Predator

by James A. Moore

  Scott appreciated that Dutch was asking, instead of simply using his rank to take control.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Thanks.” Abruptly, he grinned. “Better alert your men that they’re about to meet some guys who are even bigger and uglier than they are.”

  * * *

  Scott’s team mostly looked on in bemusement while Dutch and his squad scoured the building. On the whole Dutch’s men were taciturn but polite, asking questions and accepting the answers with curt but respectful nods. Scott felt no need to chaperone Dutch, and so waited by the open door through which he and the Major had entered the building, along with Marcus, Flynn, Lau, Ishfaq and Novelli, who stood idly around, like office employees during a fire drill. At one point, Marcus sidled up to Scott and murmured, “You notice the hardware the Major’s carrying?”

  Scott regarded him and shrugged. “The MP5, you mean? What of it?”

  “Not the gun,” Marcus said. “The other stuff. The long knife with the funny-shaped blade on his belt. And that stick thing with the pointy ends on his back.” He shook his head. “That is some weird martial arts kind of shit. Definitely not standard issue.”

  Several minutes later Dutch reappeared, his men in tow.

  “Okay, we’re done here. See you around, Sergeant Devlin.”

  “You think that’s likely?” Scott asked. “I mean, with us having different agendas and all.”

  The Major smirked. “Oh, it’s more than likely. You’d be surprised what a small world this is.”

  He turned to move away. Scott said, “So you didn’t find anything?”

  Schaefer paused. “Nothing useful.”

  “Can I ask you one more question?”

  The Major seemed to find his request amusing. “You can ask.”

  “We were led to believe there might be women and children here, and the belongings we found in the dormitory seem to confirm that – but the bodies laid out in there all belong to men. So what happened to the women and children? Were they killed and dumped elsewhere? Were they abducted?”

  Schaefer seemed to consider the wording of his answer. Finally, he said, “I’m almost certain they’re safe.”

  “Because?”

  “Because our killer abides by a code of honor.”

  Not a robot, then. So what was it? Scott glanced at the weapons Marcus had drawn his attention to – the knife strapped to the Major’s thigh, the double-pointed rod (what would you even call that? A combat stick?) that was in a crosswise sling on Schaefer’s back. Put those together with Schaefer’s words and all Scott could think of were medieval knights, or Samurai warriors, fighting ancient feuds. He was aching to know the real truth, but knew that questioning the Major further would be pointless. Instead he said, “So you’re saying the women and children fled?”

  “That would be my guess. I doubt they’ll be back, so I wouldn’t hang around for them.”

  “We won’t.” Scott saluted. “Well, good luck in your… quest, Major.”

  “And in yours,” Schaefer said, saluting him back.

  Then he and his men slipped into the night and were gone.

  “Quest?” Marcus enquired.

  Scott shrugged. “What would you call it?”

  Before Marcus could answer, there came the clattering of helicopter rotors overhead. Stepping outside, Scott looked up and saw the green, red and white fuselage lights of an approaching chopper, its searchlight beam sweeping back and forth, like the white stick of a blind man probing at the darkness. The beam seemed to find them and pin them to the ground. Both Scott and Marcus shielded their goggled eyes from the glare.

  “Cleanup crew?” Marcus said.

  “If they are, they’re here sooner than I expected.”

  By the time the helicopter landed, lowering itself almost gingerly onto the weed-riddled concrete, all twelve of Scott’s team were outside and waiting for it. Scott recognized the chopper as a Black Hawk, which at least meant that it was one of theirs. As the rotors slowed, and the dust and debris blasting at them settled, Scott raised his night-vision goggles. He saw four men climb down from the chopper, and then another two, all wearing dark suits and ties. His heart sunk a little. This was no cleanup crew. The men began to march purposefully across the expanse of concrete toward them.

  Scott narrowed his eyes and remained where he was, making the men come to him. He didn’t recognize any of them, but he knew MIBs when he saw them. It was over four years since he’d last had an encounter with them, and this one didn’t look as though it was going to be any more amicable. The guy leading the delegation was tall and gangly with a lantern jaw and thinning hair, and he was scowling, his lips curled in a sneer.

