Rules of War

by Matthew Betley

  Marcos pulled the door open, and Logan entered the unknown beyond. Smoke and dislodged dust filled the room, which was long and open, unlike the previous section. Large area training. Great. Everything is a threat.

  Logan assumed, dangerously, that anyone within fifteen feet of the door was injured or dead, and he moved forward, reached a stack of oversized tires ten feet away, and crouched behind it. Several silhouette targets were set up in the space, but Logan couldn’t see how far back they went, as the far end of the room was still swathed in an amorphous gray darkness.

  Marcos appeared at his side. “Nothing to do but move forward,” he said.

  “I know,” Logan replied. “Let’s go. You first. I’ll cover you. Shoot anything that moves, other than me.”

  “Funny,” Marcos said, and stepped out, moving at an angle to the right side of the area, where a large desk stood.

  Logan heard a shuffle directly in front of him and stood up. A soldier sat on the ground, his back up against a stack of tires. Logan saw blood, a black slick in the darkness, on the side of his face. His army boonie cover had been knocked off in the blast, and his legs were splayed out in front of him. As if in shock and disbelief at the sight of Marcos stalking across the floor, he tried to raise a pistol he held in his right hand.

  Logan adjusted the MP5 and pulled the trigger once, striking the wounded Venezuelan in the side of the head. His head lolled forward, his chin rested on his body, and his pistol hand fell back to the floor. Two down.

  He didn’t know if there were any more, and he didn’t care. He spoke to Marcos quickly. “Get down. Tossing an M67.” Logan didn’t wait for a response: his former enemy could fend for himself.

  Logan grabbed a second M67 grenade from his vest, pulled the pin, and threw it into the middle of the room as far as he could. It struck something metal with a clang, landed on the concrete floor, and detonated a moment later.

  The space lit up with a brief light, followed by the explosion and overpressure that filled the room and shattered targets and whatever other obstacles the darkness concealed at the far end. Anyone down there is not having a good night.

  Marcos picked himself up, pressed forward, and remained close to the right wall. Logan emerged from behind the tires and crept up the left side, watching and listening.

  Muffled shouts and the constant metallic shrieking of the drones entered the building through the cut-out window at the far end, but they were the only sounds either warrior heard. There was no one else in the space.

  He must have moved down to this end when we took out his friend in the last room, Logan thought, as he reached the window and crouched to the left of it. He leaned forward and shouted, but not too loudly, “All clear. We’re coming out.”

  He heard a subdued “Roger” and moved past the window to the double doors set in the middle of the wall.

  The first bullet struck Logan in the middle of the back like a hammer, staggering him forward toward the middle of the room. Pain erupted in his back, and he felt his breath catch as his right foot struck the base of a metal target. He tripped and fell forward, which was the only thing that saved his life.

  As he hit the floor, several more shots rang out and struck the doors above Logan. More shots erupted from the right side of the room, and Logan prayed Marcos’s aim was true. He heard a grunt from his left as Marcos moved across the floor, firing three more times.

  A second later Marcos said, “Clear. Are you going to live?” he asked, semi-concern in his voice.

  Logan inhaled but didn’t feel anything rattle in his side or back, just an enormous amount of pain, something he was accustomed to and could fight through. He gritted his teeth and said, “For now. Thanks for not missing.”

  “No sweat,” Marcos said nonchalantly. “Now let’s get the hell out of this funhouse death trap.”

  Logan staggered to his feet, regaining his strength with each breath, and pushed the doors open. “On that, we agree,” he said, and stepped back out into the fog of war on top of the mountain.

  CHAPTER 29

  Cole Matthews turned the key in the white Toyota J70 Land Cruiser—called the Machito in Venezuela—and the 4.5L V8 diesel engine roared to life. Unreal. Works perfectly, even in this third world hellhole. Honda would be jealous.

  Once Cole and Jack had elected to leave the Mi-24 intact, they’d moved north adjacent to the train tracks to the vehicle assembly area, where they’d both been shocked to discover not just Tiuna SUVs and cargo trucks but a row of twelve pristine J70 Land Cruisers. While no longer in production in Venezuela, the SUVs were the workhorses of off-road utility vehicles. And increasing their luck to the level of winning the Powerball, a small wooden shack had been erected that contained all the keys to the vehicles. Each set held a small aluminum tag that corresponded to a number on each J70’s license plate. The vehicles were more than adequate to provide transportation off the mountain for their seventeen-man assault force.

  While they’d secured five vehicles to be safe rather than sorry—in case one broke down—the sound of several explosions, which they both recognized as grenades, had reached them from the northernmost building in Logan’s objective area. Cole just hoped it was Logan and his team delivering the punishment and not vice versa.

  And all the while, the drones continued to swarm over the middle of the camp.

  Leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine running, Cole stepped out of the vehicle, left the door open, and moved to the next one to prepare it in the same manner.

  The other two elements of the team had proceeded onward with one objective—eliminate any remaining resistance. After the last five men had decided to investigate the activity at the HLZ and died doing so, no one else had appeared.

