Existential

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  Max sighed. “Oh, plenty I’m sure.”

  “Uh, yeah. A whole camp of scientists and two security teams gone black? There’s some serious firepower involved here, and you know a woman like her has powerful enemies.”

  “Nothing we can’t handle.” Max instantly regretted saying it.

  LT was right: they were headed into some serious shit if they accepted this mission. Yet he felt compelled to accept. Max lived for this. Besides, Elizabeth Grey awakened a puerile sense of chivalry within him. Max shook his head. Damsels in distress? You need to grow up. Or get laid. Probably both.

  LT laughed, then leaned closer to whisper, “For the amount we’ll be paid, you’re probably right, it’s worth the risk. Just another billionaire with too many toys and too much money. She probably doesn’t realize how much she’s overpaying us.”

  Max paused. “That’s what worries me. She doesn’t strike me as stupid.”

  “Me either. But this won’t be the first mission we’ve taken without knowing all the facts. And you look pretty determined, so what the hell?” LT assaulted Max with a knowing smile.

  Max stared at the wall and shook his head. “Christ, is it that obvious?”

  “Eh, don’t sweat it, Chief. You’ll be well compensated.” As Max’s brow creased in question, he added, “Monetarily, that is.”

  Max chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, LT. You always cut to the quick of things.” Their banter filled the void as Max hedged, weighing the options and outcomes in his mind, hoping for some new information to materialize. Finally, he admitted, “After Mexico, we need this.” He felt like a game show contestant as he punched the red intercom button to accept his fate.

  Dawn had broken, albeit in a half-assed fashion. Max watched the sky. One massive raincloud hung over their destination as flat, lumpy, and gray as a whorehouse mattress. Promising relentless piss drizzle, it spanned the heavens, allowing only remnants of light to filter through. Ah, November in Alaska. The temperature had risen a couple degrees since they’d landed. The brunt of the cold front wasn’t due for several hours, by which time the team would be in the field, cleaning up Elizabeth Grey’s mess.

  Max turned to LT, who stood next to him by the hangar door. “Guess they weren’t kidding about this front.”

  LT blew out a huge cloud of vapor through his crooked smile “It’s like you jarheads say, ‘If it ain’t raining, we ain’t training.’”

  “Yeah, that’s usually the way things go. Let’s get ’em briefed and get a move on.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Max and LT retreated into the hangar, deserted but for the jet they’d flown in and the team who lounged on folding chairs, awaiting the mission brief. Visual aids had been provided: a PowerPoint projector and a portable movie screen. Max moved to the screen; LT pulled up the latest satellite image of the Greytech site on the projector. The team sat relatively quiet but for Red and Coach who were in the midst of a spirited political argument.

  “Yeah,” Red gibed, “you’re an interesting paradox, a peacenik who shoots people for a living.”

  Coach leaned a bit left politically and wasn’t afraid to make his views known. As if it matters whether someone leans left. Max knew America was embroiled in an endless war now, while nobody seemed to care, and things weren’t likely to change no matter which side was running things. But Coach, Red, and countless other Americans still believed the fanciful promises of jackasses and elephants.

  Before Coach could retort, Max announced, “All right, gents, shut your sucks and listen up.” He stepped aside from the screen and pulled a laser pointer from his pocket. “You already know what we’re here to do, so here’s how we’re gonna do it. This is a satellite image of the Greytech mining operation from yesterday. The whole shebang is located in a valley about two hundred klicks from here. The area is heavily forested, as you can see, at an altitude of about seven thousand feet, so I hope everyone’s been keeping up with their PT.”

  Max circled the red laser dot around the mountain slope occupying the western edge of the photo. “This is Boundary Peak 171, which is neatly bisected by the US-Canadian border. And here is the Greytech mine.” Max pointed to a glacier high on the mountain slope, punctuated by a gaping black hole in the ice. A couple of rectangular prefab buildings and several pieces of yellow heavy equipment surrounded the hole, parked in seeming disarray. “We’re ordered to steer clear of their mine on pain of not being paid, so heed the warning.”

