Rain unto Death

by Alex Ryan

  “Ideally about twenty thousand, and that’s breathing oxygen right up to the jump point.”

  “We have one aircraft available to us, and that’s a Bell 206 Jet Ranger with a maximum service ceiling of 13,500 feet.”

  “It’s low, but if the winds are right, I can make it work.”

  “And how the hell are you going to find your way to the right spot in the darkness?”

  “With NVGs, I told you. I’ve done it before. I can do it again. Look, I have a hell of a lot better chance for success, and for that matter, survival, than if I hook up with a team of goons from the wrong side of the border.”

  Lane sat back on the long wooden bench. “I can’t argue that one. Problem is, we’ve got to work with what we have.”

  The bartender came to the table to clear the plates. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?”

  Lane joked. “A parachute and a pair of night vision goggles would be nice.”

  “There is a sport parachute club in this town. I can inquire,” the bartender replied calmly.

  “Are you serious?” Lane asked.

  “Well, if you were just joking then...”

  Rex piped in. “No joking, can you get a parachute rig?”

  “You would have to buy it, of course, but yes, I could get you set up with one.”

  “What about night vision goggles?”

  “I’m afraid you will be on your own for those.” The bartender walked away.

  “Wait a minute,” Rex said. “The helicopter, this is the one that’s going to land at night and get me and the Intel officer, right?”

  “Yeah. That is correct.” Lane said.

  “He ain’t doing that without NVGs, and if he has one pair, he has two....”

  Lane put his finger to his upper lip. “Damn good point Muse, damn good point.”

  “How much are you going to spend on bribing them damn spooks?”

  “Probably about ten grand, total.”

  “A decent sport rig is going to run three or four grand.”

  “Okay Muse, okay. You’ve sold me.”

  “Winds are two six zero at eleven knots,” the helicopter pilot said as Rex climbed through the cargo door and put on a headset.

  “I need a set of NVGs” Rex said in to the mic.

  “Sorry, I just have one set and I need them.”

  “Shit.”

  “Do you want to scrub the jump?”

  “Take me up. Get me to at least ten thousand. Let me take a look.”

  Rex was dressed in a jumpsuit over his traditional German garb. He opted to wear boots versus those ridiculous shoes. It was night, and he couldn't afford to twist an ankle by a bad landing on an unknown surface.

  The town of Fulda was lit up like a Christmas tree. Frankenheim was ominously dark. “Jesus, I can't see shit for lights. Don't these people believe in electricity?” Rex asked.

  “Welcome to East Germany. I want to stay at least five miles from the border. Any closer and those boys might get a bit excited.”

  “Can you hover a minute and let me borrow those NVGs? I need to get a fix on some landmarks.”

  “That's fine. I'm not even using them right now.”

  Rex strapped on the light amplification goggles and surveyed his landing zone. Then he saw the two lights in Frankenheim. Good. As long as he could get a visual on the two lights, he would be able to use them as a reference point. The open field was large. He removed the goggles and handed them back to the pilot.

  He performed one last minute check. The chute was ready. The Makarov was ready. The handheld radio was ready. “All right. See you sometime tonight.”

  “Godspeed to you.”

  Rex stepped out on to the skid, took one last minute survey, and stepped off into the cold night. He would have to open the chute high, so that the winds would carry him a sufficient distance past the wall before he would get low enough to be visible. The chute sharply arrested his fall in a reassuring tug on his harness straps. It took nearly twenty minutes to descend. He got a visual on the two guiding lights halfway through his decent, and finally lost them as his horizon was starting to disappear. He could not see the ground, so he had to judge his flare as best he could.

  He hit the ground hard, and with a fast forward speed. The rough plowed field caught his boots, and he tumbled for several rolls before stopping. He quickly recovered, gathered his chute, balled it up and put a large rock on it to prevent the wind from carrying it away. So far, it appeared as if he made it through undetected.

  He elected to keep the jump suit on for warmth until he reached the town. The streets were barren. It seemed as though the place was deserted. They said that the East Germans were systematically evacuating populated areas within five kilometers of the border. He guessed they didn't want people looking at the other side, or hearing the music and festivities.

  This desertion was both good and bad. The good part of it was that it made it fairly easily to identify his objective. The bad part of it was that it would be fairly obvious that he didn't belong. He might as well have worn a set of black combat fatigues.

  At least there were no guards walking around. There was the dim glow of a light inside the one story building. Three uniformed East German soldiers and a guy in a dark suit were seated at a table, smoking and playing cards. Rex maneuvered around to the rear of the building. A dim incandescent light illuminated a bedroom, where the major could be observed typing on a manual typewriter. A short while later, the man in the suit knocked on the door, and entered. The two men engaged in a short, unintelligible but jovial conversation followed by laughter, and then the man left. It was clear exactly where the major stood in this whole thing. The other thing that was clear was that those papers had to be secured. And the major rendered incapable of providing any more information.

  Finally, the men left the main room and retreated to a set of two bedrooms for the night; the uniformed soldiers in one, and the guy in the suit in the other. All lights went out. After an hour, audible snoring could be heard. Rex gently tested the front door latch. It was unlocked, but it opened with a creaking noise. He carefully slipped inside, and pushed the door mostly shut. What he needed, and did not have, was an automatic weapon. The soldiers secured their issue AKM assault rifles with them in their bedroom.

