Chapter 20
Dawn... somewhere...
"Fuckin' move yourself, Yank!..."
Nick groaned, collected himself, and began the steep climb... again. As the sharp rocks slid beneath his boots, the weight of the heavy backpack threaten to drag him down again. He glanced over at the huge man, dressed in desert camouflage, with his face painted, who had shouted an inch from his ear.
"Come on! Get yer arse up there! You SEALs only good at playing with rubber duckies?"
A wry chuckle from below distracted the giant. He turned his wrath on its source.
"Shut it, Scouse!" he shouted down at the small, wiry man who has paused a few feet down the slope to wipe the sweat from his eyes. "You're no fuckin' better!... You've spent so long in the bloody jungle you've gone native."
"Shit, Sarge!..." Scouse exclaimed, gazing at the rising sun. "It's bloody sparrowfart.... We've been at this all fuckin' night.... We're all shagged out."
"Shagged out, are we?... Tell that to the bloody mullahs.... They'll be the ones doin' the shagging, if they catch your lazy arses!... Sweat now or you bleeds later."
Another man appeared on the barren ridge above them. His red hair caught the sun's rays like a copper mirror. "Not very stealthy, boys.... I heard you comin' miles back".
"Fuck you, Ginge!" Scouse retorted. "You got the tea brewin'?"
The newcomer grinned as he knelt down to pull Nick over the crest. "Come on, Yank.... You did good. Lofty's a hard, fuckin' bastard. That's why we're all still alive."
* * *
Just over the ridge, in a crevice hidden below a lightning struck tree, the small SAS team was concealed from all directions, including above. Nick hunkered down to watch as the three men, obviously completely at ease in each other's company, went through the routine of setting up a camp and preparing a hasty meal. He found it hard to believe that only five days ago.... Was it five, he wondered.... How had it all happened so fast?
The joker of the group, the redheaded corporal known as Ginge... short for Ginger, in honor of his hair... handed him a cup of hot, sweet tea and a plate of stew, Her Majesty's version of the infamous MRE, which warming over the small, smokeless fire hadn't helped.
"A Texas Bar-B-Que... in your honor, Yank," he quipped. "Normally, we gotta eat this crap stone cold... right out the fuckin' package. Lofty must be goin' soft."
Nick grimaced at the tea, but drank it down without comment. The Brits appeared unable to make coffee, and Nick remembered enough SEAL training not to volunteer to do any "catering". That might lead to permanent assignment as cook.
Lofty looked over at Nick. "You must know why we've been lumbered with you," he probed, while he picked bits of "mystery meat" from his meal. "Ginge... this grub is crap!" He turned his attention back to the American. "We've had Yanks assigned to the regiment before... so we can work together when we have to.... We teach you, you teach us.... But they've been battle ready... Rangers... Delta Force... fuckin' hard nuts... on a par with our lot. You... maybe you used to be a SEAL, but now you're a fit civvy. What are you?... Some sorta CIA analyst?... A book worm?... A friggin' computer jockey?"
"Once a SEAL... always a SEAL," Nick countered. He then shook his head and stared up at the other man, who, even sitting, seemed a foot taller. "I don't know why they wanted me.... Gotta be some screw up," he stalled, recalling his briefing, trying to think of a plausible explanation. "All I know is my dad was in Afghanistan a long time ago."
"Your Dad!" Ginge exclaimed. "What the fuck's that got to do with you? Was you in there? Were you still in nappies?"
"No...," Nick said hesitantly. "My dad was there trying to help save some stuff from an archaeological dig... working with the museum in Kabul... when the Russians rolled in."
"A dig!..." Scouse's Liverpudlian accent betrayed surprise. "You was right, Sarge... a bloody book worm... nothin' but a friggin' 'package'?"
"Maybe he's Indiana Jones," the redhead laughed. "Cut hisself off at the knees for a disguise."
The other men grinned. "Indiana... Indy... good one, Ginge," Scouse laughed.
Nick realised from now on he would no longer be Nick Boyle... but "Indy". "And what's 'Scouse' supposed to mean?" he countered. "Is that 'Scouse' short for 'Excuse'... as in 'sorry excuse'?"
There was silence as the Liverpuddlian's face reddened in anger. Then Ginge broke out in laughter. "He's got you there, Scouse.... You are a bloody sorry excuse." The redhead then turned to Nick and explained. "Scouse is a 'nick' name for someone from Liverpool, but I got no fuckin' idea why."