  Johnny called out, “Don’t have to tell me twice!”

  Ignoring him, Max moved the pointer down the valley, along the stream flowing from the glacier. “This cluster of buildings along the creek is Greytech Base Camp, our destination. The west end of camp appears to be largely logistics and support—helipad, storage structures, Conex boxes, motor pool, various repair facilities. Upstream, closer to the dig site are the living quarters and laboratories. Looks like something went down right here.” Max pointed toward a building that appeared blackened as if by a fire. “Hard to say what happened, but things are definitely amiss, which is why we’ll insert here, about six klicks from camp.” Max pointed along a lengthy yet narrow break in the evergreen cover. “The coordinates where the Greytech expedition attempted to send its final transmission are about two klicks away, our first waypoint en route to Base Camp. Outside communications after we leave the drop zone will be damn near impossible, due to powerful, localized magnetic interference around the dig site. Don’t be surprised if this anomaly affects our comm gear as well.”

  Irish asked, “You think that clearing is wide enough to land a chopper?”

  “Maybe,” Max said, “but be prepared to fast rope in. I don’t want to jeopardize the bird or give the pilot a case of the ass—he’s likely the guy they’ll send to pick us up. We’ll secure the DZ using our usual SOP: split into alpha and bravo teams, hasty three-sixty on the ground, then move out to the northwest side of the clearing. Then on to the first waypoint. Alpha team to consist of myself, Red, Irish, and Diaz; bravo team is LT, Sugar, Gable, and Coach. We’ll re-form our usual breaching and security teams right before we move into Base Camp.”

  Max hated like hell handing Sugar over to LT, even for a hike, but it couldn’t be helped if he wanted a heavy machine gun on each team. LT would be tempted to frag Red, their other gunner, if Max tried it the other way.

  “Once we find out what happened at the last point of contact, we’ll climb this ridge to waypoint two and recon Base Camp before moving in to secure. Start at the east end and work our way west. A Greytech helo with more security personnel will arrive for extraction in two days, by which time we’ll have the place sorted.”

  Max paused, using the moment to gauge the reactions of his team members. All appeared serious and contemplative as they thought things over, except for Red, who always appeared not to give a shit during briefings. No matter; he would have Max’s back on the ground.

  Max continued, “I won’t pretend to know much about what we’re getting into. We’re pretty much flying blind here, but if you have any questions, fire away. I’ll try my best to answer.”

  Sugar spoke up: “Chief, you were a company man. You think maybe the government is behind this? Our fine civil servants have been known to take whatever they can’t buy. And if this new element has any use, they’ll want every last ounce of it.”

  Max shrugged. “Crossed my mind a time or two on the flight up. But hell, it could be anybody: Russians, mercs for a rival corporation, natives pissed off about a violated burial ground. There’s no shortage of potential bogeymen. Bottom line: secure the place, grab the data, and rescue any survivors. We aren’t being paid to figure out what happened, and negotiating with un-friendlies isn’t a condition of our mission. We take out whoever we have to. I don’t give a damn who they work for.”

  Irish grumbled, “I been lookin’ to tangle with some Russkis again since that mission in Georgia.”

  “Boy, you said it,” Gable agreed.

  �
��You’ll tangle with whoever the hell is there,” LT announced. “Don’t go in with any preconceived notions.”

  A sliver of temper broke through Coach’s game face. “Hope I don’t have to shoot anybody I know.”

  Red grinned. “It’s a distinct possibility.”

  “Did you not hear what the fuck I just said?” LT asked. “Keep pondering what you can’t possibly know, and you’ll be caught flat-footed by what you didn’t expect.”

  Gable turned to LT. “Is that some kind of Buddhist bull—”

  Max cut him off. “Knock it off. LT’s right. Just concentrate on getting shit done, no matter what. Any more questions?”

  Silence.

  “All right then. Drop cocks and grab socks, we fly in half an hour.”

