitchen. Chorch went left. Rico aimed down the kitchen, queuing Spencer to continue. He kept his back to the wall, spanning the room—empty.
Rico and Spencer continued clearing the kitchen and adjacent dining room.
From Chorch’s location, there were two wisps in rapid succession followed by a thud.
Spencer held his breath, then relaxed when no hostile shouted or returned fire. But he had relaxed too soon. A shrieking scream echoed through the hallway.
Spencer crouched, drilling his firearm on the left opening into a hallway. Rico had his sites on the doorway leading into what they’d referred to in training as the family room.
The unit had gone this far without detection, now the firefight would start. Spencer’s muscles twitched and his breathing quickened. Adrenaline surged through his veins.
A third from Alpha entered the dining room behind, allowing Spencer to work his way to a better angle of the hall while Rico crept closer to the family room.
The hallway illuminated. Both Spencer’s scope and his night-visioned eye took a second to adjust after the view washed out. When he returned to look down the scope, he saw clearly again, though the optics were no longer green.
They didn’t have the luxury of time now if they were to rescue the CIA operative. They needed to push through the compound and find the man.
Spencer heard a couple more wisps followed by the crackling of an AK-47 returning fire. A hostile’s arm appeared from around a corner down the hall, holding the firearm and unloaded an entire magazine in seconds, hitting nothing but wall and ceiling.
Spencer waited for the reload as he positioned his sites at the same spot the rifle had been just seconds prior. When it returned, he shot before the hostile could rattle off more than a couple rounds.
Spencer hit the hostile’s hand causing him to drop the machine gun. Shouts in Arabic followed. Spencer crept fully into the hallway, sensing Chorch just behind. Another hostile appeared from around the far corner, firing at them.
Chorch had the hostile in his sites and unloaded two shots to the chest. The man toppled backward, but no more than stunned; he wore a vest. Spencer reacted. He sunk a round into the man’s head before the hostile could raise his weapon.
Spencer hurried to the end of the hall, quickly killing the other man with the shot up hand. The hall forked, but Rico had cleared the family room and protected the right side, so Spencer turned left and started around another corner.
As soon as he could see down a twenty-foot hallway lined with several doors on either side, he ducked back away from shots fired. There were two armed hostiles, cowards, huddled behind a couple women.
Chorch had seen it, too. He motioned with his hands for Spencer to take the one on the right and he’d handle the one on the left. Spencer stood and waited for the
gunfire to stop. He popped his head around the corner, quickly siting in the man on the right and shot, hitting his left cheek.
The other, surprised or frightened, unloaded his magazine down the hallway. Crouching, Chorch looked around the corner and fired twice. One round hit the man’s thigh. The hostile tried to reload while his woman shield screamed and covered her face. Chorch hurried down the hall and finished the job.
“We’ve got Osama,” said Bravo, codename for Aladin Musad.
At the end of the hall, a door opened part way. Chorch, inspected the room while Spencer waited for Rico and another to help secure the two women.
“It’s the hostages,” Chorch said.
Spencer breathed deep. They had saved the lives of many and to his knowledge, none of the Unit had suffered even a scratch, an answer to his prayer. Their hard work had paid off.
He followed Chorch into the room. Thirteen Turkish rebels huddled on the cement floor, awake, but not moving. In the corner, Spencer identified the CIA operative. “Sanchez is secure and thirteen turkeys.”
He didn’t understand the clanking sound as he focused on the confirmation from the analyst. But when he replayed the scene over and over in his mind, he heard it breaking the silence of the room. The grenade bounced across the floor and rested in the center.
It had come from one of the woman shields and Rico would eventually drink himself into a stupor and eat his pistol out of shame for not having checked the person.
But Chorch had seen it, just in time to react. He launched himself atop the grenade, shielding the blast with his body. He saved Spencer’s life, who stood only feet away as his best friend lifted then fell, broken in a growing puddle of blood.
Joaquin stood in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. He’d read the NFNR file Spencer had given him, gaining a deepened understanding of who his brother Chorch had been—a hero.
Shame hit his gut like a prison guard boot. He could have been a hero too if it weren’t for his addiction.
A guard marched in front of the tomb, flicking moisture with each step in the light rain. His arm and legs moved robotically, while hoisting a firearm. His feet slapped in a methodical cadence until he came to the edge where he clapped his heels and spun.
Joaquin often discovered patterns in the world around him. It’s what made him so good at solving Rubik’s cubes and other puzzles. Some of those patterns weren’t intentional, or perhaps would be by God, if God existed. But he noticed a pattern here. Twenty-one. With each pass the guard took twenty-one steps. That had to be intentional.
He thought of pulling his cell phone and checking online, but decided it disrespectful to do so. There was a gentle reverence here. He’d look it up later.
Joaquin had turned his phone off anyway. He had run out of the Pentagon under the guise of using the restroom. He needed to get away—organize the powerful emotions after reading how Chorch died.
He killed his phone, because he didn’t want to be bothered. Not by Spencer or mom. Or Gomez.
The cartel hadn’t let up. They figured that Joaquin owed them allegiance for the protection he’d received on the inside. He’d have to buy his freedom through indentured servitude.
The tale of two brothers. One a special-ops-saving-the-world-soldier, the other a meth-addict-slave-to-the-cartel. The thought sickened him. He wanted to make something of himself, despite his father’s indiscretions. Chorch turned out just fine and he had the same parents as Joaquin. Of course, he hadn’t seen his father’s mistress. If only there were a way for Joaquin to undo his misdeeds. Maybe Spencer could get him into the military? Maybe he could die a hero, too.
