Crossing Savage

by Dave Edlund

  With his weapon slung across his shoulder, Weasel entered the woodshed and went directly to the gas cans. There were still three lined up, one next to the other on the floor of the shed—two five-gallon cans and a single one-gallon can; he reached for the smaller can.

  Weasel never heard the man glide into the woodshed behind him. He made absolutely no sound. He didn’t even stir the air. He was like a spirit, a ghost. Indeed, that was his call sign—Ghost.

  As Weasel rose with the gas can, a gloved hand came over his mouth and pulled him sharply back. Off balance, Weasel dropped the red plastic can—it hit the ground with a slosh. As Weasel grabbed the hand over his mouth, Ghost’s other arm came up swiftly and plunged a razor-sharp combat blade into the side of the exposed throat.

  Ghost kept his left hand firmly over Weasel’s mouth and continued to pull backward. No sound came from the dying man. His body tensed and he struggled, but his strength quickly drained along with his blood.

  It took no more than a minute for the struggling to stop. Ghost laid Weasel on his back and wiped off his blade on Weasel’s sleeve. He returned the knife to its sheath, and Ghost grabbed the body by the load-harness straps where they passed over the shoulders. Then he swiftly, but quietly, dragged the body out of the woodshed and away from the cabin. He hastily stashed the body behind some manzanita bushes and small fir trees and covered the drag marks leading out of the shed. Then he went back to his lair to wait for the next victim. He knew someone would come shortly looking for Weasel.

  Ortiz came out of the cabin and approached the woodshed. He was irritated that it was taking Weasel so long to pick up another gas can and return with it. It was a simple task, even for Weasel. What could possibly be the problem? But then again, not much had gone according to plan today.

  Like Weasel, Ortiz was letting his mind drift off the task at hand, thinking how pleasant it would be to return to the submarine and play cards with the Russian sailors. Ortiz liked to gamble and drink, and if a fight erupted, all the better. He enjoyed hurting people, especially with his hands.

  “Weasel, what are you doing?” he called as he approached the woodshed. No answer. Now Ortiz was really getting annoyed.

  He walked to the open door of the woodshed and stepped inside. Weasel was not there. Ortiz looked to the left, then to the right—no Weasel. Then he noticed the gallon-size gas can in the middle of the dirt floor. He knelt near the can and examined what appeared to be several large drops of blood mixed with the dirt. Grasping his machine gun with both hands, Ortiz turned, planning to conduct a quick search around the woodshed before reporting to General Ramirez. He had just cleared the open door to the woodshed when Ghost slipped from behind the door and placed his left hand under Ortiz’s chin and lifted, forcing his head backward. With his lower jaw locked in place and his head back so far it was painful, Ortiz could not make a sound. Ghost pivoted and extended his left leg behind Ortiz, toppling the terrorist onto his back.

  He landed hard, loosening his grip on the MP5; a flash of sharp pain shot through his back. Ghost knocked the gun away. Ortiz reacted by placing both hands on the arm of the attacker. On his back, with both arms latched onto Ghost’s left arm, Ortiz was completely vulnerable for the final move of the attack.

  It came fast and without mercy. Ghost plunged the seven-inch blade into the left side of Ortiz’s chest. Ghost rotated the blade sideways and at an angle so that the blade slipped between two ribs, missing the sternum. The sharp steel sliced through muscle and lung tissue, finally piercing the heart.

  To Ortiz it felt as if his entire chest was experiencing an enormous and painful cramp, unlike anything he had ever felt—a sharp, shooting pain that radiated out into his arms. The pain intensified, and then his eyes registered the man standing over him, dressed in camouflage—the face painted shades of tan, black, and green. The last thing Ortiz saw was the coldness of the eyes. The final thought to cross his mind was that the angel of death had personally come to claim his wicked soul.

  Ramirez was out of patience. He stormed to the front door and yelled. “Weasel, Ortiz!”

  No reply. Only the sound of a gentle wind whispering through the trees. It was approaching mid-afternoon, and the scattered clouds were beginning to thicken. Maybe a storm approaching.

