Last Son of the War God

by Clay Martin

  The cover of the trucks beckoned to him like a siren. The further he got from the firelight, the faster he moved. He wasn’t sure how long it took lighter fluid to evaporate in these conditions, so he was laying it on thick. It was a race against the clock of the initial drops though, far away on a bedroll, occupant dreaming of a victory he would never see. Mike felt the urgency, and shifted his angle to intercept the third truck in the line. He had worked too hard to let this fail. Better to up the risk than to miss. His feet touched the driver’s side front tire, and Mike looked back toward the bivouac. Oh shit, the sentry was changing his pattern. Had he been spotted? The sentry walked directly over to the bag holding the tracker. Was he going to smell the combustible fluid! Fuck! Mike felt a small panic as he desperately fumbled for the lighter. Shift change, the sentry was shaking the tracker awake! FUCK FUCK FUCK! Mike wasn’t in the position he wanted, but it had to go now! And if the firing chain was broken, he was about to have incoming.

  Ripping the lighter from his pocket, he sparked it against his right thumb. He would pay with a small burn, but no time to bungle the start point of combustible fluid. The fuel took, racing a line back to the bag. The sentry’s eyes opened wide, not comprehending what was happening. Why a glowworm was screaming through the darkness right toward him. His rifle came to his shoulder just as the flames reached the tracker, erupting in a fireball of fumes and nylon. He cranked off one shot in Mikes direction before he fell backwards from the surprise combustion inches from his face, tripping over another man in the process. Finger still on the trigger, another shot went straight up in the air. The Tracker woke up screaming, nylon sticking to his skin, tearing both loose as he struggled to escape the inferno. He managed to get to his feet, stumbled a few steps, and crashed to the ground. The blaze consumed him.

  As soon as the trail took, Mike was on his feet running, desperately waving his hand to put out the flame. His burn was a small concern, but it was bound to draw fire as he sprinted to the safety of the trees. He clamped his left hand over the flames as bullets poured into the vehicles behind him. Universal truth, cars are bullet magnets to the untrained. No doubt the trail was still burning, and they may have caught his shadow moving into the trucks. Convinced he was using them for cover, they were now chewing them apart with rifle fire. Mike registered full auto bursts, and understood why the Sheriff had come back earlier. Better hunting tools for the prey at hand. Not a development he had expected.

  Bursting into the cover of timber, Mike threw himself to the ground and turned to watch the show. Minuscule chance of getting hit in the prone, and less likely to draw more accurate rounds than moving. Panting, he took in the chaos. Everyone was on their feet, some dashing here and there, others trying frantically to douse the tracker with water bottles. Two of them were shouting conflicting orders, while some fired rifles at shadows. Finally, someone bounded to a truck, flipped the lights on and returned with a fire extinguisher. The Tracker was finally put out. Dead or not though, he was out of the fight. Just the legs would cost him two years of recovery in a burn center, and Mike was certain it was worse than just the legs. Satisfied with his nights work, he ambled off to catch some sleep himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Chief had been a busy man since he left the boys back on the mountain. He felt genuinely guilty about leaving them out there by themselves, but he didn’t see any other way. He made some appearances around town, checked his inbox at the office, and talked for a brief while with the deputy on night shift. Business as usual.

  Internally, he was far from calm. He had been furious about Dean, and confident it was a one-time mistake that the tribe would soon rectify. No one had managed to even draw blood on them before, and they had been doing this for years. Men, women, it didn’t matter, not a single time had it even been close. He even started to think the loss of Dean would strengthen the pack, remind them that they had to stay hungry. Now, in the space of forty-eight hours, a lone man was chewing them to ribbons. Three dead on their side, and as far as he could tell, not a scratch on him. The shit with Robbie made it seem like he might even be having fun. What was this guy made of? Chief had known a few Marines from his years in law enforcement. They tended to be tough and capable cops, but nothing that far out of the ordinary. Four years of brain washing, some extra bluster about being Jarheads, and maybe a little above average physically. He had never met a former sniper before, but he couldn’t imagine them being that much different. Something was nagging at him, and the investigator inside him wanted to dig at it.

  He was caught in a dilemma though. He had a tag number, a full name, and a vehicle registration complete with address, more than enough information to find out anything he wanted to know. With modern police resources, he could know where he went to fucking elementary school if he wanted to. But any searches he did in the official system would be logged, and that could potentially create a trail. Chief wasn’t stupid, but he knew computers weren’t his strongest suit. He wasn’t positive he could cover his tracks all the way, and that might matter if Mike found an FBI office willing to listen. He could log in using a deputy’s credentials, but that would still bring the trail back to the Lehmi County office. Worse, if Mike’s file was already flagged by someone else, it could bring questions to his doorstep right now.

  It wasn’t adding up. Sniper gets his rifle back, has opportunity, and doesn’t shoot anyone? For that matter, he had a rifle when he killed Robbie, but didn’t use it. Why didn’t he just steal a car and flee? He could have been all the way to Bozeman before they figured out he was gone.

