Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  “Go ahead, kemosabe,” sneered Jeb. “My dad will come down here and pump your gut full of lead if you lay a hand on me. He never did like you.”

  Like father, like son, thought Denny. So be it.

  “Have it your way, Jeb. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

  Jeb laughed, a crazed look in his brown eyes. “You? Hurt me? I’m the one with the bat—”

  The laughter died in his throat when Denny unleashed and raised his tomahawk in one lightning-fast motion. “And I have this.”

  “Look!” gasped one of the other kids. Denny did not bother to look. His eyes were locked on Jeb’s and he smiled as the kid’s eyes widened in surprise.

  Jeb’s eyes narrowed. Denny could almost see the courage return to his opponent.

  “Ah, you don’t know how to use that thing! It’s a prop.” Jeb called over his shoulder: “Halloween costume!” He spoke quietly to Denny. “I got two State records with this.”

  Jeb cocked the bat and shifted into a batter’s stance. He looked at Denny, pure hatred in his eyes. He shifted his left foot forward and started to swing.

  “Jeb, don’t!” shrieked one of the boys.

  In a movement that would have made Grandfather proud, Denny lurched forward, closing the distance to Jeb in a heartbeat. The young punk barely had time for the surprise to register on his face before Denny body-checked him with his shoulder. He used his momentum to spin around behind Jeb and let the shaft of his tomahawk deflect the bat as easily as if it were nothing more than a cardboard tube. When Jeb turned to try and pull his bat back, he found the razor-sharp edge of the tomahawk resting against smooth skin of his throat.

  Looking down his outstretched arm and along the haft of the tomahawk to the milk-white face of the teenager, Denny said two words. “Drop it.”

  The bat made a muffled sound as it hit the snow-covered grass.

  “Holy shit,” whispered one of the other kids behind Denny.

  Without taking his eyes off Jeb, Denny said loudly, “I don’t think there’s anything more here for you boys. Time you got in your car and left.” When no one moved, he said louder: “Now.”

  Defiant to the end, Jeb narrowed his eyes and tried to reclaim some cockiness. “You made a big mistake, kemosabe. When my dad hears about this—“

  “Jeb, your dad is the town drunk. If he wants to start something with me, you tell him I could use another scalp for my collection. Now get the hell out of here and don’t come back.” He flicked the tomahawk away so that it left a stinging welt on Jebs neck but didn’t draw blood. The teenager winced and then stooped to grab the bat, one hand on his throat.

  “Leave it,” said Denny, pointing toward the bat with his weapon. “Go.”

  “Fuckin’ redskinned bastard,” muttered Jeb as he hurried to Johnny’s car, hand on his neck. He got in the front passenger seat and slapped the side of the car, staring at Denny through the open window. “This ain’t over!” he yelled as the car spun out in the cul-de-sac kicking up snow in its wake. Someone in the car was hooting like a Hollywood Indian.

  Denny stood there in the lawn watching them until the car, its horn still honking, turned the corner and sped off down the road into the gathering dusk. Finally he exhaled. His hands were shaking.

  “That was one hell of a performance, Denny,” said John, clapping him on the back.

  “They’ll be back,” Denny said.

  “I know,” said John quietly. “But they won’t get us. We’ll be locked up in the shelter.”

  “Skutelawe,” muttered Denny, still watching the road through the snowflakes drifting down out of the sky.

  “Huh?” said John.

  “It’s Shawnee for ‘turtle’,” said Denny with a grin. “You and Ruth are going to hide in your shells.”

  “And you won’t join us?”

  Denny shook his head, his long black hair flecked with snow. “No. I am not skutelawe. I am m’wewa. The wolf. My family belongs to the Peckuwe clan of the Shawnee.” He turned to look at John. “The warriors of my people. You and Ruth are my neighbors, my family. I will watch over you, and I will do it from out here,” he said, looking around in the twilight. “Among the trees and the rocks and the hills. In the snow and the wind. It is where I belong.”

  John looked at Denny for a long moment. “I sure wish you’d reconsider, son,” he said, a gentle hand on Denny’s shoulder. “Ruthie would feel safer if you were with us in the shelter. We have plenty of food and water. We could survive down there for months.”

  “Maybe.” Denny shook his head. “I can’t stay cooped up like that down in the ground. I just…I can’t.” He grinned. “Besides, they won’t be back tonight. I think Jeb is going to need to change his pants.”

  “He didn’t look that scared,” said John with a lopsided smile.

  “No,” said Denny, stooping down to pick up the discarded bat. He handed it to John. “But he was, ‘cause he shit his pants. I could smell it.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Los Angeles, California.

  I HATE THESE THINGS!" said Mike’s static-filled voice.

  Cooper grinned and adjusted his earbud radio receiver as he watched the dark surf flash by under his feet. He loved the feeling of freedom that filled his being when he was sitting on the platform strapped to the side of a Killer Egg. He turned his head to look through the open cavity body of the MH-6M Little Bird as it hugged the coast heading toward Los Angeles.

  “No better way to see the sights, Beaver,” was Jax’s scratchy reply from the other side of the small special operations helicopter.

  “Hooyah!” someone yelled.

  Cooper checked his dive watch and noted the time. 18:49. He glanced straight out to sea and could see the vestigial glow of the sunset over the long horizon line. A little behind and to the port side, the second fireteam of his platoon flew along in formation. Two other Little Birds were on the starboard side of his own, carrying 8 more SEALs. Team 9 was going in full-strength on this mission.

  He could barely hear himself think over the roar of the six-rotor engine a few feet above his head. That was fine, actually. He rather enjoyed the relative calm of this part of a mission. It didn’t matter if he was flying in the back of a heavy transport ready to do a HALO jump, clinging to the side of an SDV fifty feet below the ocean surface, or sitting on a bench on the outside of a helicopter racing along the Pacific Coast.

  God, what a job. Cooper was savoring this reprieve from his forced-retirement, but regretted knowing this might really be his last mission. He tried not to think about that and tightened the brace on his right knee.

  If it weren’t for the fact that the President’s personal security was at risk, he doubted he would have been tapped to lead his fireteam one last time. But the LT went to his defense and was adamant to the higher-ups: it was Cooper or bust.

  The pilot swung wide out over the ocean, about a half mile off shore of downtown Los Angeles, dipping the starboard side down. The maneuver rotated Cooper over onto his back so he was able to get a good look at the night’s crop of stars popping out of the deep purple sky.

  Something caught his eye. “You see that