Truth is, all your little skills, all your technical expertise, all your training, all your experience, all your motivation, all your integrity – couldn’t save you from the mud pit. Why the hell would any of that matter now?
You and your unit – skilled warriors all – take a hovercraft to a Philippine island. Dropped in to save the Swede.
You went solo when you picked up the tracks. Unit stayed in place. Your gig was to scout, get intel, the lay of the land, and go back to the unit and work on a plan.
You do this.
And then on your way back, you suddenly realized an expert was following you. And you knew exactly what to do because you wrote the actual fucking book on it.
When being followed by an expert, the trick to winning is this: let them follow you. Be competent and relaxed, as if you were convinced you were alone.
Then look mildly perplexed – nothing over the top, nothing dramatic, not for an audience.
Just as if you are lost.
Then behave lost. And walk in a wide circle in the direction of your dominant hand.
Your pursuer will think you are lost. And continue to pursue.
The arc of your circle will begin to intersect with the expert on your tail.
You can use their tracks to identify them. You have to be subtle.
Gather your clues quickly and in passing.
And then, knowing what you are up against, you turn around and you kill them.
Except that’s not what went down that day. You tried. You kept walking, as you should have.
You played your little circular field game. And instead of turning around and killing them there was a surprise, a reversal, and they damn near killed you.
Mud pit. As long as it wants to fuck with you. In your head, all the time. In your heart, sometimes. Get out when you feel like it? Move on? Get over it? Forget it? Escape it?
Never.
Most of the time the training involved basic fieldcraft. General knowledge about how people move through landscapes, and how the landscape responds. Paul would train individuals and teams, showing them the basics of locating those who could not, or did not want to be found.
This training involved fairly straightforward skills. Being able to read a three-dimensional landscape. Identifying and ageing tracks. Being able to anticipate the instinctive behavior of human animals when they were confronted with a landscape they did not know.
But every now and then, a small unit or a single individual would be sent to the Cro’s Post to complete a different kind of training. Search, Rescue and Escape shared many of the same techniques. Evasion, on the other hand, had a distinct body of principles very different from the other three.
To be able to blend in to the environment, to be able to melt into the woods and to move through them without any obstacles – involved completely different mindset. It was the opposite of the rescue training. This was the skills needed not to be found.
Three men arrived at the Cro’s Post at about seven thirty, formally attached to a “Logistics” unit that Paul knew was really a special forces outfit.
The men didn’t seem particularly military in their appearance. Beth booked them in, Paul welcomed them, and they skipped the lectures to go directly into the field.
It was a good workout – they were competent in the basics. They knew how to blend in to the environment, using grass, twigs, leaves and mud. They knew how to keep low on the ground, avoiding the natural eye-level scan of anyone who would be looking for them. They kept their shapes irregular, not moving or resting in the way humans usually did. They kept their bodies small. And they tried to move in secluded locations.
The one mistake, and it was a difficult mistake to avoid, was to follow natural pathways.
Any landscape is filled with natural obstacles and pathways. Animals use highways, albeit simpler ones, just as much as humans do.
While in terrain that was really secure, movement was slow. Where you could move faster, you gained speed. But for what you gained in speed, you risked in exposure.
The game was simple. Each man was to stay hidden. The exercise was to sneak up behind someone and to tap them on the shoulder. This would remove that player from the game.
It was a war game, and felt like conflict. Slow periods of boredom where nothing happened, punctuated by moments of sheer and utter terror. The rules made the game difficult, as there were no clearly defined roles.
The four men on the course were all experts, and it was more likely than not that few of them would be killed – but not for lack of trying.
This was the part that Paul was hoping to practice with them. To move from focusing on staying hidden while searching for opponents, to becoming an apex predator that moved through the woods and picked up even the most minute scents of the prey.
It was good being out in the woods. It was better than the hurry up and wait game of legal processes, the searching for something online, or spending time in Loveday. It paid, it was fun, and it was with men from part of a community and a fraternity that had become Paul’s entire world before he met Reuben.
Dry twigs and leaves were the most difficult to traverse soundlessly.
Movement became very slow as you moved across it. The key to stealth across crackling natural material like that was to move very slowly.
The feet had to go down heel first, the balls then very slowly rolled forward. Shifting your weight to one leg at a time, the key to the movement was nowhere near the ground. Your hip placement had to be perfect.
That was Killian’s mistake. He assumed a bed of dry leaves made him hard to get to.
Killian was a nice enough guy. Dark hair and dark toned skin, with a pragmatist’s view of the world, a wife and two children. He was a Colonel, like the other two.
Killian placed himself on a small outcrop. It was behavior that made sense, it was typical for a unit commander. Good visibility, limited access to disrupt the setup. Killian was a trained soldier – and therein lay his specific weakness.
