Danger Close

by S L Shelton

  The contest behind me ended abruptly with an explosion. I looked back and was crushed to discover it had been the rebels who had lost. Their pickup truck was in flames, drifting to a slow halt with no movement inside the vehicle—I was on my own again.

  I hunched back over and kicked the gas back up with less than eight minutes to the border. But at the rate the truck was gaining, I wouldn’t make it—and my bike had developed a nasty wobble in the front. Apparently, that rebel shot to the fork had done more damage than I originally thought.

  I kept ducking my head down under my arm to look behind me. I started a silent count as I passed a rock to see how far behind he was.

  1—2—3—4—5—6—7—8—9—10—11—12—13—14

  Fourteen seconds. I looked up and spotted another rock ahead of me and aimed myself toward it. I started my count again as I passed it and looked back.

  1—2—3—4—5—6—7—8—9—10—11—12

  “Shit,” I exclaimed. I’m slowing down. I wonder if it's time to use the grenade.

  It was still tucked in my right cargo pocket on my pant leg, meaning I’d have to take my hand off the throttle to retrieve it, slowing me further.

  It’s worth the loss of speed, came a whisper from my other voice.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I asked bitterly.

  I reached down and extracted it and then quickly moved my hand back to the throttle.

  Excited to have a new weapon in the fight and not concentrating as I should have been, my hand accidentally knocked the grenade against the handlebar, sending the wheel into a shimmy. My chest contracted as a panicked reaction had me reaching for a better grip on the throttle and I lost my grip on the grenade.

  My hand dropped down in reflex as the grenade began to fall, bleeding more speed off my escape. I juggled the explosive between my hand and the handle bar for a tense second, certain I was about to lose it, when I managed to slip my thumb through the pin ring.

  With the grenade dangling from my thumb, I grabbed the throttle and pulled it back up to full speed.

  “Damn, shit, fuck!” I muttered, berating myself.

  I passed a rock and started my count again, looking back as it zipped past.

  1—2—3—4—5—6—7—8.

  Eight seconds. Damn, shit, son of a goat fu— I had lost a lot of ground.

  Then it dawned on me—unfortunately, I’d have to lose more speed before I could drop the grenade—it had a three second fuse on it.

  The men on the truck behind me were already getting better with their aim as they got closer, and the thought of intentionally letting them close more distance made the tension in my neck feel like I was in a vise.

  They’ll catch up anyway, came my other voice. Hold your speed and get as close to the border as you can before dropping the grenade.

  It was right. My grenade was my last line of defense. It wasn’t a tactical weapon as I imagined it, but a last-ditch defensive weapon—my last hope of crossing the border.

  I kept myself aimed toward the border, the engine sputtering occasionally as I tried to focus on the dark line that had come into sight on the horizon. I looked down and saw I had enough gas—not a lot, but enough.

  A particularly rough backfire made me wonder if the bike had been struck somewhere other than on the fork. I looked down to examine it quickly; I didn’t see anything obviously wrong.

  The engine continued to spit and sputter with more frequency, and the heat from the machine was positively cooking the inside of my legs. If it weren’t for the air blasting by from the ride, I’m certain it would have been unbearable.

  By my estimate, I was five or so minutes away from the border. If I was slowing down as much as I thought, the truck behind me would be at the three second mark within two minutes.

  I watched another rock go by—I started my count.

  1—2—3—4—5

  Five seconds. The first close shot went past my head.

  I began weaving a bit, trying to make myself a harder target to zero in. But that action made my front wheel wobble even more, forcing me to rein in the vibration and cease my evasive maneuver.

  Another rock. I started my count.

  1—2—3—4

  Four seconds behind me. More shots fired. One of them hit in front of me, kicking dirt up in my face.

  I reached over with my left hand and carefully removed the safety clip from the lever of the grenade—the one that prevented accidental pulling of the pin.

  The pin was bent at a slight angle, which kept the grenade from simply sliding off, but a sudden bump would easily shake it free.

  Another rock.

  1—2—3

  Three seconds. The terrifying moment had arrived. If this failed to at least slow them down significantly, I would be dead in a matter of minutes.

  I reached over with my left hand and pulled the grenade from its pin, which was still looped around my right thumb. I dropped it to the ground and started to count backward.

  3—2—1

  The explosion occurred on the back half of the big diesel truck, sending its right rear wheels off the ground momentarily before slamming them back to the ground.

  “Shit,” I exclaimed. It’s still coming!

  But a second later a horrible metal-on-metal screech began emanating from the truck. One of its rear axles had broken free, tying up under the body of the deuce momentarily before it bounced off on its own inertia. The remaining rear axle appeared to be wobbling horribly as if it had also come partially detached.

  “Yes!” I yelled as I started pulling away from them again.

  After a few seconds, I looked back. The truck was still coming, though at a much-reduced rate of speed.

  “Seriously?” I yelled back at them. “I don’t have your damned nukes!”

  I heard a crackle in my earpiece.

  I lowered myself again and leaned into my bike.

  “Say again.”

  Nothing.

  Just a short distance ahead, I could see the mound of sand where the border trench was. I was less than a mile away.

