0522. I pronounced the cave habitable—and we went to work. The sky was deep royal blue now—and the sun’s glow was beginning to insinuate itself. The fact that it was growing light was bad news. But the good news was that our lie-up position was east of the camp, and anyone who might look in our direction was going to get a blast of sunlight in his eyes.
No time to waste. From their packs, Timex and Randy pulled a length of black Hessian screening material, which they stretched between the gap in the rocks where we were going to do our work. As long as it remained dark, the screen, which does not show up on IR, would shield us from being seen. By the time it was light, we’d have camouflaged ourselves sufficiently to pull it down.
Gator, Digger O’Toole, Nigel, and Rodent had all packed desert-colored camouflage netting. I had matching poncho material, as well as collapsible plastic stakes. Boomerang, Duck Foot, Nod, and Hammer had trenching tools, with which they started to quietly pick away at the loose rocks and earth near the cave mouth.
0538. We laid the camouflage netting, working the few sparse sprigs of thistle we could find into the material. If anyone came up close and personal to check the cave out, they’d know someone was in residence. But at a distance—or through binoculars—we’d be invisible.
Although it was still in the low seventies, I’d sweat completely through my BDUs. I hunkered down, put my back against the cool rock, and tried to get my breath. To be honest, I wasn’t feeling too good. The spider bite on my neck had swelled to about the size of a golf ball, and it burned like hell under the doorag. My tongue was dry; I felt as if I had a ball of cotton fluff in my mouth, and my joints ached.
Hey, so what else is new, right? Dick and pain—a matched pair, just like Pete and repeat, or muck and mire, or gonorrhea and diarrhea. I fought against the pain and the heat, and the sudden chill in my joints, and kept on keepin’ on.
0547. It was light by the time we were ready to pull back into the cave. I told Hammer, Nigel, Duck Foot, and Mustang to pull the first two shifts of observation duty. I wanted their keen, snipers’ eyes on the target. My eyes? They were just about useless. I mean, things were kind of out of focus, and I’d started to see a big field of white spots. Tiny white spots. I tried to shake ’em off, but I couldn’t. Then I tried to stand up, but my legs wouldn’t work.
Randy Michaels looked at me strangely as I tried to pull myself to my feet. Then he put his hand on my shoulder to keep me from rising, knelt down, and put the palm of his hand up against my neck, his fingers caressing the skin just below the right ear.
I swatted his hand away. “I like you, too, asshole, but not that way.”
His big, tanned, shaved head dropped, so we were nose to nose. I noticed that his mustache twitched as he spoke, and for some reason, I suddenly found that fact absurdly, preposterously, funny. I pointed in his direction and laughed, but Rotten Randy didn’t get the joke. No, he was serious through and through. “Skipper, you are about to be in bad shape. I figure you’ve got a fever somewhere around a hundred and three right now.”
I watched the ludicrous movements of the hair strands at the ends of his mustache, giggled, and said, “Bullshit.”
He wasn’t paying attention. “What was it, Skipper? Snake? Spider? Scorpion?”
Now his mustache was quivering furiously, which I found even more hilarious. “Look, Rotten—”
“Fuck you, Skipper.” He unwrapped the doo-rag, pushed me sideways, turned my head so he could see the back of my neck, and whistled softly. “Spider,” he pronounced. “Nasty big one, too.”
He spun me around—or at least that’s the way it felt—grabbed me by my H-harness, and dragged me into the cave, unmindful of the rough rocks smacking at my coccyx. He pulled me out of the light, leaned me up against an interior wall, and asked nobody in particular, “Anybody bring any antivenin? From the way his neck looks, Skipper here decided to get bit by one hufuckingmongous black widow–type spider.”
I started to protest. C’mon, I’ve been bitten by hundreds of fucking spiders over the years, not to mention assorted ticks, mites, fleas, bedbugs, and horseflies. Shit, I’ve even chugged cobra venom. But I had to admit that none of those experiences had done as much damage as quickly as this one had. At least I thought about admitting it. Problem was, that when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.
I stared dumbly at Randy. I saw Boomerang’s long, narrow face looking down at me, a concerned expression on it. Behind him, Nod, Rodent, Duck Foot, Timex, and Gator stared down at me, their faces neutral masks. It occurred to me right then that they were watching to see whether or not I’d died on ’em. Well, fuck me. I tried to reach down and come up with some sort of Roguish riposte, but then the fucking spots got bigger and bigger, and then everything went black.
