by Brian Tyree
“Bring up the IR.”
“Yes, sir.” An infrared view appeared on another screen—showing glowing representations of the two men, and an even brighter area from the truck’s engine. Baldo right-clicked on a graphic overlay of the address and the homeowner’s name appeared… “Staff Sergeant Eric Yarborough, sir. Sheridan’s co-worker.”
“Should I call off the dogs, sir?” McCreary asked.
“Negative.”
Sheridan’s truck headed to the west gate of Holloman and McCreary relayed his location to the Force Recon operators following him. Sheridan’s truck turned suddenly. Staying on the base.
“What??” Baldo asked. “They’re on Arkansas Road. It looks like they’re headed toward the missile range.”
McCreary relayed the info to the team. “Northbound on Arkansas Road.”
“Where the hell are they going?” Trest asked. “To watch a launch?”
“There’s nothing going up today, sir.” Baldo replied.
♦ ♦ ♦
“What color are your flanges?” Sheridan asked Yarbo as they drove down a paved road with arid sagebrush scrub on one side and a dried river bed on the other.
“Red. Yours?”
“Blue. And just to make sure the terms are clear: I win and you take all the Yemen footage.” Yarbo nods, apprehensive. “And if I win?”
“Why worry about it?” Hal laughed. “That ain’t happening!”
“Wha—” Hal cut off Yarbo’s reply by gunning it hard left, off the road into sun-baked dirt and mounds of weed and sagebrush. Hal chuckled, watching Yarbo bounce around on the passenger seat like popcorn in a popper. Hal spotted a dirt road and edged his wheels up on it. Their ride smoothed out to a vibrating rattle. Calm enough for Yarbo to peer through the desert brush with Air Force issue binoculars.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Now where they going?” Trest asked. He spotted the Force Recon Humvee only a couple hundred yards back. “The Marines are getting close. Tell them to ease up.”
“Roger that.” McCreary replied, forwarding the order to the Force Recon.
♦ ♦ ♦
Yarbo aimed his binoculars to the left and spotted something on the horizon. “Bogey at ten o’clock. He sees us. He’s running.” Hal cranked the wheel and went off road, bounding through the desert, dodging mounds of sagebrush.
♦ ♦ ♦
A small heat signature appeared ahead of Hal’s truck on the IR monitor. “What are they chasing?” McCreary asked, “It’s too small to be a deer.”
“Looks like a wild hog, sir,” Baldo answered.
“A what??”
“You haven’t heard? New Mexico is being overrun by feral hogs. They’re all over the desert. Good eatin’ too!”
♦ ♦ ♦
The brush thickened in Hal and Yarbo’s path. Screeching along the outside of his truck. Giving both sides a fresh layer of New Mexico pinstripes. Hal took the truck as far as he could, pulling to a stop. “Keep an eye on it. I’ll get the gear.”
Both men jumped out. Hal scrambled through the equipment in the back while Yarbo spied the wild hog through the binoculars. Shielding himself behind tall sagebrush.
Hal handed Yarbo his compound bow-and-arrow.
“You’re not going to shoot me, are you?” Yarbo asked. Hal didn’t get the joke. “You know, hallucinate that I’m one of these javelinas!” Pronouncing the J hard.
“Javelina?” Hal pronounced it correctly. “That’s not a javelina. You don’t want to eat one of those. Where’d he go?” Hal asked. Prepping his bow and arrow, heading into the desert.
“He’s just down in that river bed. Eating something. So, are you still hallucinating?”
“I was never hallucinating.”
“What about those dreams you were having. The visions. They gone?”
“They’re gone. I guess the right drugs can cure anything.”
“Good! I didn’t want you to confuse me for one of these desert pigs!”
“You’re in the clear— We’re not hunting cocky assholes today!” Hal nudged him with an elbow. Letting him know he was busting his balls. “I’m gonna’ go up the river bed. I’ll give you the first shot. If you miss, it’ll flush him toward me.”
“Wait! Hold up!” Yarbo said. Hal paused. “You forgot your walker in the truck!”
Hal chuckled. “Douche,” he said, pronouncing it like touché, then continued along the dry river.
♦ ♦ ♦
“What should I tell recon?” McCreary asked.
