by N. C. Reed
“What's her name?” Angela asked. “Who's her family?”
“She's not from around here, mom,” he assured her. “I met her in Nashville. And she's not originally from there, either. She went there to go to school.” Not technically a lie, he thought to himself. She had gotten her GED in Nashville, after all.
“Well, the next time she visits, I expect to be introduced to her,” Angela told him.
“If it warrants it, you will be,” he promised.
He was tempted to think that he wasn't likely to see her again at any rate until he remembered thinking that same thing just a few weeks ago. Yet he had seen her again, just today.
Go figure.
-
“Boy, I hate to say this, but we need some help.”
They were in Leon's living room looking at information that Clay had garnered from several different sources, hoping to learn what else they might need in order to be able to take care of their family.
“What kind of help?” Clay asked, looking up.
“We need brain power, son,” Leon leaned back. “And there's a surfeit of it right down this hill,” he nodded to his front door.
“You want to tell the rest,” Clay sat back.
“Not all of them, just-” he stopped as someone knocked on his door. Clay answered it, surprised to see his father standing there.
“Dad,” he managed not to stammer. “What can I do for you?”
“You can let me in, son,” Gordon said calmly. “Now,” he added.
“What do you want, Gordon?” Leon came to the door. “We're a little busy at the moment. Got no time for a bunch of childish nonsense.”
“Good, because I'm tired of it myself,” Gordon nodded, pushing his way inside. He stopped as he got a good look at Leon's living room.
There were stacks of canned goods along one wall, plastic buckets on another, closed boxes disappearing toward the kitchen.
The coffee table and two small card tables were covered with papers that Clay was pushing into piles and dumping into boxes as quickly as he could while trying to look as if he wasn't actually hurrying.
“What is all this?” Gordon demanded. “You two have been up to something for weeks, and I'm tired of not knowing what it is. If you two are up to something illegal, then it blows back on all of us if it's here at this farm. No more stalling. I want to know what's going on.”
“It don't concern you,” Leon told him as he made his way back to his chair. “If it did, we'd 've told ya.”
“If it's on this farm, it concerns me,” Gordon replied. “Start talking. Cause all this,” he motioned to what was around him, “makes it look like you two are expecting trouble. You look like you're laying in supplies for a siege.”
“I'm surprised you know that word,” Leon spat and Gordon grunted.
“I might know several words that would surprise you, Pa,” he replied simply. He looked at Clay.
“Son, are you in some kind of trouble?” he asked gently. “You came home awful sudden like. If you are, then let me help you if I can,” he offered.
“I'm not in any trouble, Pop,” Clay shook his head. “It's not like that.”
“Then I want to know what it is like,” Gordon's voice was suddenly cold. Leon watched with amused interest as Clay turned on his father at that, his own countenance dropping into something dark and deadly.
“As much fun as it might be to watch you two to square off,” Leon finally spoke up, “we ain't got time for this dick beatin' bullshit. Both of you sit down.”
“I want-”
“Gordon, shut up and sit your ass down!” Leon's voice cracked across the living room like a whip. Blinking, Gordon sat down, albeit reluctantly.
“I was saying we needed help,” Leon told Clay. “Here is a good place to start. We need Leanne and the Younger too, if we can keep Ally's giant nose out of things.”
“Need them for what?” Gordon demanded.
“Tell him, boy,” Leon ordered. “Tell him everything you told me, just like you told me. Give 'im a chance to put his money where his mouth is. So to speak.”
Clay balked at that and for a second Leon thought he would refuse. Suddenly the tension left his grandson, though, his shoulders settling as he sat back.
“Fine,” he nodded curtly. “You want to know, I 'll tell you. But you stay shut until I get done, and keep your objections to yourself. If you can't keep an open mind about it all, then just get up and go now.”
“You make it sound like one of those shows about aliens, Clay,” Gordon raised an eyebrow.
“Can you do it or not?” Clay wouldn't be distracted.
“I imagine I can,” Gordon sat back in his chair and got comfortable.
“For me to tell you what's happening, I have to tell you where I've really been. What I've been doing. At least for the last few years. And telling you that is a violation of my non-disclosure. That's-”
“I know what it is,” Gordon nodded. “Go on.”
Hiding his surprise, Clay nodded and leaned his head back for a minute, collecting himself.
Then he started talking.
CHAPTER SIX
-
AFRICA, Two years earlier
The four-man patrol had returned before sun-up. The news was grim to say the least.
“The village was hit hard, Boss,” Nate Caudell reported, his face taunt. “At least two dozen dead, a few wounded that somehow escaped a bullet in the head, and a handful of uninjured. If some of the villagers hadn't been away, it would be almost all of them.” He paused, eyes flinty. “And they took every child in the village that could walk. Killed those too small or too sick to go with them under their own power.”
Several growls could be heard through the small camp as this was reported. The twelve-man detachment had been helping the villagers off and on when not hunting for one of several terrorist groups in the area. Most of the men had formed attachments to the families in the small gathering of buildings and huts that had no actual name. The villagers simply called it 'home'.