  Static filled my ear again. I gritted my teeth as if that action would somehow squeeze more speed out of the tired and overheating bike.

  “Say again. I didn’t get that,” I said.

  Again, no reply.

  I was within a quarter of a mile of the trench and looked behind me to see the truck still coming toward me, though the distance was much greater now.

  “— onky —ench. ———n.”

  “Say again. I did not copy,” I yelled as I came within a hundred feet the trench.

  “Monkey Wrench. Get DOWN!” Nick’s voice came blasting into my ear. I looked up to see a helicopter just across the border in a combat dive, headed toward me from above.

  I aimed my bike at an angle along the lip of the border trench and let myself drop, full speed into the sandy pit. I grabbed the brake levers but the nose of the bike began to tuck under me and I experienced the weightless feeling of falling as the rear of the motorcycle began to rise above me.

  The bike tumbled over my head, separating me momentarily from the grip of gravity—then the cargo rack snagged the rifle strap on my back

  As my transportation departed from between my legs, it suddenly became my new enemy, jerking me up and then flinging me over, rolling me through the air before slamming me down into the pit.

  I must have cartwheeled three times before I finally felt solid ground rise up and smack me. But the bike wasn’t done tossing me around yet. It immediately jerked me back around as it plowed in to the sand, flipping me once more onto my belly. I opened my eyes to see its rear tire spinning only inches from my face.

  In the air above me, the helicopter—a gunship that I wasn’t familiar with—hovered like a protective hawk over its nest.

  The chopper began to fire from its Gatling-style gun in the nose. I unslung my rifle and dove out of the way of the falling hot brass as it clanged and clinked to the ground. I scurr
ied to the Syrian side of the pit, avoiding the burns that would surely follow if any of the brass happened to touch my bare skin.

  I peered over with just my eyes breaking the edge, to see the truck had stopped, but it had apparently not been fired on—just fired at.

  A shot across the bow, I thought.

  The big man got out of the passenger side of the truck and walked to the front of the vehicle. The helicopter fired another short burst from its gun in his direction, but the big man didn’t even flinch.

  Bold as BALLS!

  I heard another chopper come in behind me. It sounded like it took up position next to the first, but the big man from the truck stood firm, looking right at me.

  He started yelling something, but I couldn’t hear it over the ‘whop, whop, whop’ of the chopper. I put my hand up to my ear, taunting him.

  He pointed at himself, then at me, and then held his fingers apart indicating he had been that close to getting me. I stuck my thumb up in the air, acknowledging his truth while simultaneously mocking his failure—my thumb pointing directly at the gun ship above.

  He pointed at his watch, then back at me.

  Another time, he was saying. Did he get a good look at me?

  No, whispered my hitchhiker.

  He stood, staring in my direction for several long seconds. Deep down, I wished the helicopter would open fire again and slice him to pieces. I wasn’t real clear as to why they weren’t shooting until I saw the Syrian jet fly overhead, breaking hard to slow down in a tight turn above us.

  Ah, I thought. We don’t want an international incident, now do we?

  When he remounted his wounded beast and turned it back into the open desert, the tension in my chest began to subside. I watched as he slowly shrank from sight. Behind me, one of the helicopters landed; a moment later someone ran up next to me, but I was going to watch that truck disappear before I took my eyes off of him.

  “Are you alright?” I heard Nick say.

  “Yeah. I’m fine,” I replied without looking at him. “I just want to make sure he’s gone.”

  Nick laughed, but to his everlasting credit, he just crawled up to my side and watched with me.

  “They killed Peepers back at the extraction site,” I said.

  “I know. The Delta backup team found him when they went back,” he said solemnly. Then, after a brief pause, “They found his rifle too. They said the bolt was missing.”

  Without taking my eyes off the fading truck, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the removed part, and handed it to him.

  “Keep it,” he said. “You can have the rifle when we get back to base. The team said you were the last one to fire it…it’s yours now.”

  “How do they know I was the last one to fire it?” I asked as the truck continued to disappear from view.

  He pointed up to the sky. “They had you until just after you left the extraction site. The orbit on the next one didn’t pick you up again until about fifteen minutes ago. They would have used the rescue team to pick you up in the desert, but the Syrian Air Force had scrambled their jets by the time Delta got back to the extraction site. They had to beat feet or get shot down.”

  I should have realized the satellites would be watching. I looked behind me and saw half a dozen Delta Force members on the lip of the sand berm aiming their weapons into the desert.

  “They came back to the crash site?” I asked as we picked up the bike and began rolling it to the Iraq side of the trench.

  “We may not always be on time, but we don’t leave troops behind,” Nick said, helping me push it up the hill. “John already had the backup team spinning up on the pad when he ordered us out with the warheads. His order was, and I quote, ‘Go get Monkey Wrench’.”

  I’m not as important as the nukes, but important enough for a second incursion.

  I felt somewhat comforted. Is that weird?

  As we wheeled the motorcycle toward the helicopter on the Iraq side of the border, Nick stopped abruptly.

  “Affirmative, Momma,” he said and reached over to the radio on my belt before changing the channel. “He’s on now.”

