Danger Close

by S L Shelton

  “Under different circumstances I might very much like to meet you and shake your hand,” he said.

  “I don’t think you’d like shaking my hand,” I muttered to myself, though I resisted the urge to click the mic open.

  “Someday we may meet and do just that. Perhaps I’d even be able to persuade you to come to work for me. I would consider tonight the successful interview,” he said. “In that unlikely event, I’d like to know who, precisely, I am dealing with—Delta? SEAL?”

  I was about to ask the man his name when my mental hitchhiker whispered into my ear.

  Do not speak to him.

  I paused, swallowing the urge to say something witty. Just then, the position I had been in burst into flames.

  Grenade? I wondered. Grenade launcher maybe?

  He was tracking the signal. He was taunting me to provoke a response so I would give away my position. He might even have GPS location capabilities on the radios.

  I pulled the headset off, popped the case off the radio and pried the rechargeable battery out before ripping it from its wires. After flinging it away from me, I crawled toward the motorcycles.

  “Another time then!” the man yelled up the hill, obviously aware the radio was dead.

  I was torn. I could push the bike around the back side of the low hill and take the chance of getting to the border without them following—or, I could try my hand at the sniper rifle and take a chance on disabling their only remaining vehicle so they couldn’t pursue.

  On the other hand, I might flub my shot, give away my position, and still not be able to get away.

  I had to take the chance. They had already proven very capable of finding a target in the open desert, and it would be light soon, judging by the glow on the horizon.

  “How did I go from programming secure e-mail clients to debating taking the shot?” I muttered to myself.

  I plopped down in our original position and set the big L115 rifle in the notch of the rocks before flipping the covers back on the scope. Swiveling the stock around to find the truck in the cross-hairs—there, I saw the giant, standing on the top step of the deuce-and-half, looking up the hill toward me. The cross-hairs came to rest on his chest and the sudden urge to kill the big guy leapt up into my chest before my brain could respond. Thankfully, the hardness of the trigger shook me out of it.

  No, I thought. This is survival. Be smart, not rash.

  It dawned on me that Peepers had used four rounds from the five-round magazine, but it was too late for me to go back for more. One shot was all I would get.

  I dropped my aim, looking for something that would catch fire but wasn’t armored. I needed one of the truck’s diesel tanks—and ah HA! It was just an added bonus that the giant was standing directly over one.

  I took a deep breath, trying to clear my mind and then let the cross-hairs drift lower as I let my breath out.

  I could almost hear my dad’s voice.

  Start squeezing just before you get to the bottom of your breath, my dad had said. Let your target fill your sight. All you’re doing is drawing a straight line with a bullet. At the bottom of your breath, finish your squeeze and draw your line.

  I got to the bottom of my breath and squeezed. The recoil of the rifle felt like a punch to the shoulder but I quickly regained my senses and looked up to see the big man sprawled on the ground, rolling in the sand, trying to extinguish the flames the ruptured fuel tank had created.

  That’s all I needed. I’d be able to get away.

  You should have gone for the engine, my other voice whispered.

  You worry too much, I muttered in agitation.

  I pushed the bolt release as Peepers had shown me on the plane, and slid the bolt out, shoving it into my pocket. Slinging the other rifle over my shoulder and tucking my Glock into my holster, I mounted my motorbike before starting the engine.

  It occurred to me that I couldn’t just leave them a way to follow me, so I pulled out the stolen handgun with the armor piercing rounds and shot two holes through the engine block of the motorcycle Peepers had ridden. I looked down at the mayhem below once more before tossing the stolen .45 to the ground. It was out of ammo, and I wasn’t going back for more.

  I coasted down the hill before opening the throttle around the long wash.

  When I was sure I was far enough to cross back without being seen, I gunned the bike over the hill and ran through the shallow valley for a few minutes. With a good amount of distance between the battle zone and me, I felt safe running back up the other side. All I had to do was cross over Charlie’s tire tracks and then I could follow them all the way back to the border. I breathed a sigh of relief, certain I would find them.

