by Carl Bowen
The building wasn’t much bigger than the tiny base on Malpelo Island where the rest of Shadow Squadron was holed up. Aside from those buildings, the shipyard also had a row of picnic tables under a tent made of camouflage netting.
There was also a wooden boat dock downstream from the construction building with moored speedboats. A guard watched over it. Another guard sat on a stool next to the one-lane unpaved road leading out into the jungle. Twenty or thirty feet behind that guard, a black off-road motorcycle stood balanced on its kickstand.
Moving slowly in a half-crouch, Brighton made his way toward the command center. He looped through the jungle and came up behind the squat wooden building well out of the guard’s line of sight. There were no windows on this side, so all he could do was press his ear to the outside wall and listen. He could hear neither voices nor the sound of people moving around coming from inside. However, he didn’t know if that was because no one was inside, or because the walls were just too thick.
In any case, he needed to get inside.
Brighton crept back around the building to the side door that faced the barracks. When he was sure that no one was looking, he darted around the corner and slipped inside.
Brighton closed the door as carefully as he could, but its hinges creaked. In his excited state, Brighton was worried it would give away his position. It was likely that the sound of the generator rumbling on the far side of the building had drowned out the noise, but Brighton froze by the door all the same. He gripped his stolen rifle tightly just in case the nearest guard came by. Only after two tense minutes of silence did Brighton relax and move on.
Inside, the command center wasn’t much to look at. It was little more than a long hallway with small rooms on either side and a larger meeting room on the far end. The floor was a poured concrete slab, and the walls and doors were made of thin wood. It was humid, stuffy, and it smelled like old sweat. Still, it wasn’t bad for a jungle hideout.
Before him were four doors: two on the left, one at the far end of the hall, and one on the right. The one at the end of the hall was open, showing a dark room with a large table in the center. All sorts of papers were tacked on the walls. To Brighton’s right was the front of the building, facing toward the center of the camp. He figured that the door on that side probably led into a living room.
One of the doors on the left was larger than the other. A rim of wan light gleamed around it. Brighton inched down the hall. He stopped outside that door to listen. Luckily, there were no lights on in the hallway to throw his shadow underneath the door. He pointed his rifle at the door and leaned his ear close to the jamb.
The first thing he heard made his blood go cold. It was Saenz’s voice. “It’s too hard to predict yet,” she was saying in Spanish. “He’s definitely American special ops of some kind. His equipment was all top of the line, and he’s had some torture-resistance training. He’s tough. Breaking him will take time.”
Judging by the silence afterward, Saenz had to be speaking on the phone to someone. Brighton realized he was shaking a little whenever Saenz spoke. Red, crazy thoughts filled his mind at the sound of his torturer’s voice calmly discussing how she’d abused him.
For a moment, Brighton considered simply kicking the door open and letting fly with his rifle on full-auto. He’d give Saenz just enough time to recognize him and realize what was about to happen before he pulled the trigger.
But no . . . he couldn’t. For one thing, just opening fire would bring every armed guerilla in the camp running. If that happened, Brighton would end up just as dead as Saenz. Add that to the fact that Brighton had never actually shot anybody before. Sure, he’d caused plenty of very bad guys to die, but only indirectly by calling in fire support from the air. Even when he’d joined his Shadow Squadron teammates on direct-action missions, he’d never actually engaged in the firefights.
But most importantly, Brighton didn’t want his first confirmed kill to involve shooting an unarmed woman in cold blood — no matter what she’d done to him.
So Brighton moved on down the hall. The second door on the same side as Saenz’s room turned out to be a small closet full of office equipment and medical supplies. The door across the hall that opened toward the front of the building turned out to lead to a small infirmary with a single bed. The front door of the building led directly into the infirmary. Brighton continued down the hall to the last room, with the table in the middle and the papers tacked up on the walls.
Once inside, Brighton grinned. Jackpot, he thought. The papers tacked to the walls all proved to be maps. He didn’t have sufficient light to read them — the only light in the room was a soft orange glow from the kill switch on a power strip in the corner — but he could at least tell that they were, indeed, maps. There was also a clock on the wall that read 2:15, which was helpful.
Brighton’s eyes lit up with a surge of pure joy when he spotted a very familiar digital-camouflage backpack in the corner. It was his gear, or at least some of it. Forgetting the maps for the moment, he knelt beside his pack and opened the flap. Right on top was his lifeline back to Shadow Squadron: his SINCGARS field radio.
A few other essentials were left in the pack, including some MREs, a first-aid kit, a compass, and a notepad. But the radio was crucial. It almost made up for the loss of his night-vision goggles, his M4 carbine, all his ammunition, his M84 flashbang grenade, and his smoke grenade. At least he hadn’t brought his AA-12 combat shotgun with him on this mission. He would have been really depressed if he’d lost his baby.
After a quick inventory, he took a backup flashlight out of the pack, then stuffed everything else back in. He slipped the pack on and switched on the flashlight. With the narrow beam of light, he could read a map without much risk of the enemy spotting him from a distance.
