by David Wayne
“So, tell me something about yourself, Sister.”
She stood up and yawned. “Born. Hunted. Nunner,” she said with a frown before busting a gut and heading toward her tent.
I found her response odd but not worth chewing on. I was looking forward to a good night’s rest, but that didn’t happen.
Chapter 10
Nightstead was a mission I’d worked on for over a year. In a rare stroke of luck, I’d turned a high-level terrorist captain to our side. The methods I used were illegal by any measure. When I was called in for an operation, it was for that specific purpose—provide results. Period. Nobody asked how they were achieved, because they didn't want to know.
Nightstead was nothing short of a winning lottery ticket. A complete terrorist cell was gathering in the desert for a rare group meeting. The rendezvous would consist of leaders, captains, and lieutenants. More importantly, their civilian financiers would be present. These were mostly high-ranking government officials who pretended to work with the US government, all the while funneling cash and intel to the terrorist groups they publicly claimed to be enemies.
In addition to gaining access to their secret meeting, we’d also gained knowledge of their plans to attack civilian facilities immediately following the gathering. We didn’t learn the exact targets or specific dates, just that their goal was to achieve high civilian casualties.
For the American counterterrorism agencies, this was the ultimate home run, and putting me in charge was supposed to be their best bet at ensuring a successful mission. But I’d been experiencing doubts of late, like cracks developing in a façade. For me, self-doubt was illogical, so I pretended they didn’t exist.
I was sent out to the Afghan desert a full week in advance. There was no room for error, and Command wanted to be sure that advanced recon by the terrorists would not reveal our surveillance. The cell would perform infrared scanning of the surrounding area, so I was sent without an air-conditioned suit or any accommodations. I had camouflaged coverings and bare essentials only. My task was to rough it out for seven days, enduring the intense heat of desert days along with their freezing nights.
On the day of the gathering, I lay baking in the Afghanistan sun, covered in dust and sand, the wind blowing the fine particles into my eyes. My skin and lips were chapped and burnt. I had open sores on my face, neck, and hands. No matter how long I sucked my canteen, I couldn’t get un-thirsty. During the day, I burnt like a French fry; at night, I froze like a Popsicle. This was a miserable hellhole if there ever was one. For seven days, I’d suffered these conditions for what was about to happen in just one hour. The American government spent millions of dollars and months, even years, of planning—only to have the payoff boil down to a few hours of field work, performed by guys like me. Up until now, everything had gone as planned, except at the last minute I’d been pitched a curve ball—the bastards were so confident in their clandestine operations, they’d brought along their wives and children. Twenty-five by my count.
I pushed the two-way radio button and heard its squawk before connecting. “Nightstead, this is Wild Fire. I have a code nine-four here. It’s serious, twenty-five innocents,” I said.
The box squawked back. “Roger that, Wild Fire. Orders are to proceed as planned.”
I didn’t respond immediately.
Squawk.
“Nightstead, did you copy? I said I have a code nine-four, twenty-five civilians, women and children,” I repeated.
There was a pause, but only for my benefit. It was supposed to indicate they cared. In reality, they didn’t give a damn—because they weren’t about to kill innocent women and children; I was. I pictured them reviewing a computer screen and a spreadsheet of statistics, sipping coffee in an air-conditioned command center. Finally, they broke their silence.
Squawk.
“We know, Wild Fire. It’s very unfortunate,” the voice said, letting out a hurt deep breath. “But it must be done, copy?”
Squawk.
“You push the damned button then,” I replied, looking over at the rectangle building, knowing the worst of the worst was in there, planning some very bad things while young kids played innocently beside them.
Squawk.
“Wild Fire, this is an unprecedented opportunity. You’ve got the chance to wipe out an entire cell. It’s tough, but get it done. Copy?”
Squawk.
“And the innocents?” I said.
Squawk.
This time there was no pretense of giving a damn. “Collaterals. Do your duty,” the voice snapped. “Nightstead, out.”
I also dropped the pretense of giving a damn.
Squawk.
“Screw you, asshole,” I said, clicking the Off button and tossing the radio into the hot sand. I sat staring at the bomb remote, the red fire button waiting its command. My thumb hovered over it.
A simple press of a button and I’d take out a complete terrorist organization, along with twenty-five innocent women and children. If I didn’t, hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent civilians would die—also containing women and children. It seems like an easy call, until it’s your thumb hovering over the kill button.
Kaboom!
I bolted upright, hitting the fabric of the tent’s roof. The thunderous boom was followed by a flash of lightning that was strobe-light bright. I tried to calm myself, listening to the sound of rain gently pelting the nylon tent. It took a second to remember I was in the backwoods of Alabama and not in an Afghanistan desert, making a decision to press a button or not. In the last couple years, the dreams had trickled down to the occasional one-off, and once I’d started seeing Trish, they’d all but disappeared. As I sat dripping sweat and gulping the cool night air, all I could think was, Damn it, the nightmares are back.
Chapter 11
I overslept and awoke grumpy, courtesy of a poor night’s rest and an achy rib cage. Crawling from the tent, I whiffed an odd smell—the sweet aroma of roasting meat.