  “Monkey Wrench, this is Momma,” came John’s voice.

  “This is Monkey Wrench,” I replied.

  “As soon as you get to a terminal, I need to have a private chat with you,” John said.

  For a second I was worried about getting an ass-chewing for going into the desert, but I quickly tossed that notion to the side when I realized there was an amused quality to his voice.

  “No need, Momma,” I replied crisply with zero emotion. “The answer is yes, I would love to go to the party.”

  Nick grinned, knowing exactly what was being said. There was a short pause before John got back on the line.

  “Understood, Monkey Wrench,” John replied finally. “I’ll make arrangements for your invitation. Momma out.”

  Nick laughed and reached his hand out to me. I went to shake but he pulled it away suddenly. I realized he was asking for something else.

  “What?” I asked incredulously.

  “I seem to remember making a little bet with you,” he said as the motorcycle was loaded onto the helicopter. “A year’s salary.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t recall making that bet.”

  It suddenly dawned on me that I would have to break the news to Bonbon.

  Now that’s scary.

  I climbed into the helicopter and noticed that Apollo was among the tactical team who had come back to secure me.

  “Heads up,” I called to him as I reached into my pocket before tossing him his lighter.

  “Dude!” he exclaimed excitedly.

  “You're welcome,” I said, echoing his comment from the day before when he saved me from being shot in the back.

  He held it up and shook it at me. “This is the reason you made it,” he said grinning. “I couldn't figure out how you got out until just now.”

  “I'm sure you're right,” I replied sarcastically as he kissed it and tucked it into his pocket.

  “Either that or you've got an angel on your shoulder,” he said with a big grin.

  “Or a voice in my head,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “I said, no…it was probably the lighter.”

  Epilogue

  September 1996- Spotsylvania, Virginia

  ROGER GALLOW watched from the clearing as the remaining contractor pulled Hank away from the rock wall. It was a shock to see the boy falling the twenty feet as well. He landed with a thud on his father’s chest.

  The contractor pulled the boy’s eyelid back and checked his pupils with the flashlight.

  “I must have missed the vein,” he said to Gallow. “It took longer for it to kick in. How’d he get past you?”

  “Is he alive?” Gallow asked, nervously ignoring the man’s question.

  “Yeah,” the man replied as he touched his fingers to Scott’s throat and then Hank's. “The boy’ll live, but the dad’s done. It’ll look like a heart attack if we can get this mess cleaned up.”

  Gallow breathed a sigh of relief as he reached down to pick the boy up and carry him back to the farmhouse.

  “Any idea what happened to your escort?” the man asked, referring to the team member who had stalked the workshop with Gallow.

  “Wolfe got him with the S28 meant for the boy,” Gallow lied. “He’s outside the garage. We’ll need to evac him as well.”

  “How did he get the drop on him?” the contractor asked suspiciously.

  “Your friend came in while I was still explaining the situation,” Gallow lied again. “If it hadn’t been for him jumping the gun, this would’ve gone down without a hitch.”

  The man grunted his acknowledgment as he hefted the lifeless body of Hank Wolfe onto his shoulder.

  “Did Parker get the wife and the daughter?” he asked Gallow.

  “He got the wife, but Wolfe got upstairs and killed him before he could get the daughter,” Gallow replied.


  The other man stopped in his tracks and stared at Gallow.

  “Stabbed him with a screwdriver from his apron,” Gallow said, feigning regret. “I dosed the girl before following Hank down the hill.”

  Scott’s arm twitched, and he looked down at it, seeing the gash on the boy’s hand. “How did he get cut?”

  “I don’t know,” the contractor replied. “Maybe on the rock.”

  Gallow could tell he was lying but didn’t press it.

  “How much S28 did you inject the boy with?” Gallow asked as they began walking up the hill again.

  “I don’t know,” he said defensively. “The kid surprised me, and I grabbed the closest syringe.”

  Gallow’s heart felt as if it had skipped a beat. “You didn’t use a whole dose did you?” he asked incredulously.

  “Hey. The kid’s lucky he’s alive. I almost sliced his throat when he snuck up on me,” the contractor replied, not realizing until he had already said it that he had given away the secret of the cut on the boy’s hand.

  “He’ll be a vegetable,” Gallow said. “One syringe is enough for two adults.”

  “Would you mind if we discuss the failures of this operation after we get back to the lab?” he grunted. “This fucker is heavy, and it’s a long hike back up the hill.”

  Gallow didn’t say a word after that. He just held the boy closer to him as he walked up the hill.

  What had Hank called him? he asked himself as he walked.

  Scott, whispered a voice in Gallow’s ear.

  Right, Gallow thought to himself. Scott. We’ll have to do what we can to help Scott along.

  **

  Tuesday, September 7th, 1:35 p.m. -Potomac Maryland—GGP Labs

  ROGER GALLOW sat at his desk and clicked the intercom button after it buzzed.

  “Mr. Gallow,” came the voice of his secretary. “Mr. Emrick from the Defense Intelligence Agency is on line two.”

  “Thank you Joan,” he replied and picked up the phone. “Albert. What can I do for you?”