The Grave Diggers

by Chris Fritschi

  "Why don't they drop us on the guy’s front lawn?" asked Rosse. "Seems like a lot of extra work on our part."

  "A couple of reasons," replied Tate. "The helo crew isn't cleared to know our mission, or our final destination. They don't even know about the DEA base. Another is, like you pointed out, this area is completely unexplored. We could get dropped into a heard of Vix and not even know it until half your arm is eaten off. On the bright side, here's your chance to get out on the water and out of the jungle."

  "I don't know how to swim," groused Rosse. "And I ain't wearing one of them stupid looking life preserver things."

  Tate let out a small sigh. "Then I suggest that everybody here that Rosse owes money to, collect it before the mission, or you might not ever get it back." Good-natured laughter rolled around the room as another hand went up.

  "Suller," said Tate, pointing to one of the raised hands.

  "What's our unit name?" asked Suller.

  "Until we get our official designation it'll be Rover," said Tate. That brought a groan from the room. "Yeah, I know. But we won't have to live with the dog jokes for long. I promise, I'll get us a better name."

  Tate decided to wrap it up and let them get on with their mission prep. "Remember, this is classified. We lift off tomorrow at oh six hundred."

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHECK POINT PHOENIX

  The sun was breaking over the treetops as Private Cooper jogged into the mission assembly area. The rest of the squad was there. The guys who were in Tate's earlier unit were talking in their own group. Most of the newbies to the unit were talking in groups, trying to look bored, but their quick glances for any signs of change in the veteran’s actions betrayed their nerves.

  Cooper dumped his combat pack next to the others, lined up in a neat row, then looked around, unsure what to do with himself.

  He played over the anxiety of last night’s events. He had covertly scanned the mission documents and transmitted them to Mr. Red, using a secret cell phone. That was nerve racking enough, but then he received a demand to call Mr. Red immediately.

  "Your mission's in the morning, and I'm just getting this now?" snapped Mr. Red.

  Cooper was scared that Mr. Red would take out his fury on his family, and hastily explained they'd only just been given the mission briefing.

  "They like to keep things close to the vest," said Mr. Red. "This'll take some fast planning."

  "Planning?" Cooper said, confused. "We're lifting off in a few hours. There's nothing I can do."

  "Huh? Ignore that. I was thinking out loud," said Red. There was an uncharacteristic pause as Cooper heard the sound of papers rustling over the phone.

  "Uh, look, I want you to get me copies of those documents you're going after."

  Tension tightened around Cooper's chest, and he gripped the phone as his mind raced through the ramifications of Red's demand.

  "Do you even know what you’re asking me to do? Why are you doing this to me? I'm nobody."

  "Exactly," said Mr. Red. "That's why we picked you. To everyone else you're just another face in the crowd. There's nothing special about you, and you're new. People are more likely to give you the benefit of the doubt for making mistakes."

  "It'll never work. Don't you understand? There's no way they're going to leave me alone with whatever we find. I'm not even supposed to see them. They're going to catch me, maybe shoot me on the spot."

  Cooper was quickly working himself into a panic, but Mr. Red only heard excuses.

  "Do you know how embarrassed I get every time I have to explain to my superiors why you keep screwing with us?" said Red. "It hardly leaves anytime to look after your family. Come to think of it, I can't remember. Did I feed them yesterday, or was it the day before? Your sister, what is she, five? They're always so hungry at that age, but those are the formative years."

  Cooper couldn't see a way out. His surrender to Mr. Red's demands where his family’s life line, but no matter how hard he tried, risk and disaster loomed over him; he was a living lie to everyone but the man that held his family hostage, and even he didn't care if Cooper lived or died.

  So, Mr. Red would send him on a suicide mission. He'd be caught by Tate and shot on the spot. He would die, then so would his family.

  That's it. I die no matter what happens. If I'm gonna die, why drag it out? Let’s get it over with.

  Feeling like there was nothing to lose Cooper embraced his reckless anger and for the first time in a long time, felt like a free man.