  The flight crew had gone somewhere to lay over, so they had the aircraft to themselves while they suited up. Max chose black digicam tactical gear as opposed to arctic; black would blend well with both the evergreen forest and the structures in Base Camp. He pulled on his vest, eight pounds of ceramic plates sandwiching his muscular torso. Knowing that it might be days before he took it off again, he adjusted it until the fit felt perfect. He checked his quick release tab, a cloth tab velcroed down on the front inside of the plate carrier. A pull of this handle would instantly release him from the vest. He, like the others, then repeated the process with each piece of their body armor.

  Once clad in their basic combat gear, the team members found quiet corners of the plane to make last-minute calls or texts to loved ones. None of these communications revealed anything regarding the mission, including the team’s present location. By this point, none of their relatives bothered asking for details.

  Max pulled out his phone and opened the picture gallery, silently perusing photos of his ex-wife, Janet, and his son, David. Viewing their images jogged a memory of calling them before he headed out on a mission a couple of years back. He and Janet had still been married and the conversation immediately degenerated into the usual arguments—money, of course, and Max coming and going from their lives on an irregular basis, continually disappointing their son. He tried hard to get Janet to buck up and deal with the onerous aspects of being married to a professional warrior by reminding her of the good times they’d had and would enjoy again as soon as he came home.

  “If you come home,” Janet had replied. “Because one of these days you’re not going to. What am I supposed to tell David when I never hear back from you? That Daddy won’t be coming home ever again because he was blown up, burned to death, shot, beheaded by militants in some backwater shithole no one’s ever heard of?”

  “Janet—”

  “Don’t even, Max, because I won’t be able to tell him anything since I won’t know shit. Then I’ll have to raise your son by myself. Not that I don’t do that already.”

  “Look, I have to work; this is what I do. What do you think allows us to live the way we do?”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way. You could be a policeman or work for just about any branch of government. But you won’t. Because you’re addicted to combat.”

  “Oh, bullshit.”

  “No. It’s the truth. You’re not the man I married; he died in Iraq. I’m stuck with a phantom now, but at least your son hasn’t realized that. Yet. But he’s learning in a hurry, a lesson taken from every ballgame, school play, and fishing trip that you miss. And I’ve had enough. Do things right or not at all—isn’t that what you always say? Well, there’s nothing right about this marriage. You can consider us over.”

  Max had tried to speak, only to find himself dumbstruck and stuttering. Janet’s voice berated him, each sentence a mule kick to the head. Her final words shrilled in his ear: “Since you won’t take your own advice and raise your son right, then you won’t do it at all! We’re done with you, Max. I’ll have divorce papers drawn up and waiting. If you make it back, of course. Frankly, I couldn’t give a shit less.”

  The line had then died.

  Emotion was the first casualty of war. If it weren’t, then every man on the battlefield would go insane at the first sight of a man being blown apart. But even now, two years since that phone call, Max nursed the hurt deep in his gut. The guilt weighed on his psyche, ruining his focus and causing his thoughts to drag before the most lucrative mission of his life. Max took one last look at David, the boy who symbolized all he’d ever wanted out of life—

  Only you wanted something else.

  He powered off his phone, which he stowed on the plane with the rest of his personal effects. The other team members were likewise removing all forms of identification from their bodies; a process known in the business as sterilization.

  Max’s memories of his family disappeared with his cell phone. He’d forced himself back on point. Proper and successful execution of the mission was all that mattered now.

  “Hustle up,” Max called. “Fifteen minutes to takeoff.” He left the cabin, the first man dressed and off the plane. When Diaz followed on his heels, Max realized he looked physically ill. “Don’t tell me my doctor is sick.”

  “It’s nothing.” The words were a croak, like a hiccup gone awry. Diaz coughed, then leaned over to spit a copious stream of saliva onto the smooth concrete floor.

  “Bullshit, you look like you’re about to throw up.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Max turned and stopped Diaz in his tracks. “What the fuck’s the matter with you? If you’re gonna hold us back, then you’re damn well staying here.”

  That got Diaz’s attention. He swallowed audibly, nodded. “I’m...I’m good, Chief. But I got some bad vibes about this mission.”