"Shut it," the Liverpudlian glared at Ginge, but he turned patiently to the American. "OK... it's a crap nickname... but Scousers are proud of coming from the 'pool.... It's a name that goes back a long way.... It was a fuckin' Dutch stew that the sailors used to make...."
"And most Scousers are as thick and wet as the fuckin' stew." Ginge grinned and quickly dodged a punch thrown by the other man.
"Settle down!" Lofty warned the other two to behave, then turned to Nick. "So... what exactly do you know about where we're headin'?"
Nick shook his head. "Not enough to fill you in," he lied with a smile. "They damned near kidnaped me. I thought I was heading out with my reserve unit for training. Instead, I ended up here with you Limeys... wherever here is."
He pondered the limited briefing he'd been given and wondered what the real "kicker" would be. So far the mission was to penetrate Afghanistan, an area southeast of the Panjshir Valley, with this SAS patrol. British and US intelligence agents had reported that Al-Quaida cellphone and computer chatter had indicated an interest in a cache of "something" hidden in the Hindu Kush. Speculation centered on a missing Soviet convoy that had been transporting chemical and biological weapons, which had never been found.
The fear of both MI6 and the NSA was the unpredictability of the local warlord... a renegade... an equal opportunity unfriendly.... According to reports, he hated his neighbors, particularly the Pushtun tribesmen, hated the Russians, hated the Taliban, hated the English, hated the rich man for his riches... hated the poor man for his poverty.
His territory was remote, his men ruthless, his code and culture unique and ancient. What little wealth the tribe had came from tolls charged for transporting drugs and weapons into and out of Pakistan. "Non-enemies" were charged high fees for guidance and protection. Enemies and those slow to pay were never seen again.
The only two Westerners ever known to have been on seemingly cordial terms with the warlord were Derek Rayne and Maj. Jonathan Robert Boyle. But, Nick wondered, did "cordial" mean friendly, or merely that they had survived the encounter.
Finally, Nick added what he could without disobeying his orders. "The CIA thinks the local bigwig will only dicker with somebody he knows," he hesitantly explained. "...or at least maybe he won't kill him or sell him to the highest bidder."
"But you don't know him?" Lofty sounded puzzled.
"Bloody intelligence," Scouse groaned, then downed the dregs of his tea. "They've probably fucked up... and got the wrong friggin' Yank."
Ginge gave a Cheshire Cat grin. He had an equally high opinion of the "secret squirrels".... "I hear things hangin' round the mess... so my cookin' comes to some use. Before we left Blighty, I heard from the chef at the officers' mess that they wanted some old bugger... foreign... fuckin' Dutch hoity-toity or something. Spent 'is time chasing spooks.... You know... the 'Oooohhh'... haunted house variety," he said with a role of his eyes, "not the MI6 kinda spook.... He was into demons and voodoo and such... pissing away Daddy's money.... Last seen drooling in a looney bin."
Nick sprang to his feet, his fist reflexively balled. "You don't know squat shit!" he growled from between clinched teeth. "Derek's got more guts than anybody I ever met... soldier... cop... whatever. I've seen him put himself on the line... risk his life.... He's faced Satan himself."
"Whoa, Indy!" Lofty, surprised by the vehemence of the other man's words, slid between the two potential combatants and pushed them back down into their seats. "I didn't know he was a mate.... You vouch for him... I guess he must be OK."
Nick accepted the sergeant's words. They were as close to an apology as he'd ever get from any of these men. Lofty had yielded to his opinion... somewhat. These last few days, working with these strangers, trying to build a team, had been time well spent, he decided. A week wouldn't make a real team. It wouldn't make a tiny bit of a real team. A team would only be built by months of grueling work and shared suffering... and a week sure as hell wouldn't get him in combat shape... but, at this moment, these few days were all Fate and Al-Quaida had allowed. The former SEAL picked up the "billy-can". "Tea?" he offered, demonstrating that the discussion was over.
Lofty nodded, held out his mug, and smiled. Things were OK between them. He glanced at his watch. "We got here in good time. Chopper's picking us up at oh-nine-hundred." He then offered Nick an evil grin. "Then it's jump training.... I bet Indy here can't wait!"
"How many jumps you made, Indy?" Ginge asked with interest. The safety of the patrol depended on its weakest member. They didn't need a passenger.
Nick shuffled uncomfortably, then finally met the other man's eye. "I've kept my certification," he said, knowing it wasn't enough. "My reserve unit was scheduled for a round of heavy-duty jump training at Ft. Benning next year, but now, who knows...."