Brighton turned the flashlight on for a second to scan a few of the maps on the walls. After a moment, he selected two to take with him. The first was a fairly new contour map of this part of the jungle, with the location of the guerilla shipyard conveniently marked. It also showed overland routes for bringing in supplies and river routes for sneaking narco-subs downstream to the ocean.
The second map was a sea chart. It showed the shipping routes off the Colombian coast that the narco-sub pilots took to Mexico. Brighton pulled out the tacks. He folded the chart as quietly as he could, then stuffed it into a cargo pocket. He studied the contour map a few moments before pocketing it along with the flashlight.
Finally, he raised his M16 and made his way back down the hall toward the door where he’d entered the building. Thus far he’d been lucky to avoid detection. But as he approached the door where he’d heard Morgan Saenz talking, the door suddenly opened.
Saenz backed out right into Brighton’s path. She held a flashlight in one hand and a book tucked under one arm. When she pulled the door shut, she turned and looked right at Brighton. Fear and anger flashed in her dark eyes. She opened her mouth to shout, but Brighton snapped his rifle up to point at Saenz’s neck and shook his head. Saenz immediately closed her mouth.
Brighton jerked his head to the side, motioning for Saenz to go back into the room. Saenz did as she was told, and Brighton followed her into what turned out to be her living quarters. It had a footlocker, a desk with a laptop computer, and a twin bed under a mosquito-net canopy. There was a stack of books in the corner next to the desk. A pair of citronella candles provided dim light.
Saenz turned to face Brighton. “You’ll never escape,” she said.
“Sit down,” Brighton said flatly, nodding toward the bed. She did so, never taking her eyes off his.
Brighton took out one of the remaining pairs of handcuffs and tossed it onto the bed next to Saenz. “Cuff your ankle to the bedframe,” Brighton ordered her.
Saenz narrowed her eyes but did as he said. “I only have to yell, young man,” she said, “and every FARC soldier in this camp will come to my a
id. You might kill me for it, but you won’t live long enough to enjoy it.”
Brighton smiled at her, his eyes hard as he glared at her over the M16’s iron sights. “Go ahead, sister,” he challenged. “Yell your head off.”
Saenz glared back at him. Then she lowered her eyes. “So now what?” she asked.
“I’m leaving,” Brighton said. “I ought to take you prisoner, but that sounds like more trouble than you’re worth. You’ll probably just jump off the boat the second I take my eyes off you, anyway. So you get to stay here, but don’t you dare think I’ll ever forget about you, Señora Saenz.”
Brighton backed out into the hallway and paused. His rifle never wavered, but his mind wasn’t so steady. He so badly wanted to pull the trigger and erase Saenz from the world. Who knew how many others would suffer at her hands. And he knew she was just going to raise the alarm and bring everybody running the second he was out of her sight. He might as well get the satisfaction of killing her now while he had the chance.
But he couldn’t. While it might satisfy him to destroy the one who’d hurt him and who knows how many others, Brighton just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had to rise above those impulses if he wanted to be able to look at himself in the mirror tomorrow. He had to be better than the enemy if he wanted to be able to call himself one of the good guys. There was nothing else he could do.
Without another word, he turned and bolted for the side door. He hit it and darted around the corner of the building, desperately hoping that no one happened to be looking his way. It took only that long for Saenz to gather her courage and yell.
“The American has escaped!” she shouted in Spanish. “He’s going for the boats! Cut him off!”
Hearing Saenz’s shout made Brighton smile. Sucker, he thought.
Brighton continued to move along the rear of the building toward the motorcycle on the other side. Saenz kept shouting inside, and the guard who’d been posted on the stool by the one-lane jungle road ran back toward the dock. He shouted for everyone else to be on the lookout. All the guerillas in earshot sprang into action and fanned out to search. But they were looking in the wrong direction.
Brighton got to the bike to find the keys in the ignition, as he expected. He slung his rifle over one shoulder, hopped on the bike, and kicked it to life. The sound of the engine drew the guerillas’ attention like a magnet — and silenced Saenz’s yelling for a second. But no one was close enough to do anything to stop him.
Brighton hit the headlight and tore off down the supply road. Some of the guards came running and fired a few shots after him, but the bullets pinged harmlessly off nearby trees.
No one could stop him now.
* * *
A short while later, morning sunlight illuminated the jungle’s canopy. Brighton had long since ditched his stolen motorcycle. Now, he set off overland with his map to find high ground and take the lay of the terrain.
Lying on his belly on a ridge with the guerillas’ map beside him, he glanced down at the river that passed through the middle of the FARC camp. He couldn’t see the camouflaged shipyard from here, but he knew the geography and landmarks well enough to know exactly where it lay. He set his field radio to the Shadow Squadron’s emergency frequency and keyed the transmitter.
“Aerie, this is Eagle,” Brighton said, using their callsigns. “Aerie, this is Eagle. Do you read me?”
“Eagle!” Lieutenant Commander Ryan Cross answered at once. His voice was full of surprise, delight, and relief. “Eagle, this is Aerie. Give me a status report. Are you all right?”
“I’ve been better, Commander,” Brighton said. “And I’m going to need an airlift here pretty soon.”