“Was it because of us?” Clay asked softly. No one was fooled by the softness in his voice. Clayton Sanders was the last man anyone who knew him would want chasing them down.
“Probably,” Nate nodded, scarfing down an MRE and a full quart of water. He and the others had ran the entire three miles back to report. “One of the survivors, Mbume, the kid that watched the cattle?” Clay nodded in recognition. “He heard two of them talking from where he was hiding,” Nate continued. “He caught a snippet that included the phrase 'white men', and another that might have been 'message sent'. That's all we really have to go on, but…” He trailed off, aware of how thin his intel was.
“But that sounds pretty good,” Clay nodded, his voice still gentle and distant. Several of his men stopped what they were doing, hearing that tone of voice. He looked around at the men he was responsible for.
They had lived here for the last eleven months. In that time, the detachment had gotten to know people in several villages, but none so well as those in 'Home'. It was the one place they felt welcome enough, safe enough, to be relaxed.
They were supposed to be looking for terrorists. Specifically, anyone connected to the groups responsible for taking children and turning them into soldiers. Or sex slaves. Their mission was so dark that Clay doubted there were ten people outside this hooch that knew the soldiers were anywhere on the African continent. They were re-supplied once a month by helicopter and Clay made contact by satellite phone only when he had something to report.
Essentially, they were on their own. Every man in the detachment was single, with no children. No dependents of any kind. Many had little or no family at all. Clay had family, but he hadn't been home to Tennessee in a long time. He doubted he'd ever go back, in fact.
“Did you find a trail?” he asked Nate, and the scout nodded.
“A good one. They're walking,” Nate added. “By now they're on the trail for maybe five hours.”
Clay thought about h
ow fast a column on foot could move small children. He liked the odds.
“Saddle up,” he ordered calmly. “We're going after them.” For two, perhaps three seconds his men just looked at him. Then they burst into a flurry of movement, gathering gear and supplies.
“You all good to go?” he asked the four men who had been out. They had run a long way.
“Hell yes!” one of them, a hulking giant of a man named John Barnes all but snarled from where he was repacking his gear. He and the other three had shared all their consumables and medical supplies with the surviving villagers.
“Assemble out front in ten,” he told them all, rising to go outside. He considered calling this in but decided against it. He'd be ordered not to go and that simply wasn't going to happen. Not this time.
He looked at the sun just now clearly above the horizon. They would have most of the day. He wished for the chopper that brought them their supplies, thinking it would be nice to get a lift for the seven to ten miles that had to separate them from the children and their captives. He was pretty sure that Shorty, the pilot, would have taken them, but it would be another six days before he was due.
Sighing, Clay gathered his own gear. Ten minutes on the mark and his entire detachment was standing outside ready to go.
“This is strictly volunteer,” he told them without any fanfare. “I'll probably face a court-martial for this, at least. If any of you want to join me you can, but I won't make it an order. This is a career ender, boys, make no mistake. Even if we kill the bastards and get every kid back unharmed, we'll be through in the Army. If you don't want to risk that, I understand and so will every man here. Now's the time to bow out if you want to.”
Not a single man offered to leave the squad. Two looked offended at the idea, and three others simply looked impatient.
“All right, then,” Clay nodded. “Nate, you and Mitch lead off. Loop us around Home and onto the trail as best you can. We'll have to hump hard to make up the time. Be looking for alternate transport,” he added, and Mitchell Nolan grinned. He'd just been ordered to steal a truck if he found one. The former gang member could get behind orders like that.
“No prisoners,” Clay added softly. “Anyone have an issue with that?” he asked. Every head shook negative.
“Then let's boogie. GRS only from here on out. Let's go get some.”
-
It took just over an hour to make it to the far side of Home and pick up the trail. The children were being herded along by their captors. Clay knew that some of them would tire out long before the animals who had taken them would. He hoped to catch them before then.
“Count?” he asked Nate, who was already moving to follow the trail.
“At least twenty-five,” Nate replied. “Best I can give you in this mess. No one in Home got a good count, really. Sorry Boss.”
“Doesn't matter,” Clay assured him. “We'd do it if there were a hundred. Stay on 'em.” Nate didn't reply, but Clay didn't expect him to. Clay waved the others on, picking up the pace slightly. Good thing they'd kept their running up since being here in the bush.
His men followed in silence, in no way intimidated by the numbers. While they had no sexy initials or fancy names, these men were among the hardest in the Army. Combat veterans all, selected for this mission because they were as hard as the men they were supposed to hunt. There wouldn't be a photo op for any of this, so it didn't matter who they were, what they looked like, or what 'Team' they belonged to.
No one spoke for the next hour as the team made the best time possible in pursuit of the captured children. Clay had set a killer pace, but no one was having trouble keeping up so far. Nate and Mitchell were also moving fast, as Clay never seemed to gain any ground on the scout.
The mile eating gait continued on for another hour, and then another. Finally, Clay held up a hand and signaled a slow down, though not a complete stop.
“Talk to me, Scope,” he called over his radio.
“We're gaining, Bossman,” Nate called back. “I'm estimating we're no more than thirty, forty-five minutes behind, now.”
