The Edge Of Honor (Part One)

by KT Bryan

  LOSS

  Friday, April 7th 5:57 a.m.

  Lieutenant Commander Jake Kincaid heard the thwap of rotors before the chopper swooped into view. Shading his eyes, he scanned the horizon. The early morning sun glimmered over the Persian Gulf, glinting treacherously off the Blackhawk helicopter as it came in hot and hungry for the tactical extraction of the eight men on the beach. Whirling blades kicked up sand as the chopper waited impatiently for EDGE Team Two to reach it and board.

  For the last ten minutes, Jake and his men had been hunkered down in a dirt alley behind an abandoned diner in a long line of gutted buildings sandwiched between a thirty foot cliff and a wide strip of beach.

  The sheer idiocy of this pickup scenario made Jake’s palms sweat. Thanks to some Com guy’s Head Up Ass FUBAR, their 0300 primary pickup had been blown to hell. Even though, according to intel, the situation on the ground was now supposedly secure, it was broad daylight for God’s sake, which left the chopper and his men way too vulnerable to enemy fire. Crap, any lunatic with a gun could see them.

  The pilot’s voice came over Jake’s headset. “EDGE two, this is Falcon six-eight. State your position. Over.”

  Jake checked his GPS, keyed up his mike, and replied with their lat/long, then said, “Approximately zero-two-eight-zero meters south. End building. Over.”

  “Copy. I have a visual, over.”

  Jake looked around for a second helo and didn’t see one. “Falcon six-eight, you got an escort?”

  “Neg. No escort. I say again, no escort. Over.”

  The pilot sounded young. Really young. Young generally meant little to no combat flight experience. Since this wasn’t a freakin’ training op in the Everglades, Jake wasn’t happy that he was handing his team over to what sounded like a kid, or the fact that his regular pilot hadn’t shown. “Where’s Falcon six-four? Over.”

  “Appendicitis, sir.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake. You at least got a gunner?”

  “Gunner’s down. I say again, no gunner. Over.”

  What the hell? Covert extractions in a secure territory didn’t generally require much more than a helo and a pilot, but still. Since the sun was now bright and blazing, this extraction wasn’t exactly covert anymore. So, no escort, no spotter, no gunner. No way. Jake thought better about telling the pilot to kiss his ass and instead replied, “Abort, Falcon six-eight. Abort, abort.”

  “Negative, EDGE Two. CO’s orders. I’m running low on fuel here. Exit is secure. I say again, exit is secure. Please move it, sir. Acknowledge.”

  Jake puffed out a breath and looked at his men, knowing they’d heard the entire exchange over their own headsets. Even though this was his team and he was the one in charge, and therefore responsible, he respected his men and wanted their vote. He got a nod from each man. Okay then. Decision made, he nodded back and spoke into his mike, “Affirm. On our way. Out.”

  He watched the pilot pick a hover reference, toggle the stick and wait.

  Time to go.

  He gave the signal and his men left the cover of the building to move forward down the beach. Less than three hundred meters to freedom, and eventually, a cold beer.

  Like Night Shield and Grey Dawn, EDGE didn’t officially exist. Missions were never recorded, never documented, and if an operation went wrong, the U.S. government would deny their very existence. Political credo 101: take the credit, deflect the blame.

  All a part of SPECWAR. Black ops. And so deeply buried only a handful of men in the Pentagon had even the slightest awareness of it.

  As a Navy SEAL Jake did as his country asked. With EDGE, he did everything they didn’t ask, but wanted, and then some. Pretty much anything and everything no one else either provided or sanctioned.

  Both jobs boiled down to freedom and liberty.

  But there was no freedom, and certainly no liberty, in the Arab nation Jake’s team was about to leave. They’d just finished a nice little counterterrorist maneuver that was going to save several hundred innocent lives, and at the same time neutralize a rebel force of thousands.

  Hoooboy, those were gonna be some mighty pissed off revolutionaries. Pissed, and now, thanks to his team, impotent.

  Mission accomplished.

  Jake wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his sleeve. He was finally going home. After being on assignment since Jesus was an Ensign, and spending way too long in this particular sandbox, he felt restless and antsy--a sure sign it was time he headed back to his nice little beach house in San Diego.

  And back to Jessi.

  Grimy with sweat and sand, Shane Bentley, the team’s sniper who could blow a hole through a dime from nearly a mile away, Jake’s closest friend, and Jessi’s older brother by one year, called over his shoulder, “Hey, L.C., you think the pilot’s outta diapers yet? Safe or not, this rendezvous is a little screwy.”