He was unable to think beyond the requirements of a battlefield.
You learn to look for units. You learn to defend yourself, against units.
In war there was a lot to keep your eye on. Military, civilians, potential insurgents… and in some places the lines blurred.
The skills Paul was using, had to dismiss the broader picture to focus all efforts only on locating one individual.
Paul tapped Killian on the shoulder.
Killian turned around and asked with a broad smile:
“How the hell did you do that?”
“The other two are already back at the cabin, sir. You’ve outlasted them.”
Killian stood upright. “That’s unbelievable, what you did there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The two men started walking back to the cabin. Killian seemed intrigued that he was snuck up on. He didn’t expect it and Paul smiled, noticing the way he was processing the information to himself.
As they got about halfway, Killian could no longer contain himself and blurted out:
“What the hell, Draker? We appreciate the lessons but we damn sure could use you in the battlefield. Gimme the trick. Not the post-analysis. Sum it up for me.”
“It’s mindset, Colonel.”
A feint smile crossed Killian’s lips.
Paul liked the man, as a professional and a colleague. For an instance, though, he imagined what it would be like to kiss him. Paul stopped the thought in its tracks. Was he really getting that desperate?
“Proceed, CRO.”
“You enter the field believing it is a game involving four equally matched opponents. I enter the field more like a canine. I want to dominate the area. So I herded you where I wanted you, and then I picked you off. One by one.”
“Interesting. Your motivations dictate the m
ovements. Tracking 101. I remember, you taught me that when I was just getting to grips with things in Afghanistan. Paul, I have to tell you… the shit you teach saves lives.”
“Part we’re training today, takes them too.”
Killian nodded.
“How’s the family, sir?”
“Wife’s adorable. Kids are fine. We have one getting baptized this weekend. We’re very proud.”
Paul smiled.
“So, Paul. Every time you see me, you ask me about my family. You never say anything about yours.”
“I don’t really have family. It was only my mother and me.”
“And your mom?”
“She passed away when I was sixteen.”
“You have a nice girl, at least?”
Paul could feel Killian watching him.
“Here’s the thing, sir. I don’t mind personal questions, as long as you don’t mind personal answers. I just want to be clear about that. You mentioned a baptism. You’re asking about my family. You would be religious, and in the military. A reasonable man, but perhaps socially conservative.”
“You’re about to come out, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been out since before my mom died. Except at my employer. Had to neither ask nor tell.”
Killian became thoughtful and dictated a slower pace for their walk.
“This is a very special moment, isn’t it?”
“For you, sir? Maybe…”
Killian laughed.
“My wife’s brother Howard is gay.”
“That’s… that’s great sir.”
“Nice guy, actually.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It’s okay.”
“Roger that.”
Killian strolled the rest of the way like a man who had accomplished much.
“You go to Church?”
“Not religiously.”
“Why not?”
Paul said nothing.
“I need to figure it out. My son. Well. I think he might be…”
“Religion is a complicated matter. It includes not just its beliefs but cultural practices and codes of behavior. It involves family, history, conventions, geography, arts, psychology. You name it. For a lot of people, religion is a clear-cut thing. But I invariably find that the drinking fountains have been poisoned against people like me. More often than not, mainstream churches speak from a lot of ignorance and arrogance. It leaves people like me, a bit of a closet conservative, with no safe church.”
But Paul softened, “Your son will be fine, if you love him, if your wife loves him, if he’s a good kid. You don’t have to worry about them, too much.”
Now Killian shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”
“What, sir?”
“I don’t believe that kids grow up well on autopilot. I don’t believe in being absent. I’ve never been, as a father. I understand the difficulties you may have with religion. Believe me, they make me sick sometimes and I’m one of ’em. It’s just that I really love my son. And I don’t want to lose him over this.”
“How old is your boy?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Is he out?”
“Not to me. I mean, I know, but I’m not supposed to know.”
“Sir, have a sit down and talk with him. There’s no advice on how to do it… you just do it. Talk to each other. Be open and honest and gentle. And it’ll turn out fine.”
The Colonel relaxed.
“You are an expert at showing people the terrain, Mr. Draker. I needed you today to help me find my footing.”
“It’s a pleasure, sir. Thanks for talking so openly with me.”
And with that, mercifully, a very awkward conversation was at an end.
Paul smiled to himself and the three colonels talked excitedly about what went down on the course. He told Beth to hand tight, got out his scorecards and went back out to join the Colonels.
Paul jotted down some notes and then handed the cards to the three Elite Soldiers.
“Colonel Fitzgerald. Excellent aggression, sir. You went for stalking prey almost right away. Just a bit too soon, because you fixated on your prey – you never became aware of the lay of the land.”