“Good morning, sleepy head. I snagged a rabbit this morning, and I have a little bit of bread left. Get your tail up and I’ll share; otherwise it’s all mine,” she said, falling into a girlish giggle, the same one I’d heard the first night we met, but not since.
I had to admit she contributed nicely to our team. She had gotten up early and gone hunting. I was starved for something other than peanut butter and potted meat. I took a bite. “Mmmm, good stuff,” I said. “You are indeed a resourceful little lass.”
She flung me a dirty look. “Yes, a good little woman."
I ravished my share of rabbit and stale bread. Perhaps I should let her stick around. The idea of having a hunter on board, of eating fresh meat instead of potted meat, sounded solid. Besides, I couldn't hunt my way out of a paper bag. Maybe she was a keeper.
“No way, dude. Don’t even go there,” she said coldly. “Don’t look at me with puppy-dog eyes. I’m pulling my weight, just like I said I would. I’m leaving the first chance I get.”
That broke the spell.
She always seemed to read my thoughts, and that irked me to no end. It really pissed me off. I decided it was time to lay some ground rules.
“Look, Sister, your vocabulary kinda freaks me out. You’re a nun, and frankly, sometimes you don’t hold the standard.” My tone was laced with disappointment, just like she talked to me. “Bottom line? I don’t want my nun to say dude or booty call. It’s way outside my comfort zone,” I said with finality. “It must stop.”
She responded swiftly. “I’m not your nun, I’m my own woman. You don’t own me, control me, or tell me what I can and cannot say. How many times did you come to mass after moving to Birmingham? Let me count for you. Zero. So, don’t pretend to lecture me—”
“From now on I’ll call you Susan, because you don’t act like a nun. Nuns are pure and sweet. You’re neither,” I said, washing dishes in a small pot of water that was heating on the fire.
“That’s because my charge is a naughty little boy, so
I must be a strict mommy,” she said.
I moved to the other side of the pot, putting my back to her, and went about finishing my chores. The woman needed to learn to accept a compliment.
*
It turned out to be a beautiful day. A bit hot, but hiking through the shaded woods shielded us from the worst of it. The mud had mostly dried, providing solid footing. I’d never been this deep in the Alabama forest and was amazed at the diversity of wildlife and greenery. The sister was into trees and had been pointing out the various flavors all day—which was a pleasant change from being yelled at, preached at, and verbally bashed about.
I knew nothing about timber or the woods in general, for that matter. I had no idea there were subspecies of trees. I assumed an oak was an oak, when in fact there were many different kinds—blackjack, Shumard, southern red, and more. The same applied to pines, hickories, and maple trees. The names ranged from the strange, loblolly pine, mockernut hickory, to the obvious, water oak that, well, grew by the water.
When we stumbled upon a black walnut tree, the sister went bananas, dumping her backpack and doing a merry jig, pretending to be the Lucky Charms leprechaun. She began singing the cereal jingle while dancing around the walnut tree—jumping in the air and clicking her heels together. She obviously didn’t know the real words, so she made them up.
Hearts, magic, and blue lagoons!
Clovers and bright golden moons!
Green, red, and pots o’ gold
La-la-la pretty balloons!
La-la-la love me lucky walnuts!
They're magically delicious!
She reached out her hand, encouraging me to join in, but I declined. No way was this kid going to dance around a tree. She was acting like a silly little girl, twirling around, singing out of key—but it was funny and cute. I welcomed the comic relief; the constant tension between us was wearing thin. I was used to living alone, doing things my way. Traveling with her, doing a twenty-four-seven gig, required nonstop haggling and constant give-and-take. It was more exhausting than the relentless hiking.
“We’re in luck, Mr. Ryker. We will now have walnuts to munch on for several days… They’re magically delicious,” she sang, her body sparkling with joy. The tasty nuts were a welcome addition to our diet. We picked the tree dry of its fruit.
At midday, the hiking trail crossed a two-lane blacktop. I decided to move us from the trails to the back road. We would make better time, and I felt we were far enough outside the city that it should be safe enough. Our pace was brisk, and we covered triple what the woods allowed. After an hour, we heard vehicles approaching.
I grabbed her arm. “Quick, let’s hide,” I said, ducking behind some laurel thickets.
A dune-buggy-type vehicle drove by, its muffler in need of some serious work. It contained two skinheads, and the passenger riding shotgun was holding a shotgun, scanning the area as his partner drove.
“Hogwog patrols,” I said, watching them disappear around a bend. “That’s not good. They must be coming from Leedsburg and heading to Heartsville. I was hoping to find friendly conditions in Leeds. That’s our first stop.”
“That’s where you planned on ditching me?” she said.
“I didn’t say that,” I said, thinking precisely that while taking out my map.
“Why assume they’re bad guys?”
“Because when you’re maintaining a defensive position, you stay hidden and entrenched, forcing the aggressors to expose themselves. You don’t patrol this far out. I could have easily picked them off with my rifle,” I said. “I expected a small, independent town like Leedsburg to band together and form a protective militia. This indicates it may be controlled by ’Wogs.”