8
At eight years old, Joaquin sat in the front row of raised bleachers flanking an oval arena, about the size of a soccer field. Rain tapped on the tin roof sheltering the arena and metal stands. Coolness settled on the recently plowed field surrounding the open-walled stadium, bringing with it an earthy musk.
Men in cowboy boots and hats raced across the arena floor raking the reddish dark brown soil, erasing the past deeds and leaving a blank canvass on which the evening’s art would continue.
Jaqui held a corndog in one hand and an ear of helote corn in the other. The helote was smothered in butter and dusted with chili powder. He nibbled on it, and then chewed on the corndog, only swallowing occasionally. His mother leaned over and offered a sip of orange soda, which allowed Jaqui to maintain his grip on both parts of his dinner.
The music stopped and a voice kicked off the Queen Creek, Arizona rodeo. “Join me in welcoming last year’s Rodeo Queen as she presents the colors of our great nation.”
Without warning or invitation, Jaqui’s father stood along with the rest of the crowd.
“Where are we going?” Jaqui also stood.
His father smiled and held his forefinger to his lips, then removed the cowboy hat donning his bald head. Jaqui followed his father’s gaze to the arena entry where a white stallion blasted through the gate, saddled by a blonde, busty gal, sparkling. She raced around the arena carrying the United States Flag.
Jaqui looked up at his father whose right hand covered his left shirt pocket. He glanced over at Chorch who did the same. Jaqui mimicked the sign, but without loosening his grip on the helote. He leaned his head over so that he could take advantage of the corn’s position and filled his mouth with buttery kernels.
“Oh say, can you see...” a small girl, not much older than Jaqui stood on the arena floor and sang into a microphone. Part way through the song, as the girl’s voice filled the stadium, Jaqui heard an echo. His father softly sang the words. A tear ran down his cheek. His father’s left hand holding the cowboy hat shook slightly.
From that moment on, he paid attention to the national anthem each time he heard it. He studied the hymn in school and read about the War of 1812 and the battle that inspired F. Scott Fitzgerald to write the poem.
For the first couple years of high school, Jaqui had dreams of serving in the military. He wanted to be in the Special Forces, maybe a Seal like his father or a Ranger. Delta Force was another league entirely. But that had all changed when he discovered his father’s indiscretions. It started a gradual decline of thought, but looking back now, Joaquin’s change from that little boy to a criminal seemed instantaneous. Jaqui discovered his father’s affair. That night he used meth. Months later, deep into his addiction, he killed Brina. Then prison.
Chorch had taken another route. He had joined the military and though he died in action, he was a hero. Better to die a hero than live a junkie. In his early twenties, Joaquin had thought his life over, forfeit because of his poor choices. But now at twenty six, he’d found a new path to redemption. Spencer had promised to hook him up. Maybe get him into the military. His nightly dreams turned to doing some good on the front lines of the War on Terror.
Joaquin entered Marta’s, a Mexican restaurant in Coolidge, Arizona. He hadn’t been to Coolidge in years. Occasionally, Spencer came there on assignment. He’d invited Joaquin to lunch to follow up on their conversations last month in D.C.
“Jaqui, como andas?” Spencer said in an Argentine accent.
“Good, you?” Joaquin refused to humor the gringo who actually spoke seamless Spanish or Castellano as they call it in Argentina.
“You’re looking good.” By that, Spencer probably meant that Joaquin looked sober. He was.
“Are you spying out this way?” Joaquin took a seat across from Spencer.
Spencer only smiled. “I’m a Fed, not a spook. And I’m more in management these days.”
“So what are you managing in Coolidge?”
“I’m checking in with a special task force out here. Your dad was actually part of it before he—.”
The mood changed from awkward to uncomfortable.
Joaquin broke the silence. “So the task force involves immigration.”
“Yeah, everyone really. FBI, CIA, ICE, DEA. We call it alphabet soup.”
“Really?”
Spen
cer shook his head. “No. Just me. The others don’t seem to get my sense of humor.”
“Because it’s lame?”
Spencer chuckled. “I guess. Man, you are your brother’s brother aren’t you?”
Joaquin shrugged and turned to his menu.
“Mmm. Milanesa,” Spencer said. “You know they have milanesa in Argentina. They eat it with mayonnaise and pasta. Or they put tomato sauce on it and a piece of ham and cheese. Milanesa a la Napolitana.”
Joaquin eyed Spencer a moment. He was obviously smart. And probably pretty ballsy to be former Delta. In a different life, they might’ve been good friends, like Spencer and Chorch. “So are you getting the milanesa?”
“No. It just isn’t the same. I think I’ll get the enchiladas.”
“In prison...” Joaquin paused wondering if he was ready to open up more to Spencer, or remind him that he’d served time. Spencer already knew everything. “In prison, we’d make our own enchiladas from stuff we’d order at commissary.”
Spencer leaned forward, interested.
“We’d take nacho Doritos and smash them, then mix ‘em with a little water making a sort-of-masa. Then we’d spread the masa out, smashed thin on a paper plate. On top we’d smear nacho cheese and shred up some jerky. Then we’d top it off with another layer of crushed Doritos.”
“Were they good?” Spencer asked.
“Hell no.” They both laughed. “But it was way better than anything they fed us on the inside.”
“How are you doing now? Still adjusting?”
Joaquin shrugged. He’d opened the door a crack and Spencer peeked inside. “It’s alright. No one wants to hire an ex-con, so I sit around a lot and read.”
“And your mom? I heard about your abuelo.”
Joaquin’s grandfather had passed away exactly two weeks after he got out of prison. He’d left Jaqui the guitar in his will. “Yeah, she’s good. I mean, as good as expected with all she’s been through.”
“Financially?” Spencer asked.