  “You need to secure those right now. This mission reeks like a stockyard at high noon. We all get it, and we’re all dealing with it. If you can’t, just say the word. I’ll send you back to Vegas and hump the med kit myself.”

  Though Max had meant every word of his threat, that wasn’t about to happen. Like every man on the team, Diaz was a pro, a man who often and proudly stated that more Congressional Medals of Honor had been awarded to Navy corpsmen than to any other MOS in the military. Bad vibes of varying degrees were unavoidable anytime lives were at stake, and though Diaz’s were a bit worse than usual today, he appeared to be getting over them in a hurry. He just needed a friendly reminder of his importance as team medic.

  “Got it, Chief,” Diaz replied. “I’m ready to work.”

  Max nodded. “Good. Let’s get loaded up.”

  Max and Diaz grabbed their weapons from the plane’s cargo hold. Other team members exited the plane, either wearing solemn game faces—Coach, LT, Irish—or smiles worthy of the Joker—Sugar, Gable, Red.

  “Man, shut yo dumb country ass up,” Sugar crowed to Gable, the two of them laughing at some quip as they walked over to pick up their weapons.

  “No, I’m tellin’ you...”

  Max moved on, not caring to hear what Gable was telling anyone. Better bad jokes than bad vibes.

  The munitions were on Greytech, which seemed only appropriate. Max usually had to provide his own munitions and supplies, problematic to transport. This airport even had an armory and barracks for the Greytech security teams, which currently consisted of the two men fortunate enough to be left behind guarding the fort. Steel boxes of ammo were laid out on the armory floor, along with wooden crates containing anti-personnel mines and various grenades: flashbang, smoke, high explosive, 40mm for the grenade launchers. Cardboard boxes held chem lights, various types of batteries, MREs, and basic medical supplies. Every man grabbed a pair of heavy leather gauntlets to wear over his combat gloves to provide additional protection for their hands when fast roping. The welding gloves would be discarded once the men hit the ground.

  Max had to give Greytech logistics some credit. They’d laid out everything his team had requested and then some for this mission. There was even a six-pack of Diet Mountain Dew. Max only stuck two cans in his large combat backpack, however—one for each day in the boonies.

/>   Once the team was provisioned, Max powered on his tactical radio. Their AN/PRC-152s all featured helmet-integrated headsets and optional GPS. Each man entered the coordinates for the DZ, the two waypoints, and Base Camp into their 152. Loaded with fresh batteries, each functioned properly during their comm check.

  Every team member left the armory at least eighty pounds heavier, packs and pockets bulging with supplies and ammo, as much as each man could carry and still perform his duties. Due to all the unknown variables on this mission, the team packed everything they anticipated needing. There were no packing lists. Each man on the team had been hired for their combat expertise and was expected to bring what was needed to do the job.

  Fog rose from the scant few inches of snow melting on the grass between runways. Two full-sized pickup trucks awaited them outside, transportation to their bird. Max climbed into the bed of the lead vehicle with LT, Irish, and Diaz. Sugar, Red, Gable, and Coach followed in the other truck. As they rode, Max sweated beneath his body armor and combat suit. Christ, it must be forty degrees out here. Maybe the global warming boosters are right. That was a debate best left to the likes of Coach and Red, and not one Max cared to listen in on.

  LT craned his neck to peer around the cab. “Looks like we ride in style, Chief.”

  Max peeked around the other side of the truck and nodded his approval. Their transport to the drop zone was a massive Sea Stallion transport helicopter, military surplus still painted flat gray. The black decals of its civilian identification number were plastered over the ghost of the word “MARINES”, still faintly visible if one focused hard enough. It was devoid of its former armaments, which might have come in handy at the DZ. As Max appreciated the pounding of the main rotor, he wondered if he could fly such a beast, many times the size of the small Bell helicopters he’d trained on.

  “Just like the good old days,” Diaz shouted over the rotor noise as he dismounted from the truck bed.

  The good old days. “Yeah,” Max agreed, not aware he wore a slight smile.