by John O'Brien
RED TEAM: STRIGOI
Book I of Red Team series
A Novel by John O’Brien
Published by John O’Brien at Smashwords
Copyright © 2017 John O’Brien
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the author. You may contact the author at [email protected]
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover art by: Dean Samed
Conzpiracy Digital Arts
http://www.conzpiracy.co.uk
This book is dedicated to Cyrus David Taylor.
Be strong, courageous, and persevere. Walk a path upon which fear and despair may not tread. Believe and let hope be your guiding light.
Other books by John O’Brien
A New World Series
A New World: Chaos
A New World: Return
A New World: Sanctuary
A New World: Taken
A New World: Awakening
A New World: Dissension
A New World: Takedown
A New World: Conspiracy
A New World: Reckoning
A New World: Storm
Companion Books
A New World: Untold Stories
A New World: Untold Stories II
ARES VIRUS
Ares Virus: Arctic Storm
Ares Virus: White Horse
Ares Virus: Phoenix Rising
THE THIRD WAVE: EIDOLON
Authors Note
Well, Jack and Red Team are back. While writing the third book of A Shrouded World, he began clamoring in my head for other stories to be told. As much as I enjoyed Sergeant Brown and the others in the ARES Virus trilogy, along with Sam and Erin in The Third Wave: Eidolon, Jack resides deep within me. He’s a part of me, my brother, my uncle, my twin. He’s Jack and I’m able to connect with him. I know and understand him. I cannot even begin to explain how much I enjoy writing Jack. He is ingrained in my psyche. We understand each other. I know his thoughts. There is no character to develop, he’s just there.
Now, with that being said, it’s not an easy task to start the team off in a different world. They are meeting for the first time and don’t as yet share the warmth of close bonds that they had in A New World. Their relationships cannot be contrived, but slowly developed and nurtured over time. So, as you won’t see what they had developed as you turn these pages. Along the same lines, Lynn and Jack are also meeting for the first time. These relationships will develop as they progress through and walk along the razor’s edge of the world. As such, Robert, Nicole, and Brianna aren’t thrust into the sudden turmoil, hardships, and dangers of civilization ending.
My goal is to not make this tale a repeat of A New World. That is a different story. So, I ask that you place the mindset of Red Team in A New World aside and turn these pages with a fresh and open mind. Between these pages, Red Team will come together and face new challenges. They’ll begin the formation of close bonds that shared dangers can bring about.
The story is set in the day when technology was just coming to the forefront. I wanted to make this a tale more about the individuals rather than technological marvels. There aren’t quiet miniaturized drones prowling the skies to survey the land ahead or combat-linked systems. This is boots on the ground with a trusty carbine and using wits to combat foes. I mean, there may or may not be gunships involved. That’s just a requirement. I mistyped “gunships” while writing this and it turned into funships, which pretty much sums that up.
All in all, I’m excited about having a new series with Jack and Red Team. It just feels right telling their stories. If you finish the book and enjoyed it, please drop over and leave a review. So, enough babbling here, let’s get on with it.
John
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
About the Author
Connect with me online
Chapter One
Gathering my fins under me, I slowly rise until clearing the surface with my M-4 shouldered and aimed at the narrow stretch of private beach. Overhead, clouds cover the tops of the peaks and blot out the stars. Behind, the USS Dallas lies beneath the rolling swells. Beside me, five others silently rise and search the small cove of sand. There’s only the roar of waves crashing into the surrounding rocky shores and the hiss of the surf as it rolls upon the beach.
Perched upon a steep ridge climbing from a rocky cliff, the top of a dormant lighthouse peeks above brush and trees where its white and red tower once sent a warning to sailors plying the open waters. Beyond the beach, the terrain abruptly climbs, ascending through thick brush and trees toward a series of high, rocky ridgelines. Our target is a walled compound situated on a plateau at the end of one of the ridges above the lighthouse.
Since the destruction of the major Columbian cartels, the Mexican drug cartels have gained prominence, carving out territories throughout the North American country. The wars they fight among themselves rival anything ever witnessed before across the globe, with thousands having fallen victim to their ruthlessness.
Through corruption, they’ve had a free hand in most places even though the DEA has tried bolstering the military and police forces to combat the drug trade. However, the cartels have fought back against their leaders being jailed and extradited, even downing military helicopters and kidnapping officials in retaliation.
One cartel has taken their resistance a step further and taken Americans from a resort. One of those being held hostage happens to be the daughter of one of our esteemed senators, thus my involvement and this stealthy approach to a shoreline in the middle of nowhere.
Intel hasn’t been able to place the hostages with any degree of certainty, but they have narrowed it down to one of two places: the heavily guarded compound on the ridge above or another location deeper into the mountains. Our job is to rescue them if they’re here; another team is working the second target. DEA choppers are on standby to respond to either location once the hostages have been secured.
