A Hero of War--An Adrian Hell Novella

by James P. Sumner

  He laughs. “Whatever, man. You’re stuck here just like us—up shit creek without a paddle.”

  I give my upper body a final twist to the right, and my restraints fall loose. I bring my hands around, massage my wrists for a moment, and then stand. I stretch with my arms out to the sides, which cracks my shoulders and neck, and then begin dusting myself down. I look over at the three Brits, who are all staring at me with their mouths open. I shrug. “What? You’ve not got free yet? Man… first thing they showed us at scout camp.”

  They all exchange looks of disbelief, before laughing again.

  “Jesus Christ…” says the guy in the middle.

  I shake my head. “Not quite, although I admit getting out of here is gonna take a fucking miracle.”

  The guy with long hair continues laughing.

  I walk over to them and hear the crunch of broken glass underfoot. I stop immediately. Was that me? I hold my breath and listen, trying to make sure no one’s heard me moving around. Talking’s one thing, but if whoever brought me here knows I’m free, I lose the element of surprise before I even start.

  I look back at the soldiers and whisper, “How many guys are here, do you know?”

  The one with long hair lets out a heavy sigh. “There are five of them. They’re wearing urban camo and are armed with, I think, Kalashnikovs. Oh, and one of them has an eye patch.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Erm… thanks, man. That’s pretty specific…”

  He shrugs and nods past me. “No problem, mate. It’s easy when they’re all standing behind you.”

  I frown. They’re all—

  I close my eyes and feel my shoulders slump involuntarily forward.

  Fuck.

  I slowly turn around and, sure enough, I see five pissed off Russian soldiers pointing automatic weapons at me. They look like AK-74s to me.

  The one with the eye patch steps forward and shouts something at me in Russian.

  I shake my head and shrug. “Sorry, I don’t speak communist…”

  Behind me, I hear a momentary ripple of laughter.

  He sneers at me. “So… American, eh? You think you funny, American?”

  I shrug. “Sometimes, yeah.”

  A loud, collective clicking sounds out as the four guns behind him are adjusted and aimed squarely at me.

  This isn’t looking very good for me, is it?

  “I do not know who you are, American, but this is not your business. What are you doing here?”

  I raise an eyebrow and sigh.

  Okay, here’s the thing…

  Yesterday I had somewhat of an epiphany. After landing in Moscow, I was delayed a couple hours because of the weather, so I sat with a coffee and thought about… well, everything—signing up with the CIA, all the training Julius has arranged for me, this mission… And not just that. I thought about my time in the army, before all this—what I went through in Saudi… the friends I lost… the family I lost. I thought about me, and who I am. Who I was and who I’m going to be. I thought about everything. And I realized I really am the person Julius told me I was. The person they trained me to be. Any doubts, fears, hesitation… all the normal thoughts normal people have… I don’t have them. Not anymore. The normal rules of the normal world no longer apply to me.

  Consequently, I had to tell myself to stop thinking like a normal person and start thinking like a highly-trained CIA-sponsored operative. There’s a level of confidence that comes with this job, which most people will never understand or experience, and it comes from knowing in any given situation, the chances are I’m tougher than anyone else there. I like my chances against any odds, because I’ve learned the science behind winning those kinds of fights.

  So, I thought, what’s the best way to find these Russian pricks and where they’re holding the British soldiers? I shocked myself by quickly coming to the conclusion the best way would be to make them come to me.

  So that’s exactly what I did. I paraded myself around Grozny quite openly. Discretion has never been my strong suit, so attracting the wrong kind of attention was quite easy for me. I asked a lot of people the wrong questions… or the right questions, depending on your point of view… in the hope word would reach these people that someone was snooping around. It worked really well, because as the sun was setting, a battered, gray, rust-covered van pulled up alongside me, the side door slid open, and I was wrestled into the back and subsequently smacked upside the head with something blunt.

  I could’ve fought back, but I worked so hard…

  And now… I’m here.

  I smile at the guy with the eye patch. “I’m here because I want to be, asshole.”

  I step forward and slam the heel of my palm into his face, jabbing twice and connecting with his nose both times. I feel it break easily, and he staggers away from me, clutching it.

  I take a step toward the remaining four. I need to get close enough to them that they won’t risk firing at me for fear of hitting each other by mistake. Then, I should be able to—

  Ah!

  Uh!

  Fuck!

  Okay, that didn’t work…

  I’m on the floor and the side of my head is throbbing like a bitch. The guy with the eye patch clearly wasn’t as distracted as I thought he would be by his broken nose.

  Shit.

  Fine… plan B.

  Wait.

  I don’t have a plan B.

  Shit.

  I slowly get to my feet, keeping my arms out wide, palms facing forward. It’s something I learned at The Farm, during my first few months of CIA training. The gesture is a psychological tactic, and a universal signal of submission. It prevents you from looking threatening, even if you are. I want these guys to disregard me as a concern. Surprise is the only chance I have of getting out of this alive.

  Eye Patch steps close and points his finger in my face. “That was very stupid, American! Very stupid! Who are you?”

  I shrug and smile. “Would you believe me if I said I was a journalism major from Columbia University?”