  Shane was an expert at providing helicopter aviation support when missions included attack, assault, and recon. If he thought this situation was screwy, then it most certainly was.

  Jake scrubbed a hand over his face.

  “Yeah, boss, what’s he mean his gunner’s down? It’s not like he just left a hot spot. Did he? Crap, we gotta be at least fifteen klicks from any kind of problem area. Intel said we are secure, right?”

  That was from Hutch, the team’s point man and one of the deadliest guys Jake knew. An ex-Green Beret, Jake had seen Hutch take out six fully armed targets in less than a minute using nothing but his two hands and a nifty little knife he liked to call Chewy. He was an expert in unconventional warfare and specialized recon.

  “That’s the intel I got, yeah. One thing’s for sure, the admiral damn well wouldn’t pull this kind of crazy stunt. Someone’s ass is gonna be lunch.” Every man moving down this beach knew that in combat the term secure was relative. For now there was nothing else to do but suck it up and move on. Jake shifted his rucksack and kept jogging at a good clip. “At least we’re finally getting outta here. Stay alert.”

  After months of being overseas and nineteen sweltering days in the desert, they were all ready for some much needed R and R. Exit secure, he and his team angled their way across the hard-packed sand to the hovering chopper. Just a couple more minutes and they’d all get their down time.

  Jake scanned the area, saw nothing other than sand, dunes, and thin grass to his right, just below a short cliff. Water to his left. Chopper now straight ahead. Even with the area supposedly safe, he couldn’t quite relax, couldn’t get into the spirit of a mission well done.

  Jarred Wesley, also known as Wolf, jogged up next to Jake and said, “I could’ve flown with appendicitis. Jingo’s a pussy.”

  Mac Jingo flew Falcon six-four. He was the second best pilot Jake knew. Wolf was the first. An ex-Army Ranger and former research professor of military strategy, Wolf was a brilliant and daring helicopter pilot. But that was mostly because Wolf was bat-shit crazy.

  “Make sure you tell him that when he’s outta the hospital.”

  “And you can bet your ass I would’ve had an escort and a door gunner. This whole situation’s scrambled.”

  Chase Patterson, a preacher’s kid from Atlanta, and the team’s explosives expert, snorted. Taciturn and mysterious, Chase had a steel backbone and thrived on adrenaline and raw determination. “Wolf, you jerk, you’d fly with two broken legs, appendicitis, and nuclear hot hemorrhoids. Not everyone’s as insane as you are.”

  Ryan Monolito, whose forte was psychological warfare, hefted his M-240 higher on his shoulder and added, “Wolf doesn’t know better. His version of the three R’s is Rita, Rhonda, and Rose. All redheads.” Ever vigilant, Lito scanned right, left, forward.

  Jake followed his gaze. Everything was still.

  L.A. born and bred and a former Delta Force weapons specialist, Doug Jenkins jogged past, gaze watchful, and tossed over his shoulder, “Eat my dust, assh
oles. This pickup stinks.”

  “Keep moving, ladies. Eyes open. Mama’s waiting.” Nick Farrell, former PJ and Air Force medic, caught up and went past. “It’s definitely time for a seven day cruise to nowhere.”

  Which was Nick’s way of saying he wanted a week’s worth of sleep. Seven glorious days of nothing. “I hear ya,” Jake said, and glanced around, still on guard, still alert, still moving at a fast jog. He saw the same water, sand, a few rocks, same thin grass. Nothing out of the ordinary. Even so, he was tense. Maybe the heat was getting to him. The climate here was notoriously unpleasant and today was no exception.

  Just as the eight men were twenty meters from rescue, Jake caught a flash of light over his right shoulder. His mouth went dry.

  A hollow boom shook the earth.

  The concussion staggered them sideways.

  Sand exploded, pelting them with heat.

  RPG. Fifteen meters to their left.

  Time stopped for a split second. Fear vanished as adrenaline flooded the eight men.

  Jake yelled, “Go, go, go!” and blitzed into a dead run. “Hutch, you’re up!”

  As the primary lead to cover, Hutch didn’t need to be told twice. He scurried up the ladder and onto the helo like his ass was on fire. The blades from the chopper were kicking up a minor sandstorm, and after manning a heavy assault weapon, he took the gunner’s position in the door of the helo and started firing four thousand rounds per minute at every berm--over and through the sand and the rocks and the thin grass. Anywhere and everywhere that someone who wanted them dead might be hiding.

  Jenkins went next. Then Nick.

  Wolf, Chase, and Lito scrambled up at warp speed.

  Shane’s turn. His boot caught on a clump of grass and he went down on one knee.

  In the next instant everything went to hell, life changed, the tide turned.