  "What kind of sick bastard tortures a kid? First you cut up my sister, then you starve her? And for what? Some documents? How about I just ask Tate if I can borrow them to give to the guy that's blackmailing me? Huh? No, I got it. I'll just kill my whole squad. Sounds like something you'd like, right? And then I'll drive right up to your front door and put the papers in your hands. But you know that won't happen, because as soon as I try to steal those papers someone'll put a bullet in my head, so why wait? I'll shoot myself right now. Either way, I'm going to die, and then you'll kill my family."

  Alarms were beginning to go off in Mr. Red’s mind. His ambition to get those documents had made him push Cooper too far. He'd lose his only asset in Tate's unit, his chance at the papers; not to mention the questions Cooper’s suicide would cause. Anyone looking into it would find the encrypted cell phone, and did Cooper keep a journal, or write notes about any of this?

  Alarm bells went off in Mr. Red's head. He had underestimated how unstable Cooper was, and had to work fast to bring him back from the edge.

  Mr. Red decided Cooper was too much of a risk, and after he delivered those papers he'd have Cooper killed. He had another asset within that military base. One he could rely on to sanitize Cooper's belongings, so there'd be nothing to tie him to Mr. Red.

  But first things first.

  Mr. Red took a deep breath, thinking quickly how to defuse Cooper.

  "You're right. This whole situation is terrible. I'm going to tell you something, but it's just between you and me, you understand? If anyone knew, we'd all be dead. You, me, your family…" Mr. Red paused before going on. "Your family's fine, okay? They're fine. Nobody cut up your sister. We got the finger from a morgue. The people I work for aren't sadistic, they don't believe in torture. But, Cooper, they do believe in killing, if they're forced to. That's why we need to work together. As long as I can tell my boss everything's going according to plan, your family stays secure, watching TV, eating pizza. But you have to help me help them. I know what I'm asking you to do is dangerous, but it's for the right reasons. Believe me when I tell you, we're on the same side. You're serving this country and so am I."

  Mr. Red waited a moment to let his words take root. "So, can I count on you, Jared?"

  Cooper had calmed down, let himself listen to Mr. Red. He wanted to believe Mr. Red was telling the truth, even though his suspicion told him they were all lies; but he saw a chance and he took it.

  "Yes, I'll try."

  "Come on," said Mr. Red. "Try? After all this special training you got, I know you'll be good at this."

  "Good is the enemy of great," said Cooper.

  "Yeah," said Mr. Red, sounding encouraged. "Yeah, that's the spirit. I'm glad to see you're on board with this. Good is the enemy of great. I'm going to remember that one."

  It was the first time Cooper felt like he was talking to a person and not a monster threatening death over his family. He didn't know how long it would last, but he saw an opportunity to find out more about Red and went for it.

  "Why didn't you just ask?" he said. "You could've told me you're trying to do something good, but dangerous, and asked me to help."

  "It's not that simple," said Mr. Red. "A long time ago people thought surgery was evil, or witchcraft. People couldn't see beyond the blood being spilt. It's the same now, but on a global scale. To save lives, blood has to be spilled and most can't see beyond the blood. I can. I accept the spilling of blood because I know it'll lead to a better world.
A new world."

  Mr. Red was confident the blending of lies and truth had maneuvered Cooper back into his pocket. He was being honest when he said his bosses didn't believe in torture, but Mr. Red did. It was a hugely effective tool, but one that he'd have to hold in reserve now that Cooper was so fragile.

  The line went dead, and Cooper felt a wash of relief and doubt flow through him. Had he gone too far? Did his outburst just make him disposable?

  He deliberated if he should call back, but decided he might just make things worse. His thoughts were broken as someone tugged on his sleeve.

  "Private Cooper, I'm talking to you." Sergeant Wesson gave him an annoyed look. "Have you double checked your combat pack according to the mission load out?"

  "Yes, Sergeant," blurted Cooper, a little too loudly. "two hundred rounds of ammo. Two canteens of water. Four pairs of socks..."

  "I don't need to hear the whole list," said Wesson. Her expression softened slightly, and she gave Cooper a once over.