  There was only one way to having a chance in hell of completing the mission, and that was to slip in to Major Kincaide’s room, kill him silently, and make off with the papers and whatever other materials Kincaide had brought with him. To that end, Rex surveyed the kitchen area and found a cloth rag and a wooden roller handle, which could be used to form a crude but effective garrote.

  One thought came over his mind. What if the major was intentionally feeding them disinformation? Not a chance. If that were true, this mission would never have been assigned. Sitting on the counter was a heavy mallet, which appeared to be make of pewter. There were now two options to consider. A blow to the head would be quick and instantaneous, but there would be an audible hit. On the other hand, an attack with the garrote could result in a loud struggle. Much louder.

  He took a deep breath. He had blood on his hands; he killed three enemy combatants with his M60. He had been trained in hand combat. He was a sport fighter too. Subduing the man would be easy. Doing so silently would be a challenge. Killing with his bare hands, however, that was breaking new territory.

  Soldiers have to rationalize their actions in some way, or they just go crazy. Right now, at this moment in time, relations between the Soviet Union, Western Europe, and the United States are tense. The man sleeping in the room next door has sold out his country. His people. As much as the military gave Rex, or rather his former self, such a fucked up deal, it's about the people of his country, not politics, not the government. Not the military. No, Kincaide isn't just a traitor, he's scum.

  The major was sleeping. Snoring. Rex could barely make out the silhouette of a half full bottle of Schnapps and a shot glass, and a burlap satchel leaning on his d
esk. He could feel the contents. CEOIs, which are tactical code books and frequency assignments, and electronic radio secure code upload devices.

  The mallet came down on Kincaide's head with a sharp crack. Kincaide was rendered unconscious. But he still had a pulse. He wasn't dead. Rex wrapped the crude garrote around his neck, and twisted it until the major convulsed slightly, then went limp.

  Bumps in the night happen. But something was loud enough to get the attention of a guard. A light came on in the adjoining room. Rex quickly pulled the cover up over most of the major's head, so it would look like he was sleeping, then crawled underneath the bed frame. The door opened, a shadow looked in, closed the door, and the light turned back off.

  The front door. Did he notice the front door? Fuck. Yes, he did. He heard it shut. Damn. Wasting no time, he gathered the papers, stuffed them in the satchel, and pried the window latch open, slipping out into the cold night. Then it dawned on him. He wasn't done.

  The ribbon. The goddamned typewriter ribbon. He had to get that ribbon.

  He slipped back through the window, and fumbled with the typewriter, trying desperately to extricate the ribbon. Finally he just pulled it out, and reeled it around his wrist. That made noise. Too much noise. He jumped back out the window and took off running.

  It was a race, literally. At some point they would figure out what was going on. Rex frantically keyed the radio, which was the signal to send the helicopter for extraction. As he ran towards the open field, he could hear shouting in the distance. The gig was up. He could hear the chopper in the darkness. Would it arrive in time? He was fairly certain the guards did not see him run out into the field. But they certainly found the major dead and the missing cryptologic equipment by now.

  You couldn't see it, but you could hear it. The chopper crossed the wall. Big searchlights turned on, and started scanning the sky. Rex broke into an all-out sprint, and dove in to the open door of the helicopter as it lurched forward and upward, caught by the beam of the searchlight.

  The crackling noises of small arms fire could be heard in the distance. So far they were out of range. It took less than a minute for the chopper to clear the wall, but it was an agonizing minute that seemed like hours. Several minutes later, in a low level skimming flight pattern, the chopper touched down in the staging area. Lane was waiting in his Merkur.

  Rex jumped out, and the chopper took off and departed the area.

  "Obviously you don't have the major with you. How did it go?" Lane asked.

  "I terminated him. This is the stuff he brought with him, plus a bunch of stuff he typed on a typewriter."

  "Typewriter huh. Did you get the ribbon?"

  Rex held up his forearm.

  "Good job. You did exactly what the fuck you were supposed to do."

  "You knew he was rotten?"

  "Yeah, but part of this was an exercise remember. We wanted to make sure you used your independent judgment correctly."

  The beer actually tasted good this time. Hans the bartender kept the taps pouring until well into the morning hours. They didn’t make it to the gasthaus until two o'clock in the morning. Lane was happy, his mission was successful. Hans was happy, his family was separated in two as a young child when the two Germanys were split.

  "You know," Rex said. "I gotta tell you, there is a part of me that is messing around with my mind a little bit. I killed a man, with my own hands, in cold blood."

  Lane ran his thick fingers through his beard stubble, and thought about Rex's comment. "You're a Ranger, at heart. A lot of people sign up for this shit and they don't really know what it means. There's always this fuckin' hooah shit and all that, and the fancy uniforms and the berets that say power and death, but in the end, that's what it's about. We didn't sign up to teach Sunday school, we signed up to defend our country and kill motherfuckers. And not necessarily in that order."