“Good deal,” Clay wanted to shout for joy. “Stay on it. We're right behind you.”
“Got it, Boss.” Clay looked around at the others, and saw all nodding at the report. He picked up the pace again, and the others followed without a word. Every minute was precious now. Thirty or forty-five minutes didn't mean they could catch up that quickly. The soldiers were gaining ground in a hurry, but time was the enemy. While it probably would take another hour of hard running to get into striking range, if the column of terrorists and children stopped to rest for even ten minutes, the soldiers would gain a lot of ground in that short time.
Nate hoped the captors would stop and let the children rest, rather than kill those who struggled to keep up.
It was not to be.
“Boss, we found Wee Man,” Mitchell Nolan reported almost one hour later. “One round in the back of his head.” The one-time gang banger sounded like he was on the verge of tears.
“Acknowledged,” Clay replied. “Keep moving. Nothing we can do for him. Let's try and help the rest.”
“Roger that,” the reply was firm.
Wee Man was the nickname the team had given to a ten year old who was much smaller than the other kids his age. While not a true dwarf or 'little person', Wee Man was much smaller than he should have been. Some of the other kids bullied him at times, but the soldiers coming had stopped that. Once the villagers realized how protective the soldiers were of the small boy, they had stopped the bullying of the other children.
Clay smiled weakly as he remembered seeing the tiny little boy running around with Clay's helmet on his head, saluting proudly to anyone who would return it. The other soldiers would snap to attention when Wee Man came walking up with the helmet on, and hurry to obey the child's 'orders' when they weren't busy. It had delighted the boy no end and his laughter was a tonic to the hardened men who protected him. Before they had come, he hadn't had much to laugh about.
And now he was dead. Probably because he was unable to keep up with the demanding pace set by those who had killed him.
Clay's heart hardened into a rock at that thought and he pushed himself harder. He knew without looking that his men were doing the same, keeping pace with their leader.
Someone had to pay for Wee Man. And the others killed at Home.
The sun was almost atop them in the sky when Nate called.
“Boss, I got 'em.” Clay held up a fist and the small column came to a halt.
“Where away?” Clay called.
“We're about two miles from MSR Willow,” Nate called back, using the code name for the main roadway in this part of the country. While paved it wasn't really what modern nations would consider a Main Supply Route but in rural western Africa it was a modern road.
“Any sign of transport waiting?” Clay asked, dreading the answer.
“Negative at this time,” Nate answered. “One Tango using a radio, pretty animated. I think they were expecting transport here, Boss, at least to take the kids off their hands. And it ain't showed up.”
“Well that's just outstanding,” Clay said, a feral grin on his face. “If we've kept pace we're no more than three to five minutes away. Continue to observe and have Thug meet us and guide us in.”
“Will do.”
Clay ordered him men forward without a word. They had all heard Nate's report. Another four minutes of hard running found them looking at Mitchell, who guided them forward without a word. The men settled into the ground and began to shed unneeded gear for the coming battle. Clay looked the situation over, frowning.
“I know,” Nate caught the look on his superior's face. “There's thirty-one best I can tell. Sorry,” he added.
“Don't sweat it,” Clay shook it off. “Tommy, you and Poncho find a good spot, let us know when you're set. I think we'll let you start things off once we're in position. After that, over-watch and keep an eye on the kids.”
Jody Thompson, the team's sniper, nodded, he and his spotter, Jose Juarez, moving to find a better position. Clay gave the area around their enemy one more look and started issuing orders.
“Bear, take your team and move around to the left, to the other side of Tommy. Don't crowd them, just get into good rifle range. I'll take mine and move into that wallow to the south,” he pointed to a low spot that had been tramped down by a herd of some kind in the past. “Five minutes, if we can,” he added. Barnes nodded and the five men of his team headed out behind the sniper unit.
Clay led his men around the right side of their target, suppressors already attached to rifles. Though the 'cans' wouldn't completely silence the sound of the rifle shot as it might have in movies, they would mask the direction of the first few shots. Clay would accept any edge he could get in a fight like this. Or any fight, for that matter. He lived by the motto 'If you ain't cheatin', you ain't tryin'”.
And these guys were in no way deserving of an even break. Not after what they had done.
The whole team managed to settle into position within the five-minute mark. Clay placed his rifle scope on the enemy radio-man once more and could see the animated look on the man's face as he all but screamed into the radio. Apparently, their transport wasn't coming.
Too bad.
“Tommy, Radio first, on you,” was all Clay said.
Even with the suppressor the heavy .308 round boomed as it left the rifle. Before the sound reached him, Clay saw the radio man's head snap back, bringing him to something like attention for a split second. Then he hit the ground in a heap.
As he'd hoped, the first shot caught the enemy by surprise and they all stood staring, mouths agape, as their comrade hit the dirt. That was all Clay wanted.
“Take 'em!”
The enemy 'troops' might have been hard men when fighting defenseless villagers and children, but compared to the men they had made enemies of today, they weren't much. Twelve of them were already dead or out of action before the first one managed to fire a shot. The others, galvanized by that one round, began shooting wildly in all directions, yelling at each other, the children and their unseen attackers.