"Fuck me!" Scouse turned to his colleague. "Why don't they shoot us now?... It'd save everybody the time and trouble."
"Shut it, Scouse." Lofty turned on his comrade. "Indy's one of us now... come what may.... The brass has got some reason for sendin' 'im with us.... I guess we'll find out what it is when they get good an' ready."
< < + > >
Two Days Later...
In pitch blackness, Nick scrunched low behind a crumbling, stone wall, all that remained of what seemed to be a bombed out house. Quickly, but methodically, he ran through a final check of his pack, then proceeded to once again check his rifle and his sidearm. Both were still strangers in his hands. Beside him, Scouse rubbed a camouflage stick onto his face.
At a slight sound, both turned, expecting to see Lofty and Ginge, but it was only a rat. Nick shuddered at the sound of the small body scuddering across the pebbles.
"Where the hell are we?" he asked his companion, as he shone his hooded flashlight on his map. He was sure this was the rendezvous spot.
What he'd seen of the countryside reminded him of California's low desert... the Devil's Playground... or the area north of Death Valley, along the eastern foothills of the High Sierra... a land of scrub covered rock piles slashed by dry, deep washes. It was cold too; a cloud of steam rose at each word or breath. Nah... he thought. Would they have been that tricky... to have flown him around long enough to make him believe he was far from home... on another continent, when he had never even left California?
"No idea," Scouse replied, handing Nick his camouflage stick. "They don't usually do it this way, unless it's a really top secret insertion. It leaves us flyin' blind." He was silent for a moment, then said hesitantly, "Indy...."
Nick looked up. "Yeah...."
"The guy who couldn't make it... Derek?... He's not your Da, is he?" Scouse asked with concern.
"No," Nick replied softly. "He's much more than that."
The Liverpool man nodded; nothing more need be said. He understood. Friendships made in the SAS were like that... made with men whom you'd trust with your life, and for whom you'd die, if necessary... and who would die for you, if necessary.
"You lose anybody on Nine-Eleven?" he probed a little further, in a different direction.
"Yeah... sort of," Nick responded. "A Dutch guy named Willem.... Derek's cousin. He was a real good guy... and his secretary, Naomi... a funny lady. We used to talk a little, while I was on hold, waiting for her boss. She lost her whole family in the camps during the war. They'd got her out to Canada. All she had in the world was her cat, Schlomo. She lived for that cat. I wonder what became of him. Willem's offices took a direct hit by the first plane."
Both men looked up as soft footsteps broke the silence that had followed. The sergeant, bent low, lugging his rifle and spare ammo packs, scurried round the end of the wall. Cradling a grenade launcher, Ginge was close on his heels.
"I thought this was an exercise." Nick's surprise was evident in his tone. "What's with the artillery?"
"We take our exercises seriously, Yank.... They would'a seen that little light of yours a half a mile away. Stow it! The map belongs in your head."
Nick nodded; the sergeant was right.
"Map's wrong anyway.... They always are," said the SAS man. "We've got pop-ups scattered round the village and even out through here, but...," he added with a wicked smile, "...some might just be real. This is guerilla warfare... so just like in your Vietnam... that kid might not be what he seems. He could be packing a gun or a grenade. There'll be patrols out too... and they won't be fuckin' round.... They'll be out to catch us or better yet 'kill' us. The rounds'll be rubber, so they'll hurt like hell... and the grenades'll kick you in your bloody, careless arse and make your ears ring."
"Fuckin' 'ell, Sarge," Ginge groaned. "These patrols?... It's not Alpha Bravo, is it?"
The wicked grin expanded and confirmed the redhead's worst fears. Alpha Bravo was the "reserve" team, the backup, should anything happen to any of them. But Ginge had other worries about the "enemy". He'd had a "friendly" card game with the Alphas a few nights back and had been a big winner. They'd not been happy about losing that pay. "Bollocks!" he muttered under his breath.
"OK, lads... gather round," said Lofty, "'ere's the plan.... The village is over the rise.... We don't know the exact layout. The goal is not to attack, but to get in, find what we want, grab it, and on the way out blow their ammo dump and transportation," he explained. "Even though the mission is to avoid contact, the set-up is designed for us to rouse a hornets' nest. Now... this 'secret treasure'... it might be in the chief's house... or some caves that are up in those rocks opposite.... The ammo might be there too, but I'm bettin' it's handier."
"How do we know which is the 'Chief's House'?" Scouse asked.