  Again he yelled, “Weasel! Ortiz!” Still only silence. He became wary, alert to danger. Something was very, very wrong. Gripping his pistol firmly and raising it to the ready position, he was just about to step out the door when the window to his right suddenly shattered.

  Kwok fell to the floor of the cabin, blood pooling where he lay on the wooden floorboards. Karen screamed and the other students looked aghast. Professor Savage and Peter were stunned; but Davis immediately recognized what was coming down.

  Before Ramirez could react, a camouflaged man suddenly appeared in front of him.

  Jim Nicolaou had been standing on the porch, hugging the wall, and spun swiftly in front of Ramirez, a .45-caliber pistol extended into Ramirez’s face.

  Jim was dressed in digital camouflage fatigues. On his right thigh was a tactical pistol holster hanging from a web belt. Across his chest were several magazine pouches. Like Ghost, his face was painted in camouflage colors, and he wore an olive drab knitted cap.

  The only insignia on his uniform was a small U.S. flag on his right shoulder and a circular patch on his left that had an image of a globe with two crossed lightning bolts, all embroidered in black on a tan background. This was the symbol of the Strategic Global Intervention Team.

  “Weasel and Ortiz are no longer able to answer you. They’ve joined their comrade in hell,” Jim said as he nodded toward the body of the clean-shaven terrorist, slain with a single bullet to the head.

  Jim kept his eyes riveted on Ramirez. He retrieved the Glock pistol from the General and shoved it into his belt. Then he took the grenade and shoved it into a cargo pocket.

  “Now, slowly slide the sling from your shoulder and let the MP5 drop to the floor.”

  Ramirez complied, slowly and with exacting movements. As encouragement, the big pistol never moved from the bridge of his nose.

  “Lock your hands behind your head,” Nicolaou ordered. Ramirez did as he was told.

  “I am General Ramirez. I demand to be treated according to the terms of the Geneva Convention as a prisoner of war.”

  “Stuff it,” Jim responded.

  By now two other SGIT team members had appeared behind Nicolaou, all dressed in identical digital camouflage fatigues, faces painted in shades of tan, green, and black. The one named Ghost reported. “The perimeter is secure. Two terrorists dead. This is the last one alive.” He nodded at Ramirez standing before his squad leader.

  “Ghost, Bull—get this piece of shit out of my sight. Bind his hands and stand him over there by the tree,” said Nicolaou, pointing across the open space in front of the cabin where, not long ago, the hostages had been corralled.

  Jim entered the cabin and saw the people kneeling on the floor. He immediately recognized Professor Savage and Peter. Speaking into his throat mic, he said, “Magnum, Homer—report.”

  Peter and his father recognized the voice first. But the man standing before them with his face painted and dressed in camouflaged fatigues did not register visually.

  “Jim?” Peter asked. The painted face nodded slightly and broke into a half grin. “Man, am I glad to see you!” Peter was exuberant.

  “I owe you many apologies. I should not have doubted you,” said Professor Savage with a quivering voice, still shaken.

  “Apologies accepted,” acknowledged Jim.

  Davis looked up. “You made it here just in time. We were about to be barbequed.”

  “We’ve been here a while. PUMA kept us apprised of the situation. We were waiting for an opening to engage the terrorists without threatening all of you. We finally got the break we were looking for.”

  “What’s PUMA?” Harry asked.

  “It’s an unmanned aerial vehicle, or UAV. Much
like a sophisticated model airplane, except this one comes with electro-optical and infrared cameras that allow us to have forward and sideways vision simultaneously. It has an advanced propulsion system, so it can remain airborne for ten hours,” Jim explained as he removed a knife from his belt and quickly sliced through the plastic zip ties binding the hostages.

  “We launched PUMA immediately upon our arrival at the landing beach. It provided us continuous information on the terrorist assault.”

  He counted heads. “We’re short one person. There should be nine.”

  Davis replied. “The bastards murdered my partner, Jack Murphy. They put his body in the cellar.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jim answered. He continued slicing through the plastic ties binding their limbs.