“Tell them to move ahead, set up a lookout.” Trest said. “It seems like a harmless hunt, but who hunts on base property?”
“Roger that.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal reached a small hill and stealthily ascended to the ridge. He spied through binoculars down at the dry valley carved by a prehistoric river. The bulbous gray hog with thick, matted fur grazed peacefully, seventy-five yards below. Hal drew back his bow string, lining up for a shot. He rationed that Yarbo had plenty of time to shoot, and he must have fired and missed. Just then Hal heard the whiz of an arrow streaking through the air into sagebrush beside the wild hog—a wild miss that only startled the plump beast. It took off. Yarbo appeared behind, chasing and yelling, “Here piggy, piggy, piggy!” Hal collected Yarbo’s misfire and loaded his bow on the run. Hal darted to the next hill, aiming to cut the hog off.
The Force Recon duo were on a hilltop, concealed in dense desert-scrub ghillie suits. As Marine Force Reconnaissance SF operators, their primary mission was intelligence gathering. This pair of Force Recon specialists consisted of a sniper and a spotter. The spotter peered through his M151 spotting scope—a compact telescope on a small tripod. “I’ve got a pig. Don’t know if it’s the one they’re after.”
“It is,” His sniper partner answered. “I got a man on foot at three o’clock. Carrying a bow.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal reached the top of the hill and scanned below with his binoculars. No sign of the hog or Yarbo. He panned to his left and paused—catching the glint of a shiny reflection. He focused his binoculars—revealing a bright glare on the spotter’s M151. Then making out the spotter and sniper in ghillie camos. Hal lowered his binoculars, ducked low in the scrub and headed up the hill to flank them.
♦ ♦ ♦
“We’ve got a man on foot in the valley,” the spotter said over the radio to McCreary. “He’s armed with a bow and arrow, but no sign of the other one.”
A radio-static reply sounded... “What’s your position?”
“We’re on the side of a hill, a hundred yards north of the Humvee.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Trest and the others watched with intrigue from the command center. The IR monitor showed three human heat signatures in a cluster north of the Humvee.
♦ ♦ ♦
“How copy the number in your unit?”
“Two, sir,” the spotter replied.
“We’ve got a heat signature of a third party right—” A boot came down on the barrel of the sniper’s MK11, pinning it to the ground. The spotter and sniper both looked up in dismay as Hal stood on the rifle, aiming his bow in full draw at the spotter.
“Toss your weapons,” Hal ordered.
“Hey, take it easy—” the spotter replied.
“—Now!” Hal commanded. The spotter tossed his M4 machine gun in the dirt.
“And your sidearms.” The spotter and sniper both complied, throwing their 9mm sidearms on the ground.
“Name and rank?” Hal asked. More of a demand, really.
“Sergeant Ronald Hughes,” the sniper said. “First Recon.”
Hal looked to the spotter. “Lance Corporal Sean Merrick.”
“What are two Marines doing in the middle of the desert on an Air Force base?” Hal asked. Before Merrick could speak, his sergeant did.
“That’s classified, sir. I can only direct you to my commanding officer.”
“Who is?”
“That’s also cla
ssified, sir.”
♦ ♦ ♦
“What are they doing?” Trest asked, watching the three men in infrared. “Put it on the main screen and zoom in. I want to know what the hell is going on.”
“Yes, sir.” Baldo zoomed into the image, which clearly revealed Sheridan from above. Aiming his bow on the Marines.
“What the—”
“—How did he do that?” Baldo asked.
“Can we hear them?”
“No.” Baldo said. “Unless they open the channel on their radio.”
“Do it! Tell them!” Trest ordered.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Radio your commanding officer,” Hal said.
“We’re on a classified training mission, sir,” the sniper replied. “A war game, code—named Seahawk. Aimed at coordinating Marine ground targets with AF birds in the air.”
Hal released the bow tension and set it down. He picked up the spotter’s M4 and ejected the clip. Eyeing the cartridge at the top. He flicked it at the spotter with his thumb. “A war game—with live ammo??”
The sniper keyed his radio. “Cobra-22 to Falcon. We have an issue here. A local airman in civvies happened upon our op. He wants to speak to you. How copy?” The reply came over his headset.