  “So tell me,” I said aloud to my inner nag as I sped across the open desert. “How can I trust you when you're wrong so often? It really makes it hard for me to take you seriously.”

  I’ve never been wrong, it replied casually.

  “Ha!” I laughed. “What about Roger Gallow?”

  I wasn’t wrong. He played us.

  “Us?” I asked, suddenly nervous because of the allusion that there were two of us.

  There was no reply.

  “How did he play us if you’re so damned all-knowing?” I asked pointedly.

  It takes one to know one, it said, followed by a chuckle.

  I remembered Gallow jerking his hand away when I had—or rather, was forced to have—the thought of crushing his hand.

  “How did he know?” I asked.

  The same way you do, came the reply.

  Riddles…always with the half answers and riddles.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked.

  Do you remember where you were before you arrived? it asked.

  More riddles.

  I thought about its response for a moment, remembering it had once said that it had always been here.

  “Are you a demon?” I asked jokingly.

  Only yours, it replied with amusement.

  Bastard. It had my voice, but it didn’t seem to have my personality traits. Was it really part of me?

  It has to be!

  I reached for my canteen and realized it was empty. I was thirsty, seriously thirsty—like burnt match head thirsty. I looked up, saw a line in the sand ahead of me, and steered toward it.

  It took me a few minutes, but I eventually recognized the marking as the Charlie Team’s entrance tracks. I began following them, hoping they would lead me back to the location where the Rover had its little run in with the boulder.

  “Since you’re being so talkative,” I said, hoping I could draw some serious answers about my out-of-body experience. “The thing with Gaines last month…was that you?”

  It was us, it replied.

  “‘Us’ as in you and me or do I have to worry about there being more of you, vying for face time?” I asked sarcastically, though secretly dreading the answer.

  There is only you and me, it replied.

  “Whew. That’s a relief. For a second there, I thought I had to worry.”

  It chuckled.

  “So that was you on the cargo plane in the Czech Republic as well?” I probed.

  It is all you. I only crystallize your potential, it said.

  Whoa! And wow! I thought. That is real information.

  I’ve done it before, it said. You just don’t remember.

  I strained my memory to try and focus on when that might have been. A sudden flash of memory popped into my head… me running through the woods as a child.

  “That was real?” I asked suddenly.

  Yes, came the simple reply.

  “The climb, my Dad falling?” I asked.

  Yes.

  I lifted my hand from the handlebars and looked at the long, white diagonal scar across the palm before returning my attention to the open desert ahead of me.

  There is a difference between the memory of a real event and the memory of a dream—I can tell the difference, it said.

  “How can yo
u tell the difference?” I asked. “You’re me, right?”

  Yes, I only know what you know, it replied.

  I thought about that for several long seconds before responding.

  “Why are you talking to me now?” I asked. “I’ve been begging for information from you for months.”

  I’ve been asleep a long time, it said.

  Mom had said, ‘Scott will be fine.’ Is that what she was talking about? Did she know I had the voice?

  “Why were you asleep?” I asked.

  Your mind was slipping, it said. I had to hold it together.

  I got an image of being in the hospital after Dad died. I was having seizures and my speech was coming out as babbling, incoherent bursts of drool and emotion.

  Like Mom, I thought.

  Yes.

  “Why couldn’t she be saved?” I asked angrily.

  You are different.

  “Why am I different?”

  A memory flashed…the liquor I drank in my father’s study on my eighth birthday.

  “What was it?” I asked, feeling like I was on the crux of a major breakthrough.

  I don’t know, because you don’t know, it replied. But Roger Gallow does.

  I could feel anger welling in me.

  You have to stop doing that.

  “What?”

  Letting your emotions guide your responses.

  “It doesn’t make you angry?” I asked.

  I feel what you feel.