Lofty smirked, "Indy?"
"It'll be the biggest," Nick said with confidence. "What're we using to blow the store?"
"C4," Lofty confirmed. "Timers with an auto-override."
The former SEAL nodded, his face grim. He recalled Derek's story of the "other" world where their "twin-selves" had planted C4 to destroy their House and the Portal beneath it. "It's good stuff... stable... controllable... effective," he commented, realizing that he was saying nothing that they didn't already know, but for some reason his mouth kept working.
"Right...," Lofty agreed, hoping Nick's knowledge was based on more than theory. "Indy... do your best.... Ginge'll look out for you. We get our 'treasure', then get the hell out of there. Our attack is scheduled for midnight...." He checked the luminescent numbers on his watch. "It's twenty-two hundred.... We've got two hours to tab it over the ridge and get down the other side."
"Tab?" Nick asked.
"Tactical advance on the battlefield...." Ginge read the incomprehension on Nick's face. "We head for the fuckin' target," he explained with a grin.
* * *
Even with night vision goggles, the struggle up the boulder strewn mountainside was a difficult one. After an hour's hard work, the patrol reached the crest, then settled into a crevice to regain their breaths, while Lofty scanned the village below with his heat-seeking night scope. "OK...," he said after a moment's study. "Get up here.... See that small gully?... It starts down there just at that big, round boulder?... Ginge... you and Indy go that way.... You'll only have a few yards open ground to cover." Both men nodded their understanding. "Scouse," he continued, "you and me come round the other way.... They won't expect us to split up. Watch out for patrols.... They might be thinking that gully is their weak point... and it is, but they've got others too... and can't cover 'em all... all the time."
Glancing at the black sky, the sergeant smiled, showing white teeth in a dark blotched face. "No moonlight.... That's good. Get your ears on and let's go earn our pay."
< < + > >
Later...
"Fuckin' 'ell, Indy.... You were the dog's bollocks," Ginge announced in amazement.
As the sun rose over the stark, rocky landscape, the four, exhausted men dragged themselves toward their quarters to get cleaned up before debriefing and a vicious dissection of the mission. The thought flitted through Nick's tired brain that Derek would have found comfort in this god-forsaken emptiness, while he found only the empty pain of memories.
"The way you smacked that bloke in the chops... poor bastard's probably still seein' stars."
Nick smiled, uncertain about the reference to the dog's anatomy, but he knew that somewhere in there lay a compliment.
"You did good, Indy," Lofty acknowledged. "That patrol would've 'ad us for sure... and your shootin' was pretty good... real good for holdin' a strange weapon. You only one missed target...." He glanced meaningfully at Ginge, who should have taken out the target Nick had missed, and received an acknowledging nod from the guilty party.
"So, Indy... what exactly do you do in civvy street?" Scouse asked. "You've stayed in practice since the SEALs."
"Security," Nick replied quietly as he shifted his pack to the other shoulder.
"What... like a bodyguard... that sorta thing?" Ginge questioned. Skepticism was evident in his voice.
"Yeah... that sorta thing."
Lofty studied the American's face. "This Derek... you were his 'security'?"
Nick nodded, kicked at the dust, but said nothing. Security, he thought, like hell!... He'd failed his precept completely, left him at the mercy of that madman, West... who had done God alone knew what to his "Boss". "Security!" He could have choked on the word.
"You blame yourself for what happened to him," said the sergeant... in a statement... not a question.
"Like you said... I was his 'security'," Nick replied, his throat tight. His tone indicated that no further discussion would be welcome. "...and he was my mentor... my friend... and my hero," he added in a whisper, intended only for himself.
"OK... boys.... " Lofty read his man and understood it was time to move on. He smiled at the three soldiers. "Let's hit the showers... get cleaned up... and face the music.... But, in my 'umble opinion, that was a damned good show!... and, best of all, we scored one over Alpha Bravo. They're gonna owe us a few pints....
"After dark... without night goggles... I want us to do some leap-frogging and
peel-backs.... Ginge... you'll take point.... Scouse... you're tail-end Charlie.... We
need to lock in our team rhythm." he said, knowing that the addition of a stranger
had thrown their method of advance and retreat out of synch. The failure to do the
most basic maneuvers smoothly, while laying down continuous covering fire, could
be a weak point, and deadly... but they could do only what they could do. "Then,"
he added, "I think we'll be as ready as we're ever gonna be.... Next stop...
Afghanistan... to kick some Al-Quaida and Taliban arse."
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