“Negative,” the sniper relayed to Hal. Hal motioned to the sniper to give him the earpiece. The sniper handed it over.
“Repeat it.” Hal said.
“Please repeat, Falcon. I have given the airman my earpiece. He can hear you now.”
A static reply sounded over the earpiece. “Falcon to Cobra-22. Instruct the airman to vacate the area immediately, under the authority of Air Base Wing Commander Nathan H. Malcolm. If he has any other questions, he can take it up with the wing commander’s office.”
Hal handed the earpiece back to the sniper, who gave him an arrogant look like I told you so. “Happy hunting, fly-boy.”
“Shade your scope next time,” Hal said. “And be sure to tell your superior that you were both KIA’d by a civilian with a hunting bow.”
Hal walked down the valley, meeting up with Yarbo. “Did you get the pig?” He asked. Yarbo shook his head no. “What was that all about?”
“Joint exercise. War games, they said. Which way did porky go?”
“He ran off over that hill.”
“And you’re ready to give up?” Hal threaded an arrow in his bow, taking off toward the hill in a jog. Yarbo followed behind. Readying his bow.
♦ ♦ ♦
“You think he knows?” Baldo asked McCreary.
“Knows what?”
“That it was us. That it was your voice on the radio. Do you think he recognized it?”
McCreary shrugged. “He wasn’t acting like he knew. And he’s still out there hunting. If he suspected something, he’d be on his way to see the wing commander. Which reminds me…” McCreary turned to Trest. “…We need to get recon’s story straight and give the WC a heads up.”
Trest nodded in agreement. “I’ll talk to Malcolm.”
“Does this mean Sheridan’s back in the bullpen, sir?” Baldo asked Trest.
“We can give him Saudi as a warm-up,” McCreary said, “if you think he’s ready.”
“If he can hunt,” Trest replied, “he can hunt.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SHAFRA
A mouth-watering aroma of bacon and mesquite-barbecued pork ribs filled Hal’s backyard. The night was cool, and moonlight glistened off the wild hog’s shiny and crispy golden-brown skin. It was skewered on a spit over a smoldering pit of coals. Half of it was gone—eaten or wrapped up for Hal’s guests—Henry, Yarbo and Yarbo’s much younger flavor-of-the-month girlfriend. A dozen empty beer bottles littered the table and concrete patio nearby. Hal saw his guests off, threw a cover over the pig, protecting the remaining meat, and went straight to bed. Telling himself he would deal with the backyard mess in the morning.
Hal slept unusually long. Once again, his alarm clock failed to wake him. Time to get a new one, he thought. Good thing it’s Saturday. He grabbed his left forearm, stunned to see a two-inch gash running down it, and his blankets spotted with dried blood stains. The wound had started to scab with globs of dark red clots. He grabbed a T-shirt from the floor, wrapping it around his arm. He applied pressure and felt a sting that jolted a flash in his mind, followed by the image of an Arab man in night vision green. The man wielded a shafra—a slightly curved and very sharp dagger. The vision continued. The Arab swung the dagger blindly through the air, slashing downward and raking across Hal’s forearm in a lucky strike.
The memory faded, and Hal examined the cut, rinsing it in his bathroom faucet. It was clean and not deep enough for stitches. A relief for Hal, not knowing how to explain it to the base doc if he did need stitches. It would need dressing though, and Hal called upon his Pararescue medic training. He dug around in the cupboard under the sink, pushing detergents and a toilet brush out of the way, removing an old PJ first aid kit.
He set the kit on the counter, looked straight into the mirror and stopped. A sinking feeling overcame him that reached down into the pit of his stomach and the inner depths of his intuition. Telling him he was being watched through the mirror. A sensation Hal didn’t take lightly. With all his Special Forces experience, if he could name one trait, skill or weapon that served him best over the years, one thing stood out—his intuition. Nothing else even came close.
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal’s intuition was right, of course. McCreary and Baldo watched Hal dress his wound through a surveillance camera behind the two-way bathroom mirror. Another monitor played recorded helmet cam footage from the previous night’s mission. Identical to Hal’s memory, only the video footage told the full story.