  That shook me a bit. Something inside my head had the ability to control my body, and it was as vulnerable to my emotions as I was.

  I have to rein that in.

  Yes, it said.

  So you only know what I know?

  For the most part.

  “Most part?!” I asked incredulously. “What do you know that I don’t?”

  I waited but got nothing.

  “Tell me!” I yelled. “It’s my head… Obey!”

  Nothing.

  “Damn it!” Back to the silent treatment.

  Ahead, I saw the site where the Charlie Team had crashed. I was further behind than I thought and it took longer to arrive than I had calculated. I wondered if something was wrong with my bike.

  I slowed as I got to the site. The sky was lighter now, and I was able to see without my night vision goggles on, so I flipped them back as I dismounted. There were a few items that had fallen off or been dumped from the Charlie vehicle and I began looking through some of it to see if any water had been left behind.

  I found a near empty clear plastic bottle and put it up to my lips, graciously accepting the small gift of moisture. I searched the ground for several moments longer but found nothing else drinkable—I did, however, spot something shining in the rising sun. I bent for a closer look and discovered Apollo’s missing lighter.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said, shaking my head, recalling aloud the words I had said earlier. “I’ll get it on the way back.”

  The coincidence of finding the lighter filled me with philosophical and spiritual questions.

  Did I come back for it the way I said because I said it? Or did I say it because it was going to happen? I wondered to myself.

  I tucked the lighter into my pocket and looked around the horizon. The desert really is a beautiful place, and at a dynamic moment like sunrise, it seemed downright magical—enough to send a shiver down my spine.

  Behind you, came a whisper in my ear, making me realize the shiver wasn't just a sense of awe from the scenery.

  I turned and a flash of light caught my eye. It was accompanied by a barely perceptible amount of movement on the horizon. I pulled my stolen rifle up to look through the scope.

  My stomach contracted, and I suddenly felt as if my insides had liquefied. It was the truck I thought I had disabled.

  “You were right,” I muttered as I hopped back on my bike and started it up. “I should have gone for the engine.”

  As I started to move, I heard a voice. It was faint and freaked me out a little until I realized it was the earbud I had taken out so I could put on the stolen headset.

  “The squad box!” I exclaimed. I’m close enough to get signal.

  As I began racing away from the site, I tucked my earpiece back in and called out.

  “This is Monkey Wrench. Say again,” I said into my throat mic.

  “Monkey Wrench, this is Sea Witch. Where are you?” came the relieved voice of the operator.

  “I’m just leaving the Charlie crash site,” I said, realizing I would lose contact soon. “I don’t have much time; I’m riding away from the squad radio. I’ve got bad guys in a deuce-and-half following me.”

  “Wait one, Monkey Wrench,” he said.

  “I might not have one,” I said. “Peepers is deceased. I’m heading for the same spot where we crossed to get in.”

  “Monkey Wrench, this Momma. Negative. That—” I heard John start to say, but the static started up again.

  “Say again. I didn’t get your last,” I replied.

  Nothing…just squelchy static followed by silence.

  I throttled up more. I needed to get as much distance between me and that truck as possible.

  The sun was just cresting the horizon, and the giant in the truck wouldn’t need to follow my tracks; he’d be able to see me by now, and I was certain he would be able to see the dust cloud my bike was leaving behind.

  The morning light had become so strong that I had to squint to follow Charlie’s tracks before I remembered I had sunglasses in my jacket pocket. But my jacket was trapped under my body armor.

  I reached up with my left hand and tried to extract them, but nearly wiped out.

  “Whoa, Scott… Take it easy.”

  I found a particularly smooth stretch of ground and slowly reached up to try again.

  “Gotcha,” I said as I grasped them and reached up to put them on my face. “Much better.”

  I really opened up the throttle then, leaning forward to reduce my wind resistance.