I nod to the other five and we move into shallower water while angling toward the beachhead below the rocky bluff. Except for when looking through the NVG scopes, the lines of white surf are the only things visible in the otherwise dark and featureless terrain. No light shows from the lighthouse high above to the side, but anyone with a modicum of intelligence would place lookouts there. Further up the steep terrain, a faint glow can be seen from the walled compound against the low-lying clouds.
Leaning against the rocks, we strip off our fins and tanks, and watertight seals are pulled from our weapons to be buried. The rest of our swim gear is hidden in the crevices of rocks along the shore. Even though we plan to be long, long gone by the time the sun rises, it would be bad luck if some guard decided to bring a lover to this private beach for an evening of fun and they found our flippers and goggles. A three-year old would know that we had landed, and our chance of a quiet rescue would go out the window.
We creep along the base of the bluff in single file in order to remain out of sight of the lightho
use. Footage didn’t show any sign of guards patrolling the beach, and the trackless sand confirms that. Off the beach, a ravine, choked with brush and trees, lies between two steep ridges with a narrow trail along its length. Instead of heading up the obvious route to the compound and ringing the doorbell, we’ll scale the rocky bluff, skirting around the lighthouse, and come upon the location from the other side. With steep bluffs descending to rocky shores pummeled by incoming waves, it’s an approach that few would think possible.
Tightening the M-4 against my body, I begin scaling the rough surface, testing each hand and foothold prior to placing my entire weight on it. The first part of the climb goes slowly; the rocks are damp, and I want to make sure of my footing before heading further upward. As I climb, my mind wanders, asking why I keep doing this, as it does every time I’m on assignment. I have three teenagers at home—Robert, Nicole, and Brianna—and it seems like I’m out in the field nearly as much as when I was actually in the military. Each time I finish an assignment, I tell myself that it’s the last time. But then the warning order and nondisclosure agreement arrives, and I say, “One more time.”
It’s not that I don’t like being at home. It really comes down to the fact that I don’t know what else to do. I’m not rich enough to lie on the beach in a hammock drinking fruity cocktails with umbrellas, but something like that is my ultimate goal. Heading out on missions is a real struggle. I want to be home with the kiddos, but I don’t want to greet people walking into a Walmart. I’m too old to jump into an aviation job—that train left the station some time ago. So, here I am, struggling up a cliff face in the dark of the night.
Eventually, I scale up to a narrow ledge, moving a little ways down to pause and wait for the others. I ease the carbine off my shoulder and train it on a corner that bends around the end of the ridge. Out of sight below, the thunderous roar of crashing waves fills the nighttime air.
I maneuver along the shelf, sometimes having to either scale or descend the rocky surface to other ledges. Behind me is Taylor, who hails from North Carolina. In third, my usual position, is Baker, the team XO for this mission. Mitchell is our assigned medic in fourth, followed by Freeman carrying the radio and Burkhart running drag. I’ve worked with all of them before and have the utmost confidence in their skills. While I don’t normally run point, I’ve decided to do so in this case.
Around the point, a giant booming spray of water lifts skyward, tall enough to enter the view of my NVGs. Somewhere below is a hole carved into a shelf of stone extending out into the ocean that causes each wave to create a hollow boom. On the other side of the ridge, I turn and begin climbing the steep terrain in earnest. The rocky bluff transitions into scrub brush with juniper bushes and large stones, which then turn into a dense covering of trees as we push up the ravine below the lighthouse. The steep terrain and needing to be careful of each foot placement makes for slow going, but the lighthouse, hidden from view, eventually slides behind and below.
Halfway up, we arrive at a small patch of level ground surrounded by stunted trunks. The roar of the surf is faint in the background, the ravine clothed in silence. We sit in a loose perimeter, taking small sips of water and energy gel. We don’t say much—we’ve exchanged our favorite recipes plenty of times before, leaving little else to converse about. So far, everything is going as planned, but all we’ve done as yet is climb this steep-ass terrain. As with all plans, I’m sure that will change once we arrive at the compound. Aside from rehydrating, we replace the unscented women’s sanitary pads under our arms. Due to different diets, each culture has a distinctive body odor that is easily detected by dissimilar nationalities. A warm glow from the painkillers taken as a preventative measure fills my body, but they don’t interfere with my mental processes. Feeling rested, I touch each of my teammates and nod up the hill.
I had always considered myself to be somewhat in shape, but this hill is kicking my ass. The back of my fatigue shirt is soaked beneath my vest, but I force one foot upward, pushing off with burning thighs to place the next one. Sweat trickles over my goggles and down my cheeks. There are times when I feel that the trees are growing at the same angle as the ravine.
Why in the fuck do I keep doing this?