I came to just after 1600, bathed, as they say, in my own sweat and puke and who knows what else. I felt like a misused horse—rode hard and put away wet. I probably smelled like one, too. I rolled onto my right side, and into a body—Nod—who mumbled something unintelligible, then nudged me back onto my left side. I rolled, bumped into another body, finally remembered where I was, and groaned.
The body I’d just jostled belonged to Boomerang. “Hey, Boss Dude, just stay cool and you’ll be okay in no time.” Boomerang spoke softly, pushed me gently back onto my back, and repositioned the alcohol swab on my neck.
I tried to get myself up, but frankly I didn’t have the energy. “WTF, Boomerang?”
“Looks like you’re allergic to certain kinds of spider bites, Boss Dude. We got some antihistamine in you. And Randy spiked you with some morphine, too.”
Morphine? Morphine? I’d never heard of using morphine to deal with spider bites, and managed to croak that opinion out loud.
Boomerang shrugged. “Yeah—I was skeptical, too.” He cracked an uneven smile. “But it seems to have worked. I mean, you lived, right?”
You call this living? “Kinda.”
He raised my head, cradled it, and put a canteen to my lips. “Try some water, Boss Dude.”
I sipped. God, that felt good. I sipped some more. After I managed two, three, four greedy swallows, Boomerang pulled the canteen back. “Little at a time, Boss Dude.”
“Thanks.” I lay back and closed my eyes. “I’m just gonna lie here for a couple of more minutes.”
I was in the middle of one of those incredible dreams that tie together all the nasty experiences of the past five years in one hu-fucking-mongous nightmare, when reality intruded, in the person of Rotten Randy Michaels’s growly basso profundo, which cut into my subconscious like the fucking Klaxon horn on a sewer pipe.
I cracked an eye open, but didn’t see anything until Randy turned his red-lensed flashlight on so I could make out his shaved head and nasty-looking War Face, which was covered with dark cammo cream. He looked down at me with the sort of paternally bemused look senior noncoms reserve for dumbass junior officers. “I hate to disturb your beauty rest, Skipper, because if you ask me, you need every fucking minute of it you can get. But it’s getting late, and we gotta move, and you’re the one who’s always telling us sympathy is between shit and syphilis in the dictionary. So roust your ass, hoist your gear, and let’s go the fuck over the rail and kill us some Japs.”
0112. Oh, I didn’t have to like it—and I didn’t like it at all. But I had to do it. And so, do it I did. I took five quick gulps of water, struggled to my knees, then my feet—cracking the ol’ Rogue skull on the four-foot ceiling of the cave. Then, since everything was normal (meaning I was in pain), I got down to business. I listened to Randy and Boomerang’s sit-rep, so I knew where the bad guys were and how my senior noncoms had fine-tuned the op-plan. Then I hunkered down and pulled my equipment on. First came the bulletproof vest. Then over that, the tactical load-bearing vest. I shifted until the goddam things felt more or less comfortable, and then double-checked to make sure that the buckles were buckled, the snaps were snapped, and the Velcro was Velcro’d. I focused on my magazines, made sure the
y were topped off and that the rounds were facing the right way. Don’t laugh. I’ve seen experienced shooters load in the dark, and stick a fucking round in the magazine backward. The joke’s on them when the weapon jams.
0119. I was ready to go—at least as ready as I was gonna be. Yes, I was shaky. Yes, I felt like shit. Yes, I hurt, and stank, and my vision was fuzzy to say the least. But when you are a Warrior, and you lead Warriors into battle, how you feel, and how you smell, and how many aches and pains you may have—these things do not count. What counts is leading by example. What counts is showing that no matter what happens, you will persevere. You will go on. You will fulfill the mission, and your men can count on you to bring them back alive and victorious.
Now, this here book is pure fiction, but the sort of Warrior leadership I’m talking about can be found in real life, every now and then.
Like the example set by Master Sergeant Roy Benavidez. Master Sergeant Benavidez was attached to Fifth Special Forces back in Vietnam. Here, quoting from the citation for his Medal of Honor, is what he did—and how he led by example. And don’t skip over this section, because each one of you out there owe Roy Benavidez, who died in November 1998, at the age of fifty-three, a shitload of respect. He was the kind of soldier I’ve always tried to pattern myself after.