  I looked under my arm to see where the truck was and was surprised and horrified to see that it had closed a good deal of the distance between us. My hope was that, with my throttle wide open, I would begin to change that. I looked back maybe two minutes later and discovered that wasn’t the case—they had closed even more distance.

  I calculated that with my increased rate of speed I was less than twenty minutes from the border. Sadly, at the rate they were gaining, it wouldn’t be fast enough—and even if it were, there was no guarantee they would stop at the border.

  Four more minutes passed, and I looked back again, seeing they had cut the distance in half.

  “What the hell are you driving?” I muttered aloud.

  I leaned further forward, trying to milk as much speed as I could from the overworked dirt bike.

  Ahead of me, on the horizon, I saw an angular shape in the midst of flatness, then I spotted two more. As I got closer, I saw they were vehicles.

  Is someone coming to help?

  In a few seconds, that question was answered with the all-too-familiar sound of a buzzing bullet whizzing past my head.

  Shit! Rebels. That’s why John didn’t want me coming back the way we entered.

  A brilliant idea suddenly poured into my sleep-deprived, adrenaline-ravaged brain—or at least it seemed brilliant, given the circumstances.

  I aimed the nose of my bike slightly to the left of one oncoming vehicle so that I might pass between the oncoming rebels. I had no doubt I was losing ground to the deuce-and-half, but the rebel vehicles wouldn’t be able to keep up with me, especially if I blew past them and forced them into a turn. If the deuce didn’t turn off, it would be a great big target for rebel gunfire.

  Come on, you sexy rebel bastards! Shoot that big-ass truck!

  I leaned lower, making myself as small as possible, but as I got closer to the compact pickups, I became a better target. A random shot clipped the edge of my front fork, sending my tire into a brief shimmy.

>   The other two rebel vehicles began to alter their trajectory to intercept as well. I rose up as I got closer and started screaming and pointing over my shoulder at the big truck that had gotten even closer.

  “Nār! Nār, nār!” I yelled, one of two words I knew in Arabic.

  This seemed to confuse them.

  I took the opportunity to blow past them. They got a good look at me on the way past, I’m certain. I wore an army jacket and body armor, so it wouldn’t matter how covered my face was with the shemagh, I wasn’t going to fool them.

  Two of them whipped around in a sharp turn to follow me, but one of them continued toward the big truck that had chased me from the landing site.

  “That’s better than nothing,” I muttered to myself.

  I tucked my head down to look and saw the rebels were just coming up to speed when the deuce came up behind them. The men in the big truck began firing on the rebels. The rebels happily returned fire, swerving back and forth across the sand, slowing the multi-ton monster’s forward momentum.

  YAY, rebels! I thought as I returned my attention to the ground ahead of me.

  Suddenly, behind me, I heard the sound of metal on metal. I looked back to see one of the rebel trucks swerve too close to the front of the deuce-and-half. As a result, the front end of the big truck lurched up across the hood of the smaller vehicle, followed by the rear tires. The bounce over the rebel-provided speed bump sent a couple of men into the air as the smaller vehicle burst into flames.

  Shit!

  I heard more small arms fire. One of the rebel trucks that had taken up pursuit of me began to slow and fire into the front end of the iron giant that was bearing down on them. I heard an unusual ‘thump’ from behind me and turned to look.

  An explosion in the back of the pickup truck brought the vehicle to a slow, drifting halt. I saw a man get out and stumble to the ground, avoiding the flames emanating from his vehicle.

  Only one rebel defender left and he was unfortunately after the wrong target—me.

  Another swarm of angry hornets began buzzing in my direction—some flying far off target, some frighteningly close. I was happy to have the body armor across my back, but one lucky shot to my bike, my neck, or my head would draw this long-distance chase to a rapid conclusion.

  Finally, the rebels seemed to take an interest in the closing truck behind them, though it might have had something to do with the fact that it was also closing in on them. The air over my head was suddenly hornet-free. Instead, they were concentrating their fire on the enemy behind them.