The four men stood around, with Beth bringing them each some peach iced tea. Once they settled, Paul held their attention and explained.
“When being followed by an expert, the trick to winning is this: let them follow you.”
Paul shrugged.
“So, what? So what if they follow you? Just behave competent and relaxed, as if you were convinced you were alone.”
“Then, at the time of your choosing, begin to leave little clues that you are lost. As if you are lost. And walk in a wide circle in the direction of your dominant hand.”
Fitzgerald smiled.
“Let the arc of your circle will begin to intersect with the expert on your tail. Use their tracks to identify them. You have to be subtle. Gather your clues quickly and in passing. And then, knowing what you are up against, you turn around and you kill them. Which is what I did to you on the course.”
Colonel Bowder. Your arc of fire was a good idea. You just assumed the margins for the theatre of operations were narrower than they were. You forgot about the trees behind you. From where you were taken out. Colonel Harris… excellent, sir. You executed your strategy with such precision that I was on to your plan all along. Ambush. Hell of a way to go. And Colonel Killian. Very good hiding skills. Took me a while. Glad I found you.”
The guys were laughing. They had fun.
“There is that moment when you switch, between intelligent strategy and instinctive perception. Choosing the right moment is a very important battlefield skill. But I have to say, as retired military and as a civilian, gentlemen, you guys rock and roll. Different services, different divisions. But a credit to the military, each of you. And with that… I’ll see you next year. We’ll do some forward ops assassinations, then. Slip into a town, take out the bad guy where he lies, sneak out.”
Killian mouthed thank you when they shook hands. Paul smiled and nodded.
When the exchanges were said, the colonels left.
Soon after, Beth left.
And as Paul closed the office cabin and locked up for the night, he wondered where his confidence was when it came to getting someone to just have some fun, or even a friendship with.
He jots down points for improvement to elite soldiers that outranked him, all of them, even when he was in the military. That he could do, just fine. Teach fieldcraft as an art form.
And then terrified of spending another night in the cabin? Or drive back down to Loveday?
It was a good day. It had been fun.
Paul was actually so tired he could just about call it an early night.
Too exhausted to be a drama queen about not finding either Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now.
Paul finished closing up and then crashed.
Chapter 12
“The Mark”
With the first of his scores settled, it was time to get to work on the other one – and so Brad had a busy day. After leaving Old Mister Keys’ place, he went back to Virgil’s place. He didn’t have too many other options at that very moment, but as soon as he arrived Brad knew that staying at Virgil’s place was not going to be a good option.
For starters, the Creek was too far away from Fairbridge – where Draker lived.
The place itself was an absolute dump. With no family and even less brain cells, the retard essentially lived in a pigsty that had looked worse than the Keys place.
Virgil lived in a prefab with one room and a bathroom.
The place smelled of weed and mold – and Virgil apparently slept, ate, and daydreamed away on the couch.
When Brad arrived, he was shaking with excit
ement, and he hung around outside until his nerves calmed down.
That felt so good.
And it was good practice for what he was going to do with Paul Draker, if he found him.
Virgil was inside, watching cartoons, grinning and drooling on his vest.
When Brad knocked, he opened the door, said a few barely intelligible words and then returned to the couch.
Brad looked at the shithole and decided he couldn’t stay. Also, Virgil had a way of very suddenly going from a gross reminder of humanity’s lowest common denominator, to something that was actually annoying. It simply wouldn’t do. Brad resolved that the very next day he would achieve quite a few things.
He still had more than enough time before he had to go for his first weekly check-in with the local police department. He would leave that for later in the week, when he had something solid to report to them in terms of where he lived and what he was up to.
The truth was that Fairbridge as a whole was a backward and stupid place to live. All the people here that had money or brains came from somewhere else… the locals were barely better than all the genetic crimes hanging out in the Creek.
He would leave town without Alex and go to California. Find a movie set or two to hang around at, or get work on a yacht, or do something that would get his mind and mannerisms out of life inside a Federal Bureau of Prisons facility.
Maybe something out in the open air. Or somewhere his godlike body could be appreciated.
But first things first. He would satisfy his mother’s call for revenge, and his own sense of justice – by taking out the faggot motherfucker that killed his brother.
That might take some time.
So, the chances were that he could be in Fairbridge for a few weeks, maybe even a month or two. To satisfy the weekly check-ins with the cops, and demonstrate how responsible he was when he called his father for more money – which the spineless rat would give him if he asked – he needed to find arrangements that made it look like he was building a whole little future here in the hills of the southeast.
His plans were simple.
Find a place to live, buy a beater he could get around in, enroll at the Varsity in some bullshit course that served no real purpose other than give him access to the campus and some nice campus pussy. And find Paul Draker.
Brimstone Page 12