  Moments later, all five vehicles were faced north and running with all four doors open, waiting to take their new owners down the dirt access road.

  Cole stood on the passenger side of the far left SUV, his Commando resting on the hood in his right hand, ready to be put into action at the next threat. Jack joined him, and the two men watched with professional pride, absorbing the sounds and smells of combat and chaos, as the two elements moved around the buildings and toward the middle of the camp.

  “Your guys are good, Jack. I’ll give you that,” Cole said with appreciation. Two hundred feet away, a soldier appeared from the other side of a central small building, started running, and was knocked down by a hail of bullets from members of Cole’s assault team that he couldn’t see. “Are they all Organization?”

  “In one way or another,” Jack replied.

  “You guys built quite an empire for yourselves, and standing here, at this moment, I see the purpose,” Cole said.

  “It was built long before I joined Constantine,” Jack said. “I just made it more efficient and more lethal.”

  “No doubt,” Cole said. “But what happens to these guys when we’re done here tonight? They just go back to their lives after attacking a Venezuelan army training base?”

  “It’s totally up to them. They can stay here, leave the country with us, or go somewhere else,” Jack said. “The beauty of the Organization is that it truly does have almost limitless financing and resources, and every member knows it. They will get whatever they want and need. It’s one of the promises we make when we recruit someone new. These guys aren’t in it for the money, though. It’s ideological for them, which, as you know, is a much greater motivation.”

  True believers were always more dangerous than mercenaries. Cole knew that to be gospel. Men willing to fight and die for a cause would always find a way, which is what made Islamic extremism and the rest of the radical brands of terrorism so dangerous. But mix money and resources with a belief in a perceived just cause? That was a winning combination.

  “Well, then, I guess that’s good for us and bad for the Venezuelan army,” Cole said, ending the conversation as the two men watched the rest of the battle unfold.

  * * *

  With the initia
l contact and engagements over, Logan’s Hunter team had reassembled on the far side of the shoot house and the smaller rectangular building. The pain in his back subsided a bit with each breath, but Logan knew that once the day’s combat was over—if I live through it—his lower back would be discolored in deep shades of green and blue. He raised his right fist and paused the forward progress to assess the scene before him. From their vantage point, they had a full view of the center of the base all the way to the far side of the tracks into Cole’s objective area.

  One hundred feet past the shoot house, an enormous obstacle course ran from the north end near the edge of the forest and plateau to the south toward the middle of the camp, where the train tracks bisected the base. Parallel bars, several chest-high log obstacles, a cargo net wall, and a wooden wall with ropes that hung down provided several barriers to enhance the soldiers’ fitness and athletic abilities. It reminded Logan of the Marine Corps’ obstacle course, which every base had. The only thing missing was a rope climb at the end. Lucky bastards, he thought. He’d had enough ropes to last a lifetime, recollecting the recent debacle on a North Korean cargo ship when he fell from a helicopter to the deck below.

  In the center of the camp on the railroad facing east stood a titanic General Electric 6000hp diesel-electric locomotive. Connected to it was a passenger rail car that reminded Logan of an Amtrak passenger train. The second and final car was some type of cargo carrier that had its sliding doors closed.

  The drones continued to swarm the center of the camp, searching for new targets to terrorize. Several bodies were scattered between the buildings, but no other living thing was in sight. The Venezuelan soldiers were either dead or had sought shelter inside the buildings. Which means the easy part is over, Logan thought.

  Logan estimated that they’d eliminated at least fifteen to twenty enemy combatants. The most recent series of US national-level imagery that Jack’s intelligence network had provided had revealed at least twenty to thirty hostiles. If that assessment held true, there couldn’t be too many more hostiles left. But then again, intelligence had proven to be wrong over and over throughout history. Why should this be any different? It was why the next phase was the most dangerous.

  Once the Hunter and Killer teams had merged, they’d break up into smaller fire teams and clear the buildings of the base one by one. Wherever the vice president was, he’d be found: there was nowhere to hide.

  Logan unclenched his fist and motioned forward. The assault line crept purposefully forward, with the far right element pivoting so that it faced inward toward the middle of the camp and the train.

  A loud electronic squelching suddenly interrupted the metallic song the drones had established. It seemed to emanate from everywhere all at once.

  They’ve got a loudspeaker system. But who the hell is going to broadcast right now? Logan thought, and instinctively knew it wasn’t good for him and his assault force.

  And then the voice followed, and a feeling of dread began to gnaw away at the confidence he’d felt seconds before.

  “Logan West, are you out there?” Joshua Baker asked, his voice somehow clear, carrying over the incessant whine of the drones.

  The gnawing dread turned into a fleeting moment of panic, but he squashed it, composing himself and stopping the forward momentum of the assault line.

  “That’s okay. You don’t have to answer. I knew this was all you and your friends as soon as it started. It’s why I had a contingency plan in place before I left the States. I knew that the president would send you or someone like you to find me. I don’t know how you knew I was here, but it’s irrelevant. All that matters for you, at this moment, is what I’m about to say,” Josh continued. “And just remember, this isn’t personal. It never was.”