  A dark-skinned man dressed in desert camouflage stood up from behind a berm on Jake’s right.

  Sunlight glinted off steel. Jake blinked. Turned his head.

  And saw a sniper rifle sighted directly on Shane.

  Not yet on board the helo, Shane was only two meters away and fully exposed.

  “Shaaannneee!” Jake yelled, screaming for Shane to move, to get down, to get the hell out of the line of fire, but the helo rotors drowned out his words.

  Jake pulled his weapon. Raised it.

  Chase and Lito reversed course, scrambling, trying to get to Shane.

  Wolf was almost on board. Two rungs left.

  Shane gained his footing and ran.

  Jake sighted in.

  The Arab and Jake both fired.

  Shane took a hit and spun, falling backward into Chase.

  The sniper took a head shot, jerked once, then fell to his knees and dropped face first onto the sand.

  Jake didn’t think, didn’t feel rage or even justification, because, Christ Almighty, the bullet that hit Shane had probably done some major damage.

  Let it be a minor flesh wound--

  Another grenade cannoned into the earth. The sun-scorched sand exploded around Jake, stinging his eyes and face.

  A few more steps. All he needed was a few more steps.

  He spit out a mouthful of grit, watched Wolf pull himself up and over the side onto the chopper. Lito shouldered Shane and climbed up next. Chase clambered after them.

  His turn. The prop wash from the rotors was horrendous. He streaked to the ladder, and just as he was about four rungs up, a ripple of warning zipped up his spine.

  He shouted, signaling frantically to the pilot to take off, heedless of the fact that he was hanging halfway down the ladder.

  A third grenade launched. This time it missed contact with the chopper, and its fuel tank, by inches. The chopper bucked and shuddered, then made a sharp left bank. The ladder whipped through the air with enough gravitational force to jerk Jake’s feet and right hand free.

  Holy hell. The only thing between him and death was his tightly clenched left hand. Which totally sucked under the circumstances because, one--he was right handed, and two--his left hand was starting to sweat.

  His feet couldn’t quite make contact, and just as he reached for the rung with his right hand, the chopper nosed down.

  He missed.

  If he didn’t grab onto something soon, he was going to drop. He glanced down several hundred feet and then really started to sweat. Roger Ramjet wasn’t flying over the ocean, which was what he should have been doing, and which would have been a not-as-likely-to-die scenario if Jake had fallen--but no, the pilot was headed straight over a rocky ridge.

  Fuck. He should’ve listened to his mother and gone to law school.

  Gravity pulled at every muscle and tendon as the chopper gained speed.

  Shouts from above caused him to look up. Wolf was halfway down the ladder and harnessed in like some kind of knight swooping to the rescue. Thank God, because Jake didn’t think he could hold on much longer. Swinging helplessly by one hand, he made another attempt to grab hold. He swung his right arm upward. Wolf, practically sideways now, caught Jake’s hand and held tight. With a grunt and heave, he hauled Jake up.

  The instant he was pulled into the chopper, he wished they’d been one minute faster. Shane lay unmoving on the floor of the helo.

  “Status?”

  The look Nick gave him made Jake’s blood run cold. “Got a through and through of the femoral artery.”

  Son of a bitch.

  He barely heard Nick talking over the buzzing in his ears. “--bled out. Nothing left I could do. I’m sorry, L.C.”

  Shane was gone. Just like that. Jesus, it hardly seemed possible. Just last night they were joking and cutting up – he was calling Shane a cowpie because he wanted to live on a ranch in Texas and raise cows and kids. And Shane was telling him where he could stuff it, along with a few choice words about his mother not knowing who his father was. Of course, Shane knew that was a load of crap because he’d met both of Jake’s parents at about a million Kincaid family barbecues.

  Oh God, Jessi...

  One minute. One minute might have done it. Lifetimes could be lived in one minute. And lives lost.

  They’d only needed to be one minute ahead of the game and Shane would’ve had his pastures and plenty of kids to fill ‘em.

  And Jessi would still have her brother.

  Jake raised a despondent gaze toward Nick. “It’s my fault. I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve been faster. Should’ve said no.” He slammed his fist down. “Damn it! Damn it!” And then, God help him, tears burned the back of his eyes.

  It was something his men had never seen before and after a second of shocked silence, everyone started speaking at once.

  “It wasn’t your fault, sir. Our intel said secure--”

  “Those bastards!”

  “There’s no way you could have known--”

  “Nobody knew--”

  “You did what you could--”

  “We all made the choice--”

  Jake closed his eyes, listening to the wind and the thrap of the rotors, and wondered how the hell Jessi was going to live through yet another loss.