  He slowly shakes his head.

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah… figures.”

  This is where I’m glad of this newfound, almost genetic, confidence. The fact I’m not scared is helping me maintain a clear mind. I find myself thinking back to boot camp at Fort McCoy, and getting my ass handed to me by Staff Sergeant Hunter in the name of education. Fighting is mental as well as physical, and it works both ways. You can learn how to predict an enemy’s attack, which is obviously useful, but you also need to think about your own attacks. The guys over at The Farm likened it to a game of chess—Grandmasters always play five, six, seven moves ahead at all times. Well, now I’m the Grandmaster, and as I’m standing here, I’m planning my next few moves to make sure I win the fight before these dickbags realize they’re even in one.

  The first time, it was my own fault I failed.

  That won’t happen again.

  I glance over my shoulder at the Brits. “Do these guys know why you’re here?”

  They all exchange a look, and then the bald guy in the middle shakes his head. “No. Just dumb fucking luck. Do… ah… do you know why we’re here?”

  I shake my head and smile. “Don’t know—don’t care.” I turn back to Eye Patch. “So here’s the thing, Blackbeard—I need to get these gentlemen home. They have no beef with you. I have no beef with you. I personally could give a shit what issues you have going on with the fine people of Chechnya, but leave us out of it, okay? We’ll leave, no fuss, no one has to get hurt.”

  Eye Patch looks back at his four comrades and starts laughing. Their focus doesn’t visibly waiver from me, but they join in with the joke. He looks back at me. “I am sorry, American, but we cannot let any of you leave. I think very few people know you are here, correct? So… very few people will miss you.”

  He steps back and brings his own gun up again, taking aim at me, just like his friends.

  Okay… here goes nothing.

  I mov
e toward him and grab the barrel of his rifle with both hands. I quickly swing it to the side, causing him to overbalance. I push the gun into him as he’s stumbling away from me and he falls backward, crashing into the two men directly behind him.

  The second I see him start to fall, I move for the guy nearest me. I smash my elbow into his temple and snatch the gun from his grip as he drops to the floor. I flip it round in my hands, take aim, and quickly tap the trigger. Once… Twice… Three quick bursts and all four men are dead, heaped on the floor with blood pooling around their collective corpses.

  I look down at the guy whose gun I took. He’s not concerned with me—he seems too distracted by the headache I just gave him. I point the gun at him and unload another burst into his chest. He twitches violently and then lies still.

  Silence descends and I let out a heavy sigh—my breath forming and evaporating in front of me. I close my eyes for a moment, allowing the adrenaline rush to fade.

  Julius said to leave no casualties, but I had no choice. Besides, the Russian said it himself—no one knew we were here, so the same probably went for them, right? And I doubt the people who do know they’re here will do anything when they find out their men are dead, because any reaction would mean admitting they had covertly invaded Chechnya for some reason to begin with. From what I know about the issues between the two nations, I don’t think anyone would want to openly contribute to causing even more problems.

  I drop the gun on the floor beside me and turn to look at the Brits, who are sitting down, mouths open in shock and disbelief. I move over to each one in turn, leaning down and reaching behind them, freeing their hands.

  I pace away as they gather themselves and head over to the wall opposite. Wooden boards cover what used to be a window. I lean against them and peer out through a gap to the street below, checking for any movement. Automatic gunfire isn’t exactly quiet, but in the early hours of the morning, it’ll be even louder. It could attract all kinds of attention.

  “So, who are you, kid?”

  I look over at the three of them. The taller of the two bald guys has stepped forward. They all seem nice enough people. Probably quite capable, despite being captured by five mildly inept Russians—I know the British train their soldiers hard, especially the SAS. However…

  “Don’t call me kid… old man. I just saved your ass.”

  He chuckles. “Alright, keep your knickers on, mate. We’re all grateful, don’t get me wrong. But, you see, the three of us? We’re not technically here… understand? I’m just concerned that—”

  I hold up a hand and smile. “Relax. I’m not technically here either. Now, look, I figure it’s around five a.m. I’ve got a plane waiting for me in Moscow that’s due to leave at noon to take me back to the States. I’m sure you’ve got your orders, and I respect that—but I’ve got mine, so you need to gather your shit and come with me.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t do that, mate. We need to finish up here before we go anywhere. Anyway, why does your mission involve us coming with you?”

  I point to the one with long hair. “Because my mission is him.”

  The guy steps forward and frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “Okay… I knew you guys had been captured. My orders were to rescue all of you…” I nod at the one with long hair. “…bring you back with me…” I look back at the bald guy and his friend. “…and drop you two off at the British Embassy in Moscow. I understand you have your mission, but I don’t care. My orders are more important than yours. I’m not interested if you’re happy about that or not. Take it up with your superiors when you get home. But I’m carrying out my orders, one way or the other.”

  He runs his hands through his hair and looks at his friends. They all seem a little uncertain about what they’re supposed to do now. He turns to me. “Why are you here for me?”

  I pause for a moment. I’m not sure how accurate an answer I can give here.

  I gesture to them all. “Who’s in charge?”

  No one answers.