On the morning of 2 May 1968, a twelve-man Special Forces Reconnaissance Team was inserted by helicopters in a dense jungle area west of Loc Ninh, Vietnam, to gather intelligence information about confirmed large-scale enemy activity. This area was controlled and routinely patrolled by the North Vietnamese Army. After a short period of time on the ground, the team met heavy enemy resistance, and requested emergency extraction. Three helicopters attempted extraction, but were unable to land, due to intense enemy small arms and anti-aircraft fire.
Sergeant Benavidez was at the Forward Operating Base in Loc Ninh monitoring the operation by radio when these helicopters returned to off-load wounded crewmembers and to assess aircraft damage. Sergeant Benavidez voluntarily boarded a returning aircraft to assist in another extraction attempt.
Realizing that all the team members were either dead or wounded and unable to move to the pickup zone, he directed the aircraft to a nearby clearing where he jumped from the hovering helicopter, and ran approximately 75 meters under withering small arms fire to the crippled team. Prior to reaching the team’s position he was wounded in his right leg, face, and head. Despite these painful injuries, he took charge, repositioning the team members and directing their fire to facilitate the landing of an extraction aircraft and the loading of wounded and dead team members. He then threw smoke canisters to direct the aircraft to the team’s position. Despite his severe wounds and under intense enemy fire, he carried and dragged half of the wounded team members to the awaiting aircraft. He then provided protective fire by running alongside the aircraft as it moved to pick up the remaining team members.
As the enemy’s fire intensified, he hurried to recover the body of, and classified documents on, the dead team leader. When he reached the leader’s body, Sergeant Benavidez was severely wounded by small arms fire in the abdomen and grenade fragments in his back. At nearly the same moment, the aircraft pilot was mortally wounded, and his helicopter crashed.
Although in extremely critical condition due to his multiple wounds, Sergeant Benavidez secured the classified documents and made his way back to the wreckage, where he aided the wounded out of the overturned aircraft and gathered the stunned survivors into a defensive perimeter. Under increasing enemy automatic weapons and grenade fire, he moved around the perimeter distributing water and ammunition to his weary men, reinstilling in them a will to live and fight.
Facing a buildup of enemy opposition with a beleaguered team, Sergeant Benavidez mustered his strength, began calling in tactical air strikes, and directed the fire from supporting gunships to suppress the enemy’s fire and so permit another extraction attempt. He was wounded again in his thigh by small arms fire while administering first aid to a wounded team member just before another extraction helicopter was able to land. His indomitable spirit kept him going as he began to ferry his comrades to the craft.
On his second trip with the wounded, he was clubbed from additional wounds to his head and arms before killing his adversary. He then continued under devastating fire to carry the wounded to the helicopter. Upon reaching the aircraft, he spotted and killed two enemy soldiers who were rushing the craft from an angle that prevented the aircraft door gunner from firing upon them. With little strength remaining, he made one last trip to the perimeter to ensure that all classified material had been collected or destroyed, and to bring in the remaining wounded. Only then, in extremely serious condition from numerous wounds and loss of blood, did he allow himself to be pulled into the extraction aircraft.
Sergeant Benavidez’s gallant choice to join voluntarily his comrades who were in critical straits, to expose himself constantly to withering enemy fire, and his refusal to be stopped despite numerous severe wounds, saved the lives of at least eight men. His fearless personal leadership, tenacious devotion to duty, and extremely valorous actions in the face of overwhelming odds were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service, and reflect the utmost credit on him and the United States Army.
That, friends, is leadership in the Roy Boehm tradition, and heroism in the tradition of America’s greatest Warriors. And so, unmindful of puke and sweat and blurred vision and everything except the blood-and-pure-guts examples set for me by real-life Warriors like Master Sergeant Roy Benavidez, I slung my MP5, daubed my face, neck, and the backs of my hands with blackout cream, gritted my teeth, stowed my boots in my pack, and crawled on my hands and knees out of the cave into the hot night air.