  "Don't go into this mission nervous. You won't do anyone any good that way. If you have a question, or aren't sure what to do, let me know. We do our mission and we come home, simple as that."

  Cooper only nodded. He wasn't thinking about the mission at the moment. He was thinking how pretty Lori Wesson was when she wasn't yelling at him.

  He was terrified that the way he looked at her would give him away, because she would kill him on the spot. So he did his best to hide it behind his poker face; it must have worked, because she nodded with approval and walked off.

  The mood of the assembly area shifted from casual boredom to excitement as the pilots kicked on the Black Hawk engines. The hum of the turbines climbed to a steady whine. Soon it was joined by a deeper hum, as the rotor blades slowly started to rotate.

  The crew chief stood outside near the nose of the helicopter, visually monitoring the startup. The rotating blades quickly gained speed until they were a blur. The rotor wash buffeted the soldiers and blew unattended gear off the assembly platform.

  Satisfied with his visual inspection, the crew chief slid open the rearward cargo door and gave a thumbs-up to Sergeant Major Tate.

  Tate returned the gesture, then waved the squad forward and pointed to the open cargo door.

  The squad lined up with their combat packs slung over their shoulders, as the crew chief directed each squad member to a jump seat, instructing them what to do with their combat pack and weapon.

  With everyone on, Tate grabbed the metal frame of the bench seat and pulled himself inside. He put on the headset, and the engine noise was instantly brought down to a manageable level.

  Across from him, the crew chief did a final inspection of the squad and gear. He switched the channel on his flight helmet, and his voice crackled through Tate's earphones.

  "Good morning, Sergeant Major," said the crew chief. "I'm Sergeant Gibbs. I'll be your crew chief for this ride. Our target landing zone is two hundred and eighty eight miles, give or take, and our travel time will be about an hour and fifteen minutes."

  "Thank you, Sergeant," said Tate. He had familiarized himself with the flight details the night before, but appreciated having a crew chief who didn't treat everyone like cargo.

  Tate had studied weather, times, distance, and a long list of other mission details until he knew them by heart. His years as top tier operator had taught him the power of knowing every detail about a mission.

  Tate pushed the headset off one ear and yelled over the noise to his squad. "Ready?"

  Everyone answered with a thumbs-up.

  After a short glance, the crew chief nodded.

  Reseating the headset, Tate heard him talking to the pilots.

  "We're secure and you are clear to go," said Gibbs.

  The whine of the turbines climbed to a roar, and the Black Hawk lifted off. Soon they were hovering above the camp. The nose of the helicopter tipped forward, and the ground below slipped by with nearly no sensation of movement.

  The squad craned their necks to take in the view. Below them rolled an unbroken canopy of lush green that stretched away into the misty horizon.

  The stillness of the landscape gave a sense of tranquility, but Tate wasn't deceived by the facade. Beneath the blanket of green, life ranged from miserable to lethal.

  He smiled to himself, amused by his own cynicism. You can't even let yourself appreciate a good view, can you? he thought to himself.

  Eventually, the green terrain changed to a deep blue, as they broke over the ocean. With it brought a cool breeze, giving relief to the soldiers sweating under their full combat load.

  Tate stared off into the misty horizon, as memories drifted through his mind of his life before everything changed. He thought of the men he called 'brother', and the missions that bonded them together; a bond Tate thought could only be broken by death.

  It had been two years since he had closed the door on that life, but he still thought of his brothers with a mixture of regret and guilt; they'd been a part of his life nearly from the time he'd joined the military. They had been there on his wedding day, the birth of his daughter, Jesse, and the day he got word she'd been killed.

  Even if he'd wanted, he couldn't hide the devastation that sunk its claws into his spirit and ripped it from his chest. All meaning had been shredded from his life, leaving it a colorless wasteland.

  For a year he'd poured into keeping himself busy, thinking that one day he'd wake up and begin to feel normal again, but that feeling never came. His wife had struggled, too, but was incredibly strong; she could see the devastation and guilt crushing down on Tate. The more she loved him, the less worthy he felt of her. He was lost, without any thought what to do.