* * * * * *
Crouching at the edge of a tree line, fifteen-foot adobe walls rise across fifty feet of open ground comprising large stones and scrub brush. Tree stumps are scattered throughout, attesting to a concerted effort to keep the ground clear. Razor wire stretches between steel posts along the top, and the cleared area is bathed in white from lights mounted at intervals on extended posts rising from the walls.
“We have walkers on the walls,” Taylor whispers in my ear bud.
Looking through the lights with a SpectreDR scope, I see the upper half of a sentry walking along a section of wall. Further down, another one. Two sentries spaced as far apart as they are tells me that either manpower is limited or they’re relying on the lights and razor wire. I can’t see enough through the glare to determine if there are cameras mounted on the back side, but with the sentries, I doubt there are. Although well-armed and having more money than many countries, it’s been my experience that cartels usually only rely on one or the other, seldom both.
“Over or transition to the front?” Baker asks.
I’m always amazed at the security these locations have at the front. Like, who is going to come through the front? That kind of mentality always confuses me.
“We’ll be going over,” I respond, “but let’s see what we’re dealing with first.”
Working quietly and using the thick cover of trees, we complete a circle around the establishment, mentally placing the sentry locations in our heads. In front, a packed dirt road leads to a heavy steel-gated entrance. Two bunkers sit at each side of the gate with the long barrels of machine guns protruding. Concrete blocks are arranged near the entrance in such a way as to make vehicles go around them and thereby make them unable to rush the gate. Two sentries are posted along each of the remaining walls, walking back and forth behind stretches of razor wire attached to the corner poles. The wire doesn’t wrap around the posts—that’s their mistake and our way in.
Upon returning to our previous position, we watch the timing of those patrolling the back and side walls. The sentries move at random times, but they all hold to a pattern of heading to the middle of each wall before turning back toward the corner. Once, a flare of light betrays a cigarette smoker, the orange glow flaring periodically. That alone shows that they aren’t professionals, probably drawn from some paramilitary group. But, bullets don’t care if they’re fired from amateurs, pros, or from some five-year-old. They still hit with the same force.
We watch for several evolutions, observing that there isn’t any interaction between the guards. They just walk from the corners to the middle of their respective walls and return.
“Okay. There aren’t enough of us to hold the perimeter and go inside, so we’re going to hold one corner and side of one wall. Our point of entry will be the corner. Baker and Mitchell will remain here and clear our movements to the wall. Once there, I’ll position the ladder and make a door. Then, when we’re ready, we’ll deal with the sentries at the corner and the additional one on the north side,” I brief.
“Copy that.”
I remove a roll of duct tape from my pack and rip off two very long strips and several shorter strips, which I wrap around my sleeve. Rechecking that there’s a chambered round and patting the mags at my vest, I nod at my XO. He and Mitchell lie next to bushes with their eyes to their scopes. The rest of us crouch and wait for their signal.
“Clear,” Mitchell breathes into his throat mic.
“Go,” Baker, my XO, says.
The four of us rise and crouch-run across the broken terrain, going to the ground in the shadows of large rocks or bushes. The chill of the ground seeps through my fatigues and I taste the inhalations of fine dust particles as I wait for the next call.
“Clear.�
�
A pause.
“Go.”
I again rise and crouch-run toward the next cover, hearing a soft crunch under my boots, but not loud enough to carry far. I work around the bushes, slowly parting branches when I have to go through, and carefully placing them back in position. I don’t want to leave behind swaying limbs if one of the sentries happens to glance outward. Nor do I want to leave a trail of broken branches like an elephant strolling through a grassland. If we’re successful and retrieve the hostages, then our tracks aren’t going to matter. If they aren’t here, then we’ll return to cover them, and then back to our point of entry to keep them guessing.
We continue playing red light, green light all of the way to the wall. With the lights perched atop and shining across the ground, there’s a small area cast in shadow next to the base of the walls. When the sentries are away from the corner, I pull the telescoping ladder from my back and extend it at a steep angle at the corner.
Making sure the end is secure and handing my carbine to a teammate, I wait for the call that it’s clear. That takes some time—they’re on frustratingly opposite schedules—but their timing finally alters so that both are eventually away at the same time. With two teammates guarding the outside corners in case someone randomly decides they need to check out the perimeter, the fourth holds the ladder steady while I scale upward.
At the corner, I peer over the edge and see the dark outlines of the nearest sentries walking an inside ledge set against the walls. Removing one of the long strips of duct tape, I wrap one end securely around the base of the metal pole that extends upward at the corner. Being very careful not to jostle the strand of razor wire, I wrap a short piece of duct tape around the wire between the projecting razors. This will stop the sharp blades from cutting through the other end of the longer strip, which I then secure around the shorter piece. This takes longer than merely cutting it, but the sound from that and the shaking strand would alert the guards patrolling right next to it, which is pretty much the opposite of what I want to happen.