14
0126. MAYBE IT WAS ME, BUT THE HEAT WAS DAMN oppressive, even at this hour. I could make out the cluster of buildings below us and to the west, all outlined neatly by the orange glow of the sodium security lamps that were positioned at regular intervals high above the ten-foot-high, chain-link perimeter fence topped with coiled razor wire—standard KGB design. From where I stood to the fence line was perhaps eight hundred yards of open lunarlike landscape. Randy and I made sure our watches were reading the same time. We tested the radios, and made sure our lip mikes and earpieces were working.
Then I started the countdown, silent-signaled for dispersion, and Echo Platoon broke up into two prearranged strike groups. I took the Alpha squad: Boomerang, Nod, Duck Foot, Timex, Gator, and Hammer. Randy led Bravo squad: Half Pint, Digger, Rodent, Mustang, Nigel, and Goober.
My team would circle south, go over the fence, and at 0300 we’d hit the two main buildings at the southern end of the camp used as dorms and classrooms by the tangos. The hit would be complicated because in addition to the two one-story buildings, which were about the size of double trailers laid out in a rough L shape, we had a single corrugated steel cargo container that looked as if it was being used as an armory off to the short side of the L, as well as a trio of smaller sheds, set up in an irregular pattern behind and to the right of the largest of the structures.
The bottom line was that if we didn’t hit first and hit hard, and any of the tangos escaped, we’d have a hard time rooting ’em out of the nooks and crannies. And there was another complication as well: we’d have to hit ’em quick enough to ensure that nobody’d have the chance to get an alarm out on the cellular phones most of the bad guys carried on their belts. Oh, yeah. Welcome to the twenty-first century, where everybody has their own cell phone, even bad guys. Okay, while we were taking down the main force of nasties, Randy’s squad would cut through the north end of the compound and disable the radio tower and the satellite dish. He’d clear the comms shed, remove every piece of intel he could get his hands on, then set timed charges to blow everything up. By the end of the evening, I wanted nothing left of this place but rubble.
If the sniper log was accurate, there’d be three Japs in the comms shed, and two pair of bad guys o
n roving security details. The good news was that the security detail stayed well within the perimeter fence line. So we were talking about a total of twenty-three bad guys. I asked if anybody’d seen any Ivans, and Hammer said the answer was no—they all looked like your typical full-bearded Shiite mujahideen. Not a single Ivan among ’em.
That meant sixteen easy targets for me and my squad, all tucked into their beds in the dorm unit, dreaming whatever sorts of nasty dreams that tangos dream. And while my squad did the fish-in-a-barrel number on the sixteen sleepers, Randy’s shooters would take care of neutralizing the remaining seven.
Prisoners? You want to know about prisoners? Okay, that’s simple: there would be none. I expected 100 percent enemy casualties tonight.
0127. My guys and I started moving south. The most important element of any night attack is noise discipline. Sound seems to carry farther at night than it does during daylight hours. In fact, it doesn’t—it just appears to. The reason is because with eyesight diminished by the darkness, your hearing becomes enhanced. And so, we’d made sure that every bit of our gear was tied or taped down. I didn’t want mags rattling, or weapons clacking.
To make doubly sure I for one wouldn’t make any noise, I was working barefoot tonight. Now, don’t try this at home, friends, because you’ll tear the soles of your feet into bloody shreds. But the skin on the bottom of my size-ten-extra Rogue feet is tougher and more durable than what you’ll find on most hiking boots. Remember that when I served my year in the Petersburg, Virginia, Federal Bad Boys’ Camp and Mayoral Blow Job Facility in 1990, I used to run six miles a day, every fucking day, rain, shine, heat, cold, snow, ice, or fog, on the camp’s six-laps-to-the-mile cinder track. Yeah—every single fucking day. And I ran barefoot. Oh, I bled like hell for the first two weeks. And then, my feet got tougher and tougher. By the time they released me, the half inch of callus on the bottom of my feet made ’em as hard and durable as the Vibram sole of a running shoe or a hiking boot. Even today, I seldom wear shoes when I’m out running the hundreds of acres of woods at Rogue Manor. Sure, there are thorns and thistles and sharp-edged rocks, but they don’t bother me. In fact, I can move through the fucking woods as silently as any stealthy Algonquin, Iroquois, or Mohawk in a James Fenimore Cooper or Charles Brockden Brown novel.
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