  "You know, sometimes you just have to have someone put things the way you put them. That makes sense."

  "Muse, you're going to do well here. Just keep your head on straight, and keep clean, and you'll be okay."

  "What's your story, Lane?"

  "My story? You mean with Arrow? With Simon Bowe?"

  "Both. Or either."

  "He was on assignment here when he was with British intelligence. He was embedded in my platoon when we were based in Schweinfurt. He was there to get the skinny on the East German spy rings plying our troops. I basically saved his ass when he got in too deep."

  "Why did you leave the Army?"

  "They barred me from reenlistment. I got framed on a drug charge. Same as you got framed on your murder charge. Except, obviously, mine wasn't as bad."

  "You knew about that?"

  "There are secrets in this motherfucker, and at the same time, no secrets. You'll learn over time what that means."

  "So basically, this assignment was my initiation?"

  "Welcome aboard."

  Rex couldn't help but ask. "Did you do the whole in processing thing in Los Angeles?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  "Did you... uh, get any kind of exam?"

  "Let's not talk about that."

  Chapter 3 – Meet your New Best Friend

  Grenada messed with Rex. Those three Cubans. He remembered going through their wallets. They had families. There were pictures. Daughters. Infant sons. Wives. Grandparents. He never had that. He had parents of course, but he had never had a real actual family of his own. It was tough for him to deal with. On a physical level, taking another's life is a non-event. The world continues to be what it is. On a psychological level, anyone that has done it can only report that you feel a certain level of emptiness. It's not like God is going to punish you, necessarily, but more like he has no use for you anymore. That's what it feels like.

  And that assignment in Fulda, for the mission across the East German border was the same, just a little more intense. A little more personal. A little more up close. He felt the life depart Major Kincaide's body. He felt his spirit depart. He could almost see it. God isn't going to smack him for that though. God doesn't get in the middle of things like that. God lets men judge other men on such issues.

  Rex truly felt like he had crossed over to the other side. He was no longer Alex Dahl. That person ceased to exist and burned up in a vehicle. That person even ceased to exist in his own mind. He was Rex Muse. Dahl didn't deserve to live. Muse was given a new lease on life.

  He still felt empty. He would watch families walk on the streets. And he would focus on girls. Beautiful girls. Lovely girls. He remembered that encounter with So-Young. He craved her. He wanted her. He needed that experience. Maybe that was what was missing in the whole picture. Love. Commitment. But in the bigger picture, he was beyond that. He deserved none of that.

  But everyone does. Just like anything else, it isn't what you deserve, it's what you go out and get. No, God isn't going to give you a girl. You have to make that happen. If you are incapable of making that happen, then, quite frankly, you are genetically inferior and you probably shouldn't be replicating in the first place. That doesn't fit within God's plan. God likes people to replicate. He doesn't really even care that they play nice, just that things go on. In that end, there are some rules you can violate, and some you cannot.

  Alcohol makes everything work out nicely. Until you sober up. Stepping off of that United Airlines flight at LAX was an unmemorable experience, as was checking in to the hotel. Waking up in the morning, however, was different. What happened? He couldn't remember a damn thing. There was that fleeting moment when he got into a tussle with security. Why? What was the outcome? He was here, so obviously it wasn't too bad.

  He was still slightly buzzed from last night's red eye flight. The security at the elevator leading to level fifty at 707 Wilshire Boulevard didn't even challenge him as he ascended to the office of Arrow Services.

  "So," Carly said as he walked through the massive, electronically activated doors. "I understand you made the grade."

&n
bsp; "Word apparently travels fast" Rex replied. "Do I get any special..."

  "Fifty thousand volts."

  "Never mind."

  "I do have something that may interest you though."

  "What's that?"

  "Simon probably wouldn't approve of me telling you this, but, I am a woman, and, well, there is a message for you."

  "A message, for me?"

  “Someone left it for you downstairs in the lobby while you were gone.”

  Rex reached in to the previously sealed but opened envelope and pulled out a handwritten letter. It was from So-Young.

  I hope this letter finds you. I am returning to Korea. I must face my destiny. I cannot hide out here like a criminal.

  It was short, sweet, and to the point. Why would she even bother? What was the point?

  “You look troubled?” Carly pried.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You don't know what that note means, do you?”

  “You read it?”

  “We can't just randomly accept correspondence from strange people we don't know without looking in to things.”

  “So what is she trying to say?”

  “She’s reaching out to you.”

  “She didn't even leave a way to get a hold of her.”

  “Obviously, she feels you must be able to figure it out on your own.”

  Simon was seated at his desk, presenting a very studious, academic appearance in his gray wool turtleneck sweater. “I understand that your first mission was executed in a most exemplary manner.” he spoke as he thumbed through a report.

  “I guess I got the job done.”

  “I understand you had a visitor while you were gone as well. I can't say that it speaks well of your security procedures. It was addressed to your former self, as you may have noted.”

  “She drove me here. I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen before we spoke. I don't even have a picture of her for god’s sake.”

  “I can't say I condone the distraction, but if it gives you focus and direction, then here.” Simon slid a print of a photograph across the desk. “This is a surveillance still photo of the girl. Can't say I blame you.”