  Karen was overcome with joy, and once her hands and feet were free she threw her arms around Jim. Jim didn’t expect that and was briefly caught off guard. He gently pulled her arms down and edged her back a step. “It’s okay now. You’re safe. Everyone is safe.”

  Jim spent a few moments to look everyone over. Karen was in a mild state of shock, but otherwise fine. Junichi and Harry looked fine. Daren was having trouble standing, and Harry was helping him. “I’ll be all right,” Daren acknowledged. “I just have bad knees. Kneeling on the floor almost did me in.” He mustered a slight smile.

  Professor Sato nodded when Jim came to him. “I am all right,” he said. “But Ian-san was struck sharply on the head. He may have a concussion.” Professor Savage didn’t say anything, but his eyes conveyed volumes. In those eyes, Jim saw remorse and guilt.

  “I’ll have the medic take a look at your head, sir,” he said to Professor Savage. “And you too, Davis. Looks like you also took a beating.”

  Troy Davis nodded. “Yeah. But it could have been much worse if it hadn’t been for Peter’s straight shooting. He took out two of them with his rifle from about 300 yards out, including that blonde psycho,” Davis pointed in the direction of the boulder and manzanita bushes part way across the valley. “They never saw it coming.”

  Jim strode back to the front door. “Bull. I need you in here now… we have two head injuries.”

  When Bull arrived on the porch, Jim spoke to Ghost while motioning toward Ramirez. “If he moves, shoot him in the knee. If he moves again, shoot the other knee. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Ramirez was suddenly afraid. He did not know what to expect as a captive. He had never been in this position before. He had always been the captor, and he had never treated his hostages well at all. Yes, he was very afraid. He believed Americans as a whole were soft, but these men were very different from those he had encountered before.

  Inside the cabin, Bull examined Davis first since his injuries appeared to be the worst. His face had been badly bruised, and his nose was definitely broken. Possible concussion, but at least his pupils were responding evenly to his flashlight; that was good.

  Bull moved on to Professor Savage who also seemed to be reasonably well, other than having a nasty cut on his scalp. He cleaned the wound and applied an antiseptic. The professor winced at the sting. “I think you two will be good. I’ll keep an eye on you both for the next 24 hours, just in case symptoms of a concussion develop. But I doubt that will happen.”

  Jim spoke again into his throat mic. “Homer, keep a secure perimeter. Don’t stay in one place very long. I want you moving.”

  Next, Jim returned his attention to the people clustered in the cabin. “Bull, move everyone onto the porch. Then get out the radio. I need to report to Colonel Pierson.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Magnum, come and help Ghost. I’m not taking any chances with our prisoner,” Jim ordered into his mic. A minute later a large man, six-foot-three inches and weighing 200 pounds, came from the side of the cabin. He was carrying a strange-looking weapon. It was shoulder-fired with a thick barrel and a huge, round drum magazine suspended beneath. It was an AA12 automatic shotgun. Even Davis had never seen anything like it.

  Harry, Karen, Daren, and Junichi huddled together at one end of the porch. The spot was arranged as a conversation area, with a small table and four Adirondack chairs. The students were mostly quiet and when they did talk, it was in hushed voices, speaking about their near-death experience. Karen’s eyes were red and puffy from crying, but she was slowly recovering her composure. Yet all were traumatized and still mentally very fragile.

  Professor Sato, Professor Savage, Peter, and Davis were gathered talking to Jim. “We saw most of the attack through the eyes of PUMA,” explained Jim. “Ghost was watching the live feed from the cameras. He had PUMA in an orbit about 500 feet above the cabin.”

  “I did not hear any aircraft,” said Sato-san, surprised and a bit disbelieving.

  Jim shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t have. PUMA is an advanced version of a UAV. It was designed for stealth reconnaissance missions. Its fuel-cell electric propulsion system is undetectable at that altitude. I’d bet you couldn’t hear it even at 50 feet.

  “Anyway, we saw Davis’s escape and then the capture of the two of you,” Jim motioned to Peter and Davis. “We were still about a mile out when the four terrorists mingled with the hostages and you guys were forced to surrender. That was a tough situation. I was worried we wouldn’t arrive in time.”