  The answer had come to him one night while staring at the ceiling in the shroud of darkness; a voice of clarity that told him he had to leave. Right then and there.

  The groaning weight he had felt relentlessly crushing him since his precious girl had been ripped from him seemed to crumble away.

  Ten minutes later, he was driving through the night. The direction didn't matter, only distance. With every mile, he felt the tendrils of despair loosening their hold on him.

  The next few months were like air to a drowning man. He was a blank slate. Settling down in Texas, nobody knew him and nobody cared. He constructed a new past, and with it Tate was created.

  He was surprised at how easy it was, stepping into a new life, trailing none of the ghosts of his past; but that had all been a lie. His past was with him, patiently searching for the chink in his fantasy, and one night, it found it.

  With a hunger, his past chewed through his delusions of a new start. He dreamt of his wife, anguishing alone, deserted by the man who had made vows as he slipped on her wedding ring. He saw his friends fighting for their lives, undefended by the man who had taken oaths to protect them with his life.

  Reality had crashed down on him like a massive granite wall, and he awoke, gasping, as regret and shame stared him in the face, denying him from looking away from the truth that he had deserted his friends and wife.

  A burst of static scattered this thoughts. "Hey, Top," said Sergeant Monkhouse. "That jungle looks like something from one of those dinosaur movies. What would you do if you ran into a T-Rex?"

  Bret Monkhouse was one of the original members of Tate's squad when he first started in Mortuary Affairs, and he was glad to have him. His specialty was as the engineer of the squad; whether it was a makeshift bridge, demolitions, or booby traps, Monkhouse could do it.

  No matter how bad something went, he'd always have a smile. Tate decided long ago it was because Monkhouse knew that sooner or later, he'd get to blow something up, and that cheered him up all day long.

  Tate pushed back the shrouds of emotions, and brought himself back into the present moment.

  "Monkhouse, where do you come up with this stuff?"

  "I'm a renaissance man, Top. I think about all kinds of things. So, what would you do?"

  "I'd run like a
bat out of Hell."

  Monkhouse laughed. "Get real, Sergeant Major. You're not exactly in the kind of shape to outrun a T-Rex."

  "I'm not in any shape to outrun a T-Rex, but I'll bet good money I can outrun a mouthy sergeant," chuckled Tate.

  The rest of the team laughed.

  "Heads up, Sergeant Major," said the crew chief. "We're twenty minutes out."

  "Thanks," said Tate. "All right, squad, you heard it. Last check before we're feet on the ground."

  Everyone went through their individual examination of their gear, until the last of them signaled in with a 'good to go' thumbs up.

  The air became moist and hot as the Black Hawk banked to the left, leaving the blue ocean behind and cutting inland. The pilot began following a meandering river, which Tate remembered from his map was near their insertion point.

  As if reading his thoughts, the Black Hawk gently flared, then came to a hover over a break in the jungle near the bank of the river.

  The crew chief reached out and grabbed the fast-rope, just below where it was anchored to a metal brace on the outside of the helicopter. He checked that the coil of rope wasn’t tangled with anything and kicked it out the door, watching it unwind as it fell to the ground.

  The crew chief flipped up a plastic cover on the bulkhead near his seat that protected the quick-release button for the fast rope. This had become a necessary precaution after a helicopter and everyone on it was lost when a soldier was repelling down the rope, and a couple of Vix had appeared.

  The soldier had stopped halfway down the rope while his squad shot at the Vix from the helo. The sounds of gunfire attracted a hoard of Vix from everywhere. The soldier had dangled on the rope like bait above a swarming meat grinder. He was screaming for help, his hands shaking were shaking with fatigue, as his friends tried to pull him up. It was a tug of war they couldn’t win. The Vix swarmed the rope. Their sudden weight began pulling the helo. The pilot panicked, over corrected, and swung into the trees. The rotor shattered spraying fragments like bomb shrapnel. The ones who died in the crash were lucky.