It was disturbing, finding Hogwog scouts between small towns, but I didn’t voice that, deciding to hide the true depth of my concern from her. The map showed a two-hour walk before we could pick up the trail again, and that was moving at a hefty clip. But we had no choice, so we pushed onward.
Before reaching the trails, we passed two other groups. One was a band of teenagers on bicycles, pedaling fast and furiously away from Leedsburg. Their faces were drawn and tight. When the sister waved, they didn’t even look our way. They started pedaling faster. Just before we arrived at the mouth of the trail, two scraggly-looking drifter types walked by. When the sister said hello, they looked down and picked up their pace. I held my weapon in a hidden position and didn’t speak either time.
“I don’t get it, Max. They act liked they’re scared of us.”
“That’s because they are, and it’s not a good sign.”
When dusk rolled around, we found the trail and made camp a safe distance off the road. Before bed, I pulled off my shoes. What I saw was red, puffy paws. I wished I’d thought of finding hiking boots instead of wearing tennis shoes.
“Those puppies aren’t looking so good,” Sister said. “Hiking boots would have been a wiser choice over the tennis shoes.”
It seemed she was reading my thoughts again. Disturbing. I pulled out the notebook and started writing.
“Oh, I didn’t know you kept a diary," she said in an impressed tone.
“That’s because I don’t. This is a log, documenting our journey for future reference.”
“Oh,” she mumbled. “Are you writing about me in there?” She smiled, brightening up.
“Nope. Sorry. No sister stuff in there. It’s men things. Data. Facts.”
She twirled away toward her tent, looking bored. “Good night, then."
Progress through the forest was slow because the trails were windy. We’d log good miles on the blacktop because it more or less ran due east. Even though we’d received the bad news of ’Wog patrols on secondary roads, the extra ground we’d covered brightened my mood, and I went to bed feeling positive.
But that didn’t last.
Chapter 12
I was awakened by a slight rustle of leaves. I sleep lightly, a habit learned from my previous profession, a skill that prevents death—as in your own. Since living in a tent, I had been startled awake many times by wildlife roaming close by, looking for food. My first reaction was to roll over and ignore the sound; I had to learn to sleep in the wild. If every little forest noise woke me up, I’d never get a solid night’s rest—and I needed it. We hiked hard every day, all day long.
As I started to pull the sleeping bag tight around me, I heard a barely audible snapping of a twig; it was footsteps. In a split second, I had gun in hand and was peering through the fold of the tent. It took a minute to see. My eyes had to adjust to the darkness. Nighttime in the forest is a thick blanket of black—no visibility afforded by street lights out here in the wilderness. Oddly, after several days, your sight adjusts to it somewhat—and your vision increases at night, but not by much.
I could barely make out the shape of two people snooping around, slowly creeping through the darkness. They were maybe seventy feet away and stopped in a small clearing. They were either whispering or making out. I assumed the former.
I could see them better standing in the clearing, the moon providing some additional light. I grabbed my field glasses, flipped them to night mode, and got a better view. These were not night-vision goggles like you see in the movies, but high-end binoculars that intensified available light.
I was thankful for their little powwow. The pause provided me an opportunity to gather some quick intelligence on them. They were casing the camp and had apparently stopped to make a little plan. I could see one of them pointing toward the sister’s tent, using a gun instead of his finger. The other guy held a knife, which glittered in the moonbeams. He waved it in my direction. They were splitting up, each taking a tent.
I make snap decisions in these situations, adhering to the training I honed over many years. When in danger, never hesitate, and assume the worst. Shoot, aim, and then ask questions. The reverse order tends to get you killed.
At seventy feet, I could easily pop both these guys, and was just about to do so whe
n they walked in opposite directions. Knife guy was heading my way, gun guy her way. They crept cautiously and deliberately, confident in their surprise attack. Nothing is easier or more effective than striking your enemy as they sleep. I, however, was not sleeping. Oopsie for them.
The challenge was they had separated and were somewhat cloaked by darkness. I’m a crack shot, but I can’t hit what I can’t see. I estimated them to now be approximately thirty feet away, which was about the ideal distance for me with moving targets. Stationary was better, and could be dealt with at greater distances.
I leaped out of the tent, catching both intruders by surprise. I knew the sudden noise would invariably spook them, throwing off their focus for maybe three seconds, unless they were pros, which I doubted.
The one farthest away was my main concern, for obvious reasons—he had a firearm. Utilizing the brief confusion, I ran quickly toward him, accomplishing several things at once. First, it put me closer to the target. This enhanced both my visual of him and chances of a successful shot. It was also putting distance between me and my pursuer, who only had a knife.
Once I was within twenty feet, the gunman regained his composure. I could see his gun arm lifting in my direction. I shot him square in the forehead. I spun around, and knife man was running full force at me. He froze at the sight of my gun pointing directly at him. He was maybe ten feet away. I saw the terror in his eyes as I squeezed the trigger, putting a .357 hollow point between his eyeballs. He fell straight backward.
A few seconds later, the sister materialized from her tent—eyes wide and mouth open, hands clamped to her chest in fear and confusion. Her head was moving side to side, her body bobbing left and right, unable to decide which way to run or if she should run at all. She was in a panic.