  Sure enough, as soon as he came within earshot of Scott’s team, he barked, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “With respect, I might ask you the same question, sir,” Scott replied, refusing to be intimidated.

  “Oh, might you now?”

  “Yes, sir. We do, after all, have jurisdiction here.”

  “On whose authority?”

  “The US government. Sir.”

  The man let loose a bark of disbelief. Reaching into his jacket, he produced a black leather wallet, which he flipped open and held at arm’s length, only a few inches from Scott’s nose.

  “Yes, well, I think you’ll find that my card trumps yours, Corporal.”

  “It’s Sergeant, sir. Sergeant Scott Devlin. Counterterrorism, US Army, Special Operations. Code number 4729.”

  The man, who Scott had glimpsed from his ID was called Ellison, stared at Scott as if memorizing his features for future reference. Dismissively he said, “Very impressive, Sergeant, but we’re taking over here now. I trust you have no objections?”

  Scott shrugged. “It’s not for me to object, sir. I just follow orders. Speaking of which, you won’t mind if I call this in?”

  Ellison stepped forward. He had the demeanor of a school bully, which was kind of funny, because Scott knew that if the guy even tried to lay a finger on him, it would be well within his ability to twist his arm off at the elbow and beat him around the head with it.

  Speaking through gritted teeth, Ellison said, “Yes, Sergeant, I would mind. This is a covert operation, and I don’t want every army grunt knowing our business.”

  Scott stared back at Ellison, amusement in his eyes. This was no skin off his nose. Whatever Ellison said, he’d be filing a full report as soon as he got back.

  “As you wish, sir. We’ll take our leave then.”

  He ordered his men to move out. As they readied themselves, Ellison said, “Hold on just a minute there, soldier,” and reached out a hand as though to grab Scott.

  Scott’s team froze. Scott coolly appraised the hand, hovering an inch or so from his shoulder, as a snake might appraise a mouse that had strayed a little too close to its lair.

  For a moment the air was electric with tension. Ellison cleared his throat. Then he clenched his fist and lowered it slowly to his side.

  Scott altered his gaze, staring not at Ellison’s hand now but directly into the man’s eyes.

  “You wanted something, sir?”

  Ellison nodded toward the school. “You and your men have been in there. What should we expect to find?”

  Scott smiled. “Expect the unexpected.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Scott paused before replying. “With the utmost respect, Mr. Ellison, I am neither required nor authorized to pass potentially sensitive information on to third party members not directly connected to our mission.”

  “Oh, come on, Sergeant!” Ellison threw up his hands. “We’re on the same side here!”

  Behind Scott, one of his men – he thought it might have been Flynn – snorted. Calmly he said, “That’s as may be, Mr. Ellison, but I’m certain you wouldn’t wish or expect a valued colleague to place themselves into a position which may potentially jeopardize not only their own position, but the integrity of national security?”

 
; One of the men behind Ellison stepped forward. Red-faced and running to fat, he said, “Don’t be a smartass, Sergeant!”

  Ellison winced. Although he was barely holding onto his temper, he evidently knew that to lose control would be to sacrifice the upper hand. To compensate for his colleague’s bluster, he spoke quietly, reasonably.

  “All right, Sergeant, point taken and accepted. But at least tell me this: has there been anyone else here tonight?”

  “Like who, sir?”

  “Anyone. Anyone at all.”

  Scott stared at Ellison. His face adopted an expression of puzzlement. “No, sir.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Scott’s gaze was clear and steady. “Absolutely.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  2005

  Scott didn’t know which was worse – this, or a tropical jungle. Both were uncomfortably hot, but at least in the jungle there were places to hide, and greater opportunities to approach the enemy unseen. Here, despite the rocks and the hills, and the proliferation of weirdly shaped cacti, he felt horribly exposed, not least from the air, which stretched above them like a vast sheet of polished metal, reflecting heat and light. At least their uniforms were the same pale dusty brown as the baked earth underfoot, but on the other hand their guns and boots were black, and any amount of movement out here was likely to attract attention.

