by Fiona Quinn
“They’re prepping the OR,” the general said. “I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything new.”
There was a stir in the room as the men digested the information. Gator watched Honey rub Meg’s trembling shoulders.
It was Meg who had invited Honey and Randy to join her in Tanzania where they got caught up in a terrorists’ attack. She must feel responsible on some level.
“Ahbou, young man, we are indebted to you.” The general’s voice softened as he spoke to the boy.
While Gator and his fellow Strike Force team were still in the air, hard charging onto the scene, Ahbou had snuck out of his hiding place in a tree and gotten Randy to the hospital, driving a hotel delivery van standing up so he could see out the front window and reach the pedals at the same time.
One hell of a feat.
Even though the kid had lost the last of his family in the hotel’s explosion, he was still able to think and act. Gator had been on the battle field and seen full grown men turn chicken-shit in the face of much less.
Gator felt the magnetic pull of the new family in front of him — Honey, Meg, and Ahbou.
He flexed his muscles to stop the weird vibration moving through his system.
Are they in danger? he asked himself.
No. That didn’t feel right. He thought back to the little girl with the goats. Yes, somewhere out there in the desert hills was where the danger lay. He felt he should warn someone; they needed to get out of that area. Bad things were headed their way. But Gator had no clue who this kid was. He couldn’t remember meeting her. He rubbed his hand over his face, hoping to rid himself of the sensation. But it didn’t help any.
Gator wanted more than anything to get the information about Randy’s condition, and then get into the hall to call Lynx.
As he thought that, his cell phone gave a quick buzz as a text dropped into his inbox. Gator pulled the phone from his pocket and held it by his side.
Ahbou grinned at the general. “Thank you, Mr. General Elliot, sir.”
“There are few men with the moxy to contrive that rescue,” the general said. “I have my eye on you. You just might be an Iniquus warrior in the making.”
Ahbou covered his smile with his hand and blinked his big eyes at General Elliot.
“Meg?” the general said.
“Yes.” Meg stopped to clear her throat. “Yes, sir,” she tried again.
“I’ve made some phone calls. We’re going to get the diplomatic channels lit up and find a way to get you and Ahbou stateside to be with Randy. Sit tight.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Meg said quietly.
“Team, I’m sure your prayers and good thoughts would be appreciated right about now.” The general chewed on his cheek and stared straight ahead of him with that mile-long gaze of his as if he could see right into the future. “We’re projecting good outcomes, but we’re here for Randy no matter what. Iniquus is family. Period.” He punctuated that sentence with a nod of his head.
The men of Strike Force returned the general’s nod. Silent agreement. Not all for one and one for all, but the same heartbeat. The same blood.
“Jack McCullen has not yet been cleared for field work by his doctors. He continues to work out of Headquarters. And now, Randy will be out for a while,” Elliot was saying. “Striker, your team is short-manned and over-due for some R&R. I’m sorry to say this, but I need two volunteers for a short assignment which begins right there in Tanzania. Tomorrow.”
Every hand in the room shot up.
The general scrunched his lips together trying to hide the smile that wanted to paint across his face. Another nod, this time of approval. “Put your hands down and listen up. First, this assignment needs operators with surfing skills. Second, Strike Force has been overseas for months. If you’re in a long-term relationship, when I ask again, keep your hand down. You need to take care of those who love you by spending quality time with them.”
Surfing? The thick fog that had swirled around Gator suddenly lifted. He felt the tug of excitement. Lighter. Eager. The first relief he’d felt since he’d stepped into the room. No doubt, this assignment was where he needed to be.
“I’m not saying this is going to be a vacation assignment, we all know how that worked out for Honey and Randy, but I am going to say that I’ve been assigned to worse places than you’re going to go. I need two of you. Okay, now do I have any volunteers?”
As Gator raised his hand to take the job, his phone vibrated a third time. He turned his head toward the buzz of another phone, that one belonged to Blaze, the only other Strike Force operative with his hand in the air.
“Blaze,” the general said. “You have a fiancée. I said no one with a long-term relationship.”
“Sir, Faith is a long-time girlfriend, we’re not engaged. While it would be great to see her, she’s out of town for the next ten days, so if the assignment’s a short one, I’m good to go.”
“Ten days will more than do it. Alright, I need to speak with Gator and Blaze. Striker stay put. Axel, Deep, and Honey go get your gear in order. You’ll be headed to the airport for a flight at thirteen-fifteen hours, local time. Dismissed.”
“Sir,” they said, coming to their feet. There was a shuffle and the room emptied out.
“Meg,” General Elliot said. “If you don’t mind, I need to speak to my men.”
“Oh!” Meg exclaimed. “Of course.” She scrambled to her feet and touched Ahbou on his shoulder, and they scurried out the door. Yeah, the general could have that effect on folks.
Gator swiped his cell phone screen to take a quick peek at the text messages.
Lynx: Do you need me?
Lynx: You’re making me twitchy.
Gator grinned, looked like Lynx’s antennae was dialed to “high” and tuned to his station.
The last message, the one that came in as his hand went up: This is the house that Jack built.
Son of a gun.