Hal was in an opulent palace in Saudi Arabia. The target—a wealthy Saudi responsible for funding Al Qaeda terror attacks. He lay dead in a pool of blood. Easily dispatched by Ghost One in stealth mode. A guard was nearby, looking for the assailant, shafra raised and ready for battle. He must have heard Hal’s footsteps, prompting him to blindly swing the shafra through the air. McCreary took a mental note: train them to walk softly. Hal lunged backward from the swinging blade, taking the gash on the arm. The Arab knew he scored a hit and he lunged hard in the same direction. This time Hal was ready. Hal blocked the stab, forearm-to-forearm. His Muay Thai instincts kicked in and his arm slid down the Arab’s wrist, breaking the knife free and flipping the grip into the hand of Ghost One. He wasted no time using the weapon, slashing a deep chasm across the man’s throat. The Arab dropped. Legs kicking and body writhing. Gripping his neck with both hands as liquid crimson flowed between his clenched fingers, mixing with the pool of blood of his employer. Hal mic-dropped the shafra and stepped over the savage’s carcass. Leaving the room.
Baldo was jazzed. He rewound the video to the mic-drop of the shafra. “I can’t. Stop. Watching!” He cracked himself up and watched the whole duel from the beginning.
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal finished cleaning the wound with an antiseptic towelette and stretched a butterfly bandage over it. He wrapped it lightly in gauze and taped it off. Pressing the tape end to his arm to seal it, provoking a sting and another vision from the same fight. The Arab screamed while swinging the knife through the air. Hal didn’t understand the Arabic scream, but one word was clear and unmistakable. Hal darted to his room, grabbed a pen and something to write on—a crumpled up grocery receipt on his desk would do. He scribbled down the phonetic sound of the Arabic word. Doing his best to write long vowels and syllables in CAPS and softer sounding ones in lower case. He would figure out a way to translate it later. It may not even mean anything. It could be nonsensical like some of his surreal visions. Or… it could mean something. Hal looked down at the word he just created, wondering if his spelling is anywhere in the ball park of the actual Arabic word. The result of his phonetic dictation—DahRJin. DARJIN he thought. Hal stuffed the receipt in his pocket. He could no longer research on his computer at home. If
they’re spying on me through hidden cameras, they’ve hacked into my computer too, he reasoned. It would have to wait until Monday when he could research on a secure computer at work.
♦ ♦ ♦
Monday arrived with a full workload on Hal’s desk. It wasn’t until late afternoon when the office calmed down that he had some solitary time with nobody breathing over his shoulder. Hal logged into a secure Air Force web browser and enabled an extension to encrypt his activity. He navigated to the military website for Raytheon’s TransTalk—a language translation website developed to translate over two-hundred languages in real time. Hal clicked on Arabic to English translation and typed DARJIN. The response instantly popped up. NO RESULTS FOUND. He altered the spelling, trying again. DARJEN. Same reply. He tried other spelling variations, which were also kicked back. Hal then spotted Yarbo entering the room. He minimized the webpage, switching to his work screen before Yarbo could see. “I’ve got something for you.” Hal said. Handing him the external drive with the Yemen footage on it.
“Salud!” Yarbo said. Raising the drive like a toast. Notching the cut on Hal’s forearm. Hal had removed the dressing to not draw attention, but couldn’t hide the actual wound. “What’d you do, cut yourself opening the Geritol this morning?”
Hal mocked a laugh. “Something like that.”
Yarbo didn’t move. Waiting for the real answer.
“Caught myself with an arrow tip, cleaning my gear yesterday.”
Yarbo felt he wasn’t telling the truth, but not wanting to make a big deal of it he changed the subject. “That’s gotta’ hurt. Hey, thanks again for all that meat. I tried to give Rachel some, but she wouldn’t take it, so now I have a freezer full.”
“No problem.”
Yarbo raised the computer drive. “You’re getting this back next week— Ping pong tourney.”
Hal smiled. “Bring it on.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The harsh New Mexico sun beat down on a man in work clothes, sunglasses and a tattered Seattle Mariners hat. He fought through a blast of wind and sand at a construction site, meeting up with two other men near a stack of lumber. A vinyl banner whipped in the wind, barely clinging to the new lumber. It read “Habitat for Humanity — Alamogordo, NM.” A rugged foreman in a hardhat and safety glasses approached, extending a hand. “Doug Allen?”