  “Here” was the Mexican desert, south of Arizona, and the mission was one of the biggest that Scott and his team had ever been involved in. So big, in fact, that three teams had combined, a total of almost forty men, under the command of a Captain Jack Graham, to investigate and hopefully thwart a plot that might prove devastating to the future security of the United States.

  Intelligence had reached the government that Al-Qaeda were paying vast amounts of money to a Mexican drug cartel to have their members smuggled over the US/ Mexican border. The center of operations was said to be a fortified cartel stronghold – a medieval-style castle smack-bang in the middle of the desert – owned by a wealthy businessman called Sergio Valdez Moreno. Moreno was purported to have made his fortune manufacturing and exporting canned fruit, though for a long time now he had been suspected of more nefarious activities. Solid evidence against him, though, had so far proved elusive. But if recent information received by the US Defense Department was to be believed, this was their best chance yet not only to smash Moreno’s criminal empire, but to capture or kill some of Al-Qaeda’s most senior operatives.

  The team had arrived in a Chinook helicopter that morning, touching down on a plateau surrounded by hills, several klicks from their destination. Since then, laden down with weapons and equipment, they had been on the move, closing in slowly but surely on their target. Around three klicks from what they all referred to as “the castle,” in a sunken valley hidden from view by craggy hills, and topped by agave plants, they had made their camp, offloaded some of their equipment, replenished themselves with food and water, and listened to a final briefing. Then, as the temperature dropped slightly from its afternoon high of ninety-five to around eighty degrees Fahrenheit, they had set off on the last leg of their journey.

  Moreno’s stronghold had been built on a flat, open stretch of desert, which made it more difficult to attack, but the ground leading away from the building rose gradually on both the west and south sides, before eventually sloping up to an uneven arc of craggy hills around half a mile away. It was here where Operation Half Moon, as it had been called, established their surveillance positions, the three-dozen-plus men stretching out in a long line to keep watch on the enemy.

  The plan was to observe the comings and goings at the castle, if any, and to gather as much information as possible, before making their move under cover of darkness. The castle had few weak points, but those it did have would be exploited to the full. In effect, what was being planned was a medieval-type siege, albeit one using modern weapons and explosives.

  For the first ninety minutes all was quiet. The pale stone of the castle gradually darkened as the late afternoon sun sank toward the horizon, and the dirt road leading up to it remained unoccupied and unused.

  Marcus, lying full length on his stomach next to Scott, lowered his binoculars, then stretched and groaned. “I been staring at the same place so long I think I’m starting to hallucinate.”

  Scott smiled. “Seems pretty quiet, doesn’t it?”

  “Quiet as a mausoleum,” confirmed Marcus. “You think they got wind we were coming?”

  “Don’t see how. Though our intelligence could be wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Marcus shrugged and reached for his water bottle.

  At which point all hell broke loose.

  The attack was so sudden, and so unexpected, that for a moment even Scott didn’t know what was happening. When the rattling of heavy artillery fire began he thought at first that it was coming from his own side; that one of their own guys had lost their nerve, or their patience, and begun blazing away at the building.

  Then off to his right he saw craters being blasted out of the sloping ground across which the men were spread like a line of worker ants, sand and dirt and rocks flying into the air on flashes of fire and smoke.

  Then whoever was firing at them from the ramparts of the castle found their range and the next volley of artillery fire began to tear up the brow of the hill on which they were positioned. Scott saw guys scrambling for cover, but not before at least one of them suffered a direct hit and transformed instantly from a crouching man in black body armor to a ragged, red spatter of meat.

  “They’ve got fucking armor-piercing shells!” he said, and grabbed the sleeve of Marcus’s jacket. “Take cover!”

  The two men turned and scrambled down the hill, explosions going off all around them. Then, over the tumultuous bangs of ordnance and the shouts of the men, he heard another sound, one that shocked and horrified him. An almighty WHOOOOSH! followed an instant later by a massive explosion that shook the ground and sent dust and debris flying everywhere.