Chapter Five
Christen
Tuesday, The hills on the wrong side of the border.
The Delta operatives were calling the shots. Christen outranked them but she placed lives over ego. She was the expert in the air, but on the ground her training was thinner. She could run, and evade with the best of them. Her handgun shots were dead-on at ten yards. She could do some damage with a rifle. But for the Delta operators, this was their world, like the night sky was hers. She’d cut them loose as she set the runners on the ground with a, “Gentlemen, Nick of Time and I are at your disposal.”
Before she could pull her helmet from her head and unstrap her safety harness, her customers had leapt into action. Two had raced toward the downed Black Hawk, one had taken off to do recon of the area. One had grabbed a fistful of Grey’s shirt collar and maneuvered him toward the cover of the tree line, and a massive boulder. Grey had been suited up with a flak jacket and a helmet. He was only wearing one shoe.
Christen checked over her helicopter. When the rotors came to a stop, she’d whip out her new space-age camouflage fabric and throw it over their bird. By staking out the corners, they’d have a place to camp until the Calvary—or in this case the PJs—could get to them. PJs were the pararescuemen whose task it was to recover personnel and treat their medical needs in combat environments. Christen hated that their recovery mission would be putting the PJs in harm’s way. But she was grateful to know they were coming… eventually.
Christen leaned over a rock outcropping and peered down the hill trying to interpret the movement around the Black Hawk. There was no yelling, no hustle. That could go either way. Things had either gone very well or incredibly badly. Anything in between and there would be a lot more activity and noise.
From this distance, the men looked the same, so Christen couldn’t tell if the heads she saw belonged to the Little Bird’s customers, or they were survivors from the Black Hawk crash. They hadn’t called her to help, so she was hopeful Prominator had found a way to the ground with minimal pain. Sh
e pulled her binoculars from the Little Bird. From what she could discern through their lenses, Christen was guessing the impact had gone better than expected.
She turned the lenses to scan around her, looking for any signs of danger. From where she stood, there wasn’t much to see. It all seemed empty and barren. Hills. Dirt. Rocks. Oak trees grew in sparse clumps like the first hair plugs on a bald man’s head. But she knew they weren’t alone. Someone knew to shoot at them. Someone knew that there had been a hit and a crash. Someone was out there. How many someones? A lone guy who was now trying to pass the information on? That might buy them enough time to get the rescue crew in. A band of militants? That would make their situation a lot less tenable.
Below her, Christen—with the help of her binoculars—could now count more heads and see the activity. It seemed to be centered around equipment and not wounded warriors. The operators on the Black Hawk had pulled out their camouflage material and were spreading it over the wreckage. Poof, the behemoth disappeared like magic. It was the same space-aged material she carried on the Little Bird. Designed by DARPA—Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—the fabric was offered to the Night Stalkers to test in real-world situations. According to the government scientists, the material bent the light waves around the object rendering everything under the fabric invisible, like Harry Potter’s cloak.
The 160th had given it a try at their base. It was a pretty remarkable development, as long as it was in the good guy’s hands alone. It would suck for the enemy to have this to use against them. That was the danger of research and development. New discoveries didn’t stay secret for long. Soon the enemy shared the technology, and counter-technology would need to be developed. The same as it had been from club, to spear, to gun, to atomic bomb. It was always a race to get the newest most effective means of dominance.
Power was a mind-warping drug, mostly measured in wealth and clout. People, once they had a shot of it flow through their veins, craved more and more at any cost. Christen knew that from her own family of addicts.
Christen thought herself lucky that she found her highs in a different way—this way— hopefully edging the world toward a safer, more peaceful existence.
Sensing movement behind her, Christen turned. Nick was unfolding and laying out their own invisibility cloak. The rotors had stopped. Christen pulled the Delta’s ladder from behind her seat and used it to climb to the top of the helicopter. She crawled to the center of the fuselage and reached down for the corner that Nick stretched toward her. She and Nick had trained side by side for years on end. They didn’t need a lot of words between them. They each knew how the other would think and act. They functioned together like a fine-tuned machine as they prepped their hide.
From the top of the helicopter, Christen did another scan of the horizon. She could see puffs of brown clouds scattered along the horizon. It could be militants on the move; it could be a flock of animals. She thought back to the movie 13 Hours. The private security contractors working for GRS were watching video feed of sheep outside the walls of the CIA complex in Benghazi the night that they fought to protect American CIA and State lives. The Security team couldn’t tell what they were seeing. Either men were crawling under the sheep or the sheep were humping. “At 2:30 at night?” one of them asked. “I don’t know anything about sheep.” Christen looked at the cloud of dirt. She had no idea what she was seeing. Good. Bad. Or indifferent.
Whatever it was, she hoped it stayed in the far distance. They hadn’t heard anything about a rescue ETA to their location. Base was probably in the development stages where they planned and debated strategies. She’d requested bladders of fuel for her bird and left Prominator to figure out what should be done about his copter. Until she spoke with him, she wouldn’t know if a quick parts change would do the trick or if they’d need to explode the helicopter to keep it from enemy hands.
Christen imagined herself sitting in the strategy room, drawing up the plans. What would make the difference in their decision making? It very well could be the area was too hot after she’d flown down Main Street, thumbing her nose at both the locals and insurgents alike. It might well be that rescue would need to wait until the cover of darkness before they sent anyone. Christen thought command’s decision making would have a lot to do with the seriousness of any injuries sustained on the Black Hawk. And whether command needed Grey back alive or if they just needed him out of enemy hands.
“Hey,” Nick called. “That’s a weird look on your face. What are you thinking about?”
“Sheep humping,” Christen said, as the left-hand side of her mouth twitched into a wry smile.
Nick chuckled. “I should have guessed.”
“You?” Christen held the light-weight camouflage fabric high over her head so Nick could work it along the rotor blade.
“I heard an interview on the BBC this morning. Sent a chill down my spine, and I haven’t been able to warm up since.”
“I’m listening.” Christen crawled past the rotor and pulled on the fabric to get it centered.
“It was about this SAS guy who killed an ISIS fighter by drowning the tango in a puddle.”
“Where exactly do you find a puddle in the desert?”
“Smartass.”
“I’m serious.” She held on to the fabric while Nick moved to stake out the near corners.
“The British operatives were down in a river bed when they figured out they’d been surrounded by ISIS fighters. They check their supplies only to discover they’re down to ten bullets between them, and about fifty combatants skirting their location. The militants held the high ground.”
“If they’d been captured…” She sat down with her legs stretched out in front of her. She swept her binocular across the horizon with closer scrutiny.
“Wouldn’t that be a propaganda nightmare? ISIS parading the British Special Air Service operators through the streets, beating them in the public square, torturing them for their intel, then beheading them on videos.” Nick stopped talking while he forced a stake into the ground. He sauntered to the other corner pulling the edge taut. “The SAS decided that was their Alamo.”
Christen bent her leg and wrapped her hands around her shin, ducking her head to use her knee to shield her eyes from the sun. “They know about the Alamo?”
“My words not theirs. They decided they were going to die fighting, take out as many of the tangos as they could on their way out of this world.”
“Where’d this go down?”
“They were gathering intelligence in northern Iraq past Mosul. So not too far away from here.” Nick walked to the other side of the helicopter, and Christen worked the fabric under her and pushed it over the edge.
“The fight starts.” Nick said. “The Brits shoot at the tangoes until their ammo is dry.”
“Which was pretty fast with only ten bullets.”
Nick grunted while he pushed the third stake in place, then looked up at her from where he squatted. “Then they were down to caveman tactics. They beat the tangoes with their rifle barrels. Stabbed them. Hand-to-hand shit. The one SAS shoves the tangoes head into the puddle and drowns him, grabs a rock and pummels another one in the head.”
“Wow.” Christen blinked. “Wow. That’s… wow.”
“You feelin’ my chill now?”
“You could say that. Did the SAS lose any of their operators?”
“Nope. A couple of them got shot. But they battled on. They counted thirty-two ISIS tangos down, when the rest of the militants bugged out. Epic shit. They fought it out for four hours straight.”
Christen’s gaze held on the Delta operator who had corralled Grey into the woods. He was standing on the boulder, his binoculars up. His body seemed tight. Primed. Christen turned her binoculars to see what was in his line of sight and found one of the dust clouds she’d wondered about earlier.
“Goats, north east” his voice came over the radio.
“Copy,” someone said back. Both operatives’ voice
s had a decided “oh-shit” undertone. This meant something to them that it didn’t mean to her. Then she thought back to Operation Red Wings. The SEALs arrived at their location in the Kush region when they were discovered by three shepherds, an old man and two teenagers. The SEALs decided that the locals weren’t combatants and let them go, but they knew releasing them meant the Taliban would hear about their team’s position. They made the decision. Instead of killing the shepherds, the SEALs retreated. Christen took in the landscape, rethinking what she saw. Hilly. A few trees. A few more boulders. Yeah. Shit. There really was nowhere to retreat from here.
“Do you see anyone out there?” Nick asked coming to his feet.
“I see dirt in the air. If it makes you feel better, I didn’t see anyone in any direction as we were landing. Of course, we weren’t very high off the ground.”
“Neither did I. Wonder why seeing the goats squeezed their sphincters.”
“I hope we never find out. What happened to the SAS guys?”
“Base this is Alpha actual.”
Christen couldn’t find the guy talking into his radio through her binoculars. It must be one of their customers on the Black Hawk. she put her finger in the air to hold her conversation with Nick. She wanted to hear this.
“We have line of sight on local herders,” he said.
“Alpha Actual, this is Base, copy. Standby.”
Christen sent Nick a flat lipped smile and a raised brow. “So, the Brits. What ended up happening? Did backup finally arrive? Four hours is a long time to go hand to hand.”
“Four minutes is a long time to go hand to hand,” Nick said. “When the last of the tangoes took off, the SAS hiked five miles toward their base. Some Kurds picked them up and drove them the rest of the way. Two days later, the SAS were all back at work. Of course, I’m not counting the guys that got shot.” As he said that, Nick pulled his gun from his holster and pulled back his slide, checking to see if he had a round in the chamber.