  In the end, he decided to call in a favor. He knew the Sheriff from Twin Falls pretty well, met him at a state forensics conference a few years back. Liam was an ex-Marine too, liked to talk about the Gulf War when he had been drinking. Maybe that would provide some further insight. Switching on his Sheriff Bob persona, he concocted a story about a woman he was involved with over in Boise, ex-boyfriend going a little stalker, not wanting to use his own computer in case it turned into a civil. Pretty standard cop to cop favor, they looked after their own. Liam said he understood, he would run the plate and get back to him.

  Next morning, Chief went to see old man Johnson. Johnson greeted him carrying an old double barrel, thankfully pointed at the ground. He must’ve been really tweaked out, normally he had the sense to put that away before he approached Bob. He needed Johnson to do him a favor, which kept him from teaching him an object lesson just now. But he logged it for later. Can’t ever let the local riff raff think you are getting soft on them. That is how problems get started. If Johnson survived this, he was going to need a beating later on principle. He must’ve needed the money desperately. He agreed to run his dogs for the $2,000 Bob had managed to scrape up. Half up front, half when the job was done, and not a word to nobody. Bob had a thought that he might just let Johnson’s business partners know where he was, and that no patrols would be around here some Friday night in the near future. Tweakers talk too much, and they will do anything to weasel out of trouble. While Johnson got his dogs ready to go, Chief decided to be seen at the office before he left for the day. With a bit of luck, this would all be over and right with the world by sundown. Then he would set about cleaning up the mess that had been made.

  While he was having coffee and reading last night’s reports, his phone rang. Liam skipped the formalities.

  “What did this woman tell you about her ex-boyfriend exactly?”

  Fuck. Liam was in business mode. Time for some ass covering. Dealing with criminals his entire life had at least made Chief good at that. “Not much, he was some kind of military before, roughed her up a few times, kind of a violent streak when he was drinking. Like most shitbags we see.”

  As Liam replied, Chief was certain he was choosing his words carefully. There was a kind of gravity to what he said, no banter or cut ups like he normally used. “ Well if you have to get into it with him, bring a fucking SWAT team. This isn’
t one you want to try and strong arm.”

  Chief went pale, but tried to keep his voice even. “ What do you mean?”

  “I mean this guy’s career reads like a demon’s resume. Scout Sniper, Amphibious Reconnaissance School, multiple deployments to war zones. Those Recon guys are some hard boys.”

  Chief tried to inject a humor he didn’t feel, see if Liam would give him something else. “ Oh, all you Marines are big tough guys, I know. We did have one fail the academy over in Nampa though, that I remember. And I seem to think I also saw a State Policeman beat the ass off of one a few years back, on video at a use of force lecture.”

  Liam leaned forward on his desk, trying to convey a message to this friend.” There are Marines, and then there are other Marines. I drove a tank, Bobby. Other guys are in motor T, or office clerks.”

  “Or they make omelets.” Chief interrupted. Trying to keep his tone light, slightly annoyed at being called Bobby. Like he was a fucking kid again.

  “Yes, some of them make omelets. But let me tell you something about Recon Marines. They make those guys out of something else. Back in the Gulf, there was a setback most American’s don’t know about. It was on TV and all, but it’s turned into a forgotten event. Days before we invaded Kuwait, that is, days before we were ready, Saddam’s army sucker punched us. Two of his armored divisions invaded Saudi Arabia, a little place called Kafji. About the only force there was a six-man Marine Recon team. They not only held out for forty-eight hours until we could scramble enough tanks to help them, they inflicted damage. Real damage. This was the old Iraqi army too. Actual professional soldiers, trained and using the best Russian weapons available. Six men rocked them back on their heels, evaded every attempt at capture, and walked out without a scratch among them.”

  Chief sat down. This was not what he wanted to hear.

  “It gets worse. Your boy has two DD-214’s on file. That was the first one, from his USMC days. Starting the day after that discharge, he enlists in the Army. Special Forces, Green Beret. That is where he eventually retired from, about three years ago. Got some medals, and they don’t hand those out easy over there. Whole lot of training and schools, some combat, and some gaps. Do you know what gaps means on paperwork like this?”

  “No idea Liam. I’m just an old country boy when it comes to this military shit.”

  “It means he was doing some spooky shit. They don’t slap that on your discharge paperwork, but it’s the government. They have to do something. So they leave gaps, knowing most people can’t read between the lines. He ends up retiring out of the 3rd Special Forces Group support battalion. But none of his listed specialties have anything to do with support. ”

  “In English please? What exactly is spooky shit?”

  “There are all kinds of clever ways the military phrases these things. Ever heard of MACV-SOG? Most people think SOG stood for Special Operations Group. It didn’t. The whole thing stood for Military Assistance Command Vietnam- Studies and Observations Group. It sounds like a bunch of nerds reading reports right? Easy for Congress to rubber stamp a budget, and never ask what for. Thirty years later, we find out the SOG boys were highly selected warriors from across the DOD, doing all the dirty shit in Cambodia and Laos. Phoenix Project, that was your assassination program. Near as I can tell, your boy was in the modern day equivalent to a Hatchet Force. And that euphemism isn’t meant to be cute.”