  The dread was strong, a feeling of desperation and horror that uncontrollably insinuated itself into every fiber of Logan’s being with every word that the United States’ most-wanted traitor uttered. Here it comes, Logan. Steel yourself for it.

  “But first things first. In case you’re wondering, I’m on the train. It’s armored, and you’re not going to be able to take it with small arms. Good luck trying. Hell, give it your best. Part of me wants to see what you can do. You’re a determined man, and I can appreciate that. But you’re not going to do anything, and here’s why,” the vice president said.

  Logan exhaled and waited for the proverbial axe to fall. Whatever it is, you can do this, not for yourself, but for the men around you, for John, for Mike, and most importantly, for Sarah and your unborn baby. This is who you are, he thought, not realizing that it was those very things he held dear that were about to be used as chips in a life-and-death poker game.

  “Unless you let this train leave this base, your best friend, John, his new girl, Amira, and her father are going to be killed within the half hour. I have a team at her father’s place in Owings, Maryland, and I just sent a text to the team leader with very specific instructions. If he doesn’t hear from me in the next fifteen minutes, he’s going to commence an assault on the house with the intent to kill each of them.” Joshua Baker paused to allow the gravity of his threat to sink in.

  Of course, Logan thought. It made sense for the sonofabitch to use his friends as collateral. Swirling emotions raged inside Logan. The anger that he’d kept at bay since Mike Benson’s death suddenly erupted once again like a psychological volcano. He had to think clearly, to quiet his mind, or he knew they would surely die. He understood this was not a bluff.

  “Here’s your choice, Logan: Let this train leave. Do not pursue us, or you will cause your friends to die. It’s all up to you. I don’t want to kill any more people, but you know that if I have to, I will. I left the only person I cared about behind. Please don’t test my resolve. We’re leaving,” Josh said.

  As if on cue, the diesel locomotive roared to life, its engine thrumming and adding to the cacophony of sound on the mountain. Lights shot out of the windows in the engine and the passenger car, and Logan saw several figures standing inside the engineer’s cab.

  “Whatever happens next, just remember, it’s all on you. I hope you make the right decision. Goodbye, Logan,” former Vice President Baker said, and ended the one-way conversation.

  There was a loud sound as the brakes were released, and the train suddenly crept forward, moving slowly toward its destination—the opening at the far end of the base that led down into the mountain forest and back to the city.

  The hesitation was only a split second, but inside his head, it felt like an eternity. Emotions, memories, and images threatened to paralyze him. But then he remembered the sacrifice that Mike had made, giving his life in a way befitting a true warrior. He thought of what John would tell him right now and what John had risked in Sudan in the cemetery. And then there was Amira, who had proven to be as fearless and lethal as any of them, maybe even more so. They would all tell you to hunt him down and end this, once and for all. In a moment of clarity, he knew it was true, absolute in conviction. His friends were every bit as formidable as he was, and he owed it to them to let them fend for themselves. He knew it’s what they would want.

  As if a switch were flipped in his mind, all confusion was swept away by the harsh wind of confidence, singular in its purpose. The resolve that was his ally and enabled him to do the things he did was back in full control, replacing all hesitation and uncertainty with focus and intent.

  As the train gained speed, the locomotive passed the obstacle course, and Logan West started running, with only one thought resonating in his mind, the memory of the chase in DC weeks ago still fresh: You’re not getting away this time, no matter what.

  He was halfway to the moving train—with Marcos and other members of the team following his lead—when the cargo carrier’s metal doors in the center of the car slid open sideways, exposing an FN MAG 7.62mm machine gun.

  Knowing he had no chance to reach the car alive, Logan dove to the right as the machine gunner opened fire, strafing from left t
o right as the train moved. Logan hit the ground and rolled to his right, finishing his evasive maneuver behind the obstacle wall. Unfortunately, the far left three-man element was caught out in the open ground, and the barrage of gunfire cut them down.

  Marcos and Santiago, as well as the three-man team on the right that had already reached the obstacle course, were spared the quick and violent death.

  “What now?” Marcos said in between ragged breaths.

  The train slowly pulled away, the second car carrying the machine gun passing by the obstacle wall as Logan waited, ignoring Marcos’s question. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five one thousand. Now.

  “Now, get off your ass and follow me,” Logan said, stood up, and started sprinting, first around the right end of the obstacle wall on a line perpendicular with the train tracks.

  Marcos sighed but stood up and followed, as did the others.

  The machine gunner had lost his line of sight on the remaining members of the assault team and stopped firing.

  Within seconds, Logan West and his Hunter Team had reached the tracks, sprinting at full speed to catch the escaping train. Always running after someone or something, Logan thought at the head of the pack, then concentrated on his breathing, and pushed his legs harder. The distance between the train and him grew smaller. The race between man and machine had started.

  CHAPTER 30

  As soon as the voice of Vice President Josh Baker interrupted the continuous cry of the drone swarm, Cole Matthews knew something had gone wrong. He’d listened as the vice president spoke, acutely aware that using Logan’s friends against him was a dangerous gambit, which made Cole wonder why he’d done it.