  “Probably not as worried as we were.” Professor Savage had just the tiniest hint of humor in his reply; it was a good sign.

  “No, I’m sure. What was that explosion we heard just after you surrendered?”

  “Oh that,” answered Peter. “I placed our seismic explosives in their Zodiac early this morning, before they arrived at the cabin. I armed them with a simple timer set to go off if I didn’t return and remove it.”

  “How in the world did you know to do that?” asked Jim incredulously.

  “You could say I’ve watched a lot of Schwarzenegger movies,” replied Peter. In good time he could explain it all to Jim, but now he just wanted to get safe and then sleep. His body was physically and emotionally drained beyond measure.

  “Well, you certainly made our job easier by taking out three of them.”

  Bull had been busy on the porch removing the field radio from one of the rucksacks. Too large to be hand-held, the radio had a long antenna fixed to its back. In no time Bull had it operational and was talking into the telephone-like handset, allowing the speaker to have a private conversation. “Sir, I have Colonel Pierson on the line.”

  Jim took the handset and spoke in short, almost abbreviated sentences. To Peter it sounded like a lot of jargon mixed with a small amount of English. The call lasted not more than two minutes. Jim terminated the call and gave the handset back to Bull.

  “The Colonel wants to interrogate Ramirez personally. He thinks we may get some decent intel from him, depending on how high in the organizational structure he stands. Personally, I’m doubtful. Every terrorist group I’ve fought has compartmentalized information so that you never can get much out of any one cell.”

  “What now?” asked Davis.

  “My orders are to take all of you back for debriefing. We’ll deliver Ramirez to the MPs at Elmendorf, and they’ll place him under custody until he can be questioned. Often it goes better if you just let ‘em sit for a few days and worry about what’s going to happen. I don’t know—maybe they figure we’re going to treat them as brutally as they do their prisoners?”

  “So where are we going?” asked Peter.

  “To The Office… McClellan Business Park. You know, your old stomping grounds.” Peter hadn’t been back to Sacramento since college, and truthfully, he had no interest in going back.

  Professor Savage said, “I am forever in your debt, Jim. Whatever I can do to help, I will. That I promise.”

  “I’m just doing my job, Professor; no need for thanks.”

  “I will let the students know we will be leaving soon,” said Sato-san. “We will gather our clothing and personal items.”

  “Bull. C
all in the chopper. Tell them to be ready for extraction in two hours.”

  Bull was back on the radio. After another very short conversation he said, “They’re on their way. Extraction in two hours, sir.”

  Professor Savage informed Peter and Troy Davis that he would gather up their gear along with his. “What should we do about Jack Murphy?”

  “I have a sanitation team arriving this evening,” answered Jim. “They will take care of everything. Murphy’s body will be treated with respect and dignity. His next of kin will be notified that he died in the line of duty, but they cannot be told any details. This is classified. None of you can reveal the details of what happened today to anyone. It is very important that you all understand this.

  “The bodies of the terrorists will be removed, probably to Elmendorf. After that, I’m not sure where they will go. But they will be thoroughly processed. My boss and his boss… all the way up the chain to the President himself… will demand to know who these guys were and who hired them.”

  “I understand,” said Professor Savage. “Professor Sato and I will talk to the students. After what they’ve been through, I’m confident they’ll respect your orders.” And he turned and went in to pack up.

  Jim looked at Peter and Davis. “Well, let’s go see what Ramirez has to say for himself, shall we?”

  Chapter 14

  September 26

  Chernabura Island, West Side

  Peter and Troy Davis followed Jim off the porch and approached Ramirez. He was still standing with his hands clasped behind his head. Ghost and Magnum had their weapons and eyes fixed on him. Ramirez had no doubt that either man would have gladly shot off both knee caps if given even the slightest provocation.

  Jim stopped about six feet in front of Ramirez. He was not about to get so close that Ramirez could use him as a shield. Peter and Davis both stopped about a step behind Jim.