  Liam was quiet a moment, letting his message sink in. Then he continued.” Tell your girlfriend to move. And if this fucker shows up looking for trouble, you shoot his ass, and quick. At trial, scared for your life is totally justifiable.”

  Chief hung up, and weighed his options. Jesus Christ, it’s like Tim handpicked the Devil himself, and then pissed in his cheerios for good measure. Still, he had the dogs, and he had six men with assault rifles. If he left this alone, everything he had done was for naught. He knew what he was facing now. With surprise on their side, they might just be able to still get this done. Kill this one guy, and all the problems were over.

  Chief went to the FEMA trailer to borrow some radios, he wanted good command and control this time. Every stop was being pulled. For good measure, he borrowed an unmarked car from the pool, and left the registration at his house while he changed. It was a different game now. He hadn’t been around the camp much, it was still possible Mike didn’t know the County Sheriff was involved. He had addresses and names for everyone else but Tim, and he knew how to find Tim. If this went pear shaped, being an unknown was a big plus in the positive column. He left his vest on, and switched from his uniform into hunting camouflage. Time to hope for the best. He retrieved Johnson, who followed him out to the camp.

  Chief parked behind one of the damaged trucks, in the hopes of protecting the engine in case shooting was on the menu again today. Driving in, he was secretly proud of his tribe. There they were, all alert in the morning light, laid out in a circle pulling security. Maybe the night in the woods free of shelter had hardened their resolve. He felt a surge of hope that they were going to pull this off.

  He wasn’t even out of his door yet before Zeke and Wade were on him.

  “We gotta get the fuck out of here Bob.” It wasn’t lost on Bob that they used his name, not Chief. He doubted it was for the benefit of Johnson, who was out of ear shot getting his dog team together. Wade was near panicked.

  “He’s not kidding. This whole situation is fucked. We gotta go.”

  Rapidly it was explained that the stranger had slipped into camp, roasted Bo like a marshmallow in his bag, and vanished again like an apparition. Garrett had burned the hell out of his hands trying to help Bo, and he needed medical attention. Bo had finally died screaming, after they put him out and tried to peel the charred nylon shell off his body. He went hard. His face was a mask of twisted flesh and blackened skin. Everyone had been wide awake ever since, scared stiff to even think about sleep.

  Chief grabbed his first aid kit from the trunk and went to find Garrett. For the first time, he noticed the smell. The bodies of the women they feasted on smelled nothing like this, but then they were properly butchered first. The aroma of burned hair, evacuated bowels brought to a boil, and melted plastic was almost overwhelming. His men looked absolutely horrified. Wide eyed, they looked at him for an answer, gaze darting back and forth between Bob and the trees. They were spooked, and he had to get control. Fear was contagious, and he felt himself catching it. No one had made Sheriff Robert “Bob” Harvey afraid in a very long time, and he didn’t like it. He wrestled the terror into anger. The last bastion of bad leaders the world over. But he only needed it to work for a short time. Once the dogs were on the trail, the troops would feel the dynamic shifting. Following the baying pack would give them strength once again, he just had to get them on the path.

  He called them over to his car, both to get them away from Bo’s stinking carcass, and to hand out radios. The magic of technology, holding the power to convince men they have the upper hand. He needed all the help he could get at the moment.

  He held back what he had learned from Liam. That knowledge was sure to unnerve them further, and might even lead them to stampede out of here on foot. They looked like husks of men, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

  “Men, I need one more hard day out of you. I brought the dogs, just like promised, and that changes the equation. I am also leading this charge personally. I know it’s been a bad couple of days, but I’m here now. Together, as one, the tribe is complete again. And together we have never failed.” He neglected to mention he had left Tim home on purpose, and that four of them were dead. Chief was never one to let facts get in the way of a good motivational speech.” We have been through a test, and it has hurt us. But it has also made us stronger of character. Today, we are pitting the life we want against a force of civilization that wants to take it from us. All that is wild and free demands that we answer that challenge. If we prevail, we
prove ourselves truly worthy of the Return of Kings. And if we fail, we die. But at least we all die together. As it should be. One tribe, one shot at redemption left. TO THE RETURN OF KINGS!”

  The answer he received was a muted “Return of Kings.”

  Not what he was looking for. “TO THE RETURN OF KINGS!”

  The volume went up, along with spirits. Chief could motivate other men to do his bidding, it was one of his best tools. One more time.

  “TO THE RETURN OF KINGS!”

  A thunderous “RETURN OF KINGS!” echoed back to him. He could see life breathing into his ragged force. He hoped it was enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mike awoke at the first rays of dawn, fully rested for the first time since his ordeal began. He munched a granola bar, folded the wrapper neatly into his pocket, and headed out to see what his quarry would do today. Finding a vantage point on a rock outcropping well above the camp, he lay down to watch. Automatic rifles changed the dynamic, and it made a random hit a lot more likely. Out of caution, he positioned himself much further away today than in the recent past. No point in letting some dickhead get lucky by accident.