  I nod to myself and smile. “Right… no names, no rank. Get you. Okay, well I’m assuming we all understand whatever we’ve said, or are going to say, stays between these four walls…?” Everyone nods. “Good. I’m with a unit funded by, but not officially associated with, the CIA. We operate outside normal levels of jurisdiction. We’re currently building the unit, recruiting suitable people and training them to carry out missions deemed… I dunno… too risky, I guess, for anyone else to do. My orders were to recruit you…” I point to the long-haired guy again. “…and bring you back to Langley.”

  The bald guy on the left shrugs. “Nice story, mate. But what happens if we—”

  I shake my head. “You won’t refuse. Refusing suggests choice, and you guys don’t have one.”

  They all visibly tense, puffing their chests out and stretching to their full height and width.

  I smile. “Alright, easy fellas… Listen, I saved your asses, right? So I figure you owe me one. Come with me now, let my boss have a chat with our friend here…” I point to the guy with long hair. “…and we’ll call it quits. And to show you I’m a nice guy, if you do that, I’ll have a talk with my boss and see if we can’t help you out on your little mission. Y’know… off the record. Sound fair?”

  They exchange a look and start muttering among themselves.

  I sigh and glance over my shoulder at the doorway to the room. I’m getting impatient now. This whole thing has gone on far too long. We risk exposure the longer we stay here.

  “Come on, guys, hurry it up…”

  The bald guy in the middle steps forward and nods. “Alright, we’ll do this your way. As long as you can guarantee we’ll have the freedom to come back here and carry out our orders.”

  I have no idea if Julius will go for that. Probably not. It might not be anything to do with him, I don’t know. But I nod, because I’m anxious to get out of here.

  He nods back. “Alright then. Lead the way.”

  I turn and walk quickly out of the room. I hear them fall in behind me, which is a relief.

  I’m not out of the woods yet… but the hard part is over, at least. As we work our way out of the building and onto the street, I allow myself a quick smile.

  I reckon that’s a mission well done.

  10

  November 22, 1993

  14:35 EDT

  The plane touched down at Dulles about a half hour ago. Myself and the British guy with long hair stepped onto the runway, where we were met by a black Lincoln town car, which drove us to the CIA headquarters at Langley.

  We traveled mostly in silence. I think the general fatigue of the last twenty-four hours has taken its toll on the pair of us. I certainly didn’t feel compelled to say anything I didn’t have to.

  We made it out of Grozny without incident. The only issue came when we arrived at the British Embassy in Moscow. Suddenly, everyone started getting cold feet about leaving without finishing their mission. I explained quite honestly that I could give a shit about their mission, and that my approaching a member of their ranks had been authorized by both my boss and theirs.

  That was a pretty big assumption on my part, I admit, as I didn’t know that for sure, and chances are I was meant to keep my recruitment a secret, but it worked. Before long, we were heading for the States on the flight Julius had arranged for me.

  We arrived at Langley a few minutes ago, where we were shown to a side entrance and ushered through the security checkpoints before being escorted down to one of the conference rooms on the basement level, near where my briefing took place a few days ago.

  We’re sitting outside the room on a couple of plastic chairs. The tiled floor is clean and smells of disinfectant. The walls are plain gray, and the corridor is empty.

  I hate waiting around. I’m not exactly the most patient of people…

  I start bouncing my leg up and down on the spot. After a moment, I begin drumming on my thigh using both hands. I have a song stu
ck in my head, and I’m trying to mimic the tune in an effort to keep myself entertained.

  I can feel our potential new recruit staring at me. I turn to look at him. He’s alternating his gaze between my leg and hands, and my face.

  I raise an eyebrow. “What? Is this bothering you?”

  He shakes his head. “No, man. I just recognize the tune and I’m trying to place the song title. Is that Sad But True?”

  I hold his gaze for a moment. I admit to being a little off-hand and confrontational toward all three British soldiers yesterday, simply because I didn’t feel I had the time to discuss everything—I just wanted them to get off their asses and follow me out of Chechnya. But the fact this guy has just accurately identified the song I’m drumming is enough to make me think I was a little hasty not giving these guys much of a break.

  I smile. “Yeah, it is. Man, I love that song. Had stuck in my head since we left Moscow.”

  He nods. “It’s a great track, yeah. Not the best song on Metallica’s Black album, but it’s still a good one.”

  I shrug. “I admit it’s not Enter Sandman, but it’s definitely one of their better songs.”

  “Now that’s a good track! So, you like a bit of metal, do you? Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type of guy to get their rock on…”

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

  He shrugs. “You look too young to appreciate it.”

  “Hey, fuck you, man. That’s not the first time you or your friends took a pop at my age. I saved your asses, didn’t I? Age don’t mean shit here, you understand?”

  He holds his hands up, chuckling. “Alright, alright, keep your hair on, mate! Jesus, you’re wound up a little tight, aren’t you? I just meant you look a little too clean-cut… too much like an army brat to like something that’s not mainstream. Just an observation.”

  I relax a little. “Nah, I’ve always liked rock music.”

  “You like the Stones?”

  I shake my head. “Not a fan of that British shit though.”