“The Osprey’s already in the air, Eagle,” Cross said. “We’ve been looking for you.”
“Good to hear it, Aerie,” Brighton said. “But if it’s all the same, I need to connect to Major Gaitan first. Little matter of an air strike I promised him.”
“Fair enough, Eagle,” Cross replied, clearly impressed. “Make your call. We’ll be here.”
“Roger that,” Brighton chirped. “See you soon, sir. Eagle out.”
“Good work out there, Eagle,” Cross said. “I knew we could count on you. Aerie out.”
Brighton pocketed his radio. “You have no idea, man,” he said softly. “No idea.”
CLASSIFIED
MISSION DEBRIEFING
OPERATION
PRIMARY OBJECTIVES
- Covert insertion via parachute
- Rendezvouz with Colombian task force
- Locate shipyard
- Call in coordinates for precision air strike
SECONDARY OBJECTIVES
- Minimize casualties
- Foster positive relations with Colombian task force
- Remain undetected
STATUS
5/7 COMPLETE
BRIGHTON, EDGAR
RANK: Staff Sergeant
BRANCH: Air Force Combat Controller
PSYCH PROFILE: The team’s technician and close-quarters-combat specialist is popular with his squadmates but often agitates his commanding officers.
I’ve been putting off writing this debriefing, mostly because I’m still sorting out everything that happened to me. Between the waterboarding, the stun-gunning, and my interrogator’s lousy sense of humor, I was pushed to my breaking point — and beyond. But I trusted in my training, which is the only reason I’m still alive . . . well, that and the ballpoint pen. As for Morgan Saenz, she was picked up a few days ago by the Colombian task force. One guess as to who tipped them off that she’d be heading back to Mexico.
- Staff Sergeant Edgar Brighton
CLASSIFIED
MISSION BRIEFING
OPERATION
I’ve been given a rather unpleasant VIP protection mission. I’ll be guarding a man named Heshem Shadid, an Iraqi politician. Admittedly, Shadid is a valuable asset to the war effort. He has given useful intel to US forces on several occasions. Unfortunately, Shadid is also a former terrorist.
Obviously, Shadid’s old friends are none too pleased that he has switched sides, and they’ll do anything to take him out. It’s my job to stop them.
- Lieutenant Kimiyo Yamashita
PRIMARY OBJECTIVES
- Meet with the VIP and his personal security force
- Prep a route and determine an overwatch position for transit
- Protect the VIP en route to his destination
SECONDARY OBJECTIVES
- Avoid open conflict with Iraqi insurgents
- Keep our presence covert
MISSION FOUR
SNIPER SHIELD
Shadow Squadron was in Iraq and had been operating there for the past several weeks. Officially, the US-led war had been over for years, and the last of the American combat forces had withdrawn months ago. Iraq, however, was still a bed of chaos. Terrorist organizations and local militias continued to stir up endless problems for the newly elected government. The remaining internal threats were so severe that even the locals admitted they weren’t ready to handle them on their own. So they called on their American allies for help — namely, Shadow Squadron.
Lieutenant Commander Cross glanced up at the sun and shielded his eyes. The blistering heat in Nasiriyah, in southeastern Iraq, was intense. The searing sun and extremely dry air were impossible to ignore. But in the midst of an operation, with death hiding around every corner or lurking in every shadow, there wasn’t time for distractions. Mental lapses could prove to be fatal. Besides, for the members of Shadow Squadron, it took much more than extreme temperatures or physical discomfort to affect their focus.
For the most part, Shadow Squadron’s assistance in Iraq had involved training local military forces or providing protection for local VIPs who didn’t yet trust their own soldiers. Occasionally, Cross and his men were given direc
t-action assignments like live-fire raids on hostile targets. Like today.
Acting on a tip from a trusted politician from the Dhi Qar Province, Cross’s eight-man squad was tasked with an assault on an al-Qaeda insurgent cell. The cell was currently holed up in an abandoned apartment complex in Nasiriyah. According to the tip, they were planning to sneak bombs into the drainage pump station along the Euphrates River. Intel confirmed that the cell had been stockpiling explosives in their hideout for months.
The Nasiriyah station was the largest in the Middle East. It was likely that the insurgents hoped to disable a vital public structure. Or to strike fear into the hearts of the locals. Either way, Cross had decided that now was the time to act.
Shadow Squadron’s black Seahawk helicopter roared in low over the skyline. It briefly paused over the abandoned apartment building. Almost immediately, six members of Shadow Squadron fast-roped down onto the roof. The chopper then hopped over to another building across the street. There, two more team members, Brighton and Yamashita, dropped in. These two would act as overwatch for the rest of the team, picking off any insurgents who tried to escape.
So far, the operation was proceeding smoothly. Cross and Walker led the six-man squad down into the building. They made their way through the structure slowly, checking blind spots and covering each other’s backs. They encountered no resistance —until they reached the ground floor. Cross and his men had caught the insurgents in the middle of lunch. To say they were caught unprepared would be a massive understatement.
Cross grinned, and then squeezed the trigger of his M4 carbine. He fired a single round into the ceiling as a warning shot.