  A rocket launcher! They’ve got a fucking rocket launcher! He found himself outraged by the notion. He shoved Marcus farther down the hill. “Get back to camp! I’ll join you there!”

  “What are you going to do?” Marcus yelled.

  “My job!” Scott screamed back. “I’m one of the senior officers here, remember. These men are my responsibility.”

  He could see Marcus hesitating, but knew he was too good a soldier to disobey orders.

  “Keep your head down!” Marcus yelled, then ran in a crouch down the hill, heading back toward camp.

  Another rocket flew over the hill and hit the ground less than a hundred meters from Scott, sending up another whirlwind of dust and rock and flying chunks of cactus. The impact sent a shudder through the ground, which knocked him off his feet.

  Scrambling upright, covered in dust and spitting debris from his mouth, he ran in a crouch along the line, taking care to keep his head below the parapet. This must have been what it was like in the trenches of the First World War, he thought – under constant bombardment from the enemy, never knowing when a shell might land among you and blow you all to Kingdom Come. Of course, the soldiers back then had mud and rats and fleas and disease to cope with as well as enemy fire. Ahead of him, stretched along the line, Scott saw some of the men retreating, some maintaining their positions and returning fire, and a few lying sprawled on the ground, dead or injured.

  Brave as the men who were returning fire were, Scott knew theirs was a pointless exercise. The enemy had greater firepower and a far more defensible position. Better to regroup and rethink.

  He ran along the line, yelling at the top of his voice, ordering the men to fall back. Within minutes the entire team were flowing down the far side of the hill, heading back to camp, some of them carrying or dragging injured colleagues. A couple of the dead, who had been literally blown apart by heavy artillery fire, had to be left behind, a decision which Scott regretted but which he knew was the
right one to make. There was nothing anyone could do for those men, which meant there was no point risking more lives simply to carry a few of the larger body parts back to camp. That was a job to be done later, when it was quieter, likely under cover of darkness.

  The sound of the bombardment faded behind them, and eventually petered out as they trudged back to camp. As soon as it was quiet, Scott sent three of the team’s best snipers back to the brow of the hill overlooking the castle, with strict orders to observe, to keep out of sight, and to retreat at the first sign of trouble. He and his team may have lost the element of surprise – if, indeed, they had ever had it in the first place – but it was imperative that they not lose their quarry too. Now that Moreno and his men knew of their presence, it was possible they might try to evacuate the castle and go into hiding. Any sign of that, and the snipers were to report back to him, whereupon the information would be relayed to the relevant authorities. Although a stealth operation with minimal casualties and the maximum number of prisoners to interrogate would be the preferred option, an all-out strike to neutralize the threat of known terrorists entering the USA would be employed as a last resort.

  With the men dispatched, Scott returned to camp to seek out Captain Graham, who had been noticeably absent during the bombardment and subsequent retreat. Spotting Lau, who was helping tend to a young private whose leg had been lacerated by shrapnel, he asked after the Captain’s whereabouts.

  “He’s in the med tent.” Lau gestured toward a square green tent whose sides and roof were emblazoned with the Red Cross. “I think he’s in a pretty bad way.”

  Entering the field hospital, Scott was instantly struck by the smell of blood and strong chemicals. The source was an elevated stretcher to his left, around which three of the medical team, dressed in the same army fatigues as everyone else, but with the addition of surgical aprons, masks, caps and gloves, were working busily but efficiently on the stretcher’s occupant.

  Lau’s assessment of Captain Graham was, Scott quickly realized, an understatement. Even from several meters away, Scott could see that most of the left side of the Captain’s body had been torn away as though something had taken a bite out of him. There was blood on the stretcher, on the floor, on the aprons of the medics, and so much on the Captain’s uniform that he looked like he was wearing an all-red ensemble. In the mangled meat of the Captain’s side, from which blood still poured, Scott could see white juts of shattered rib and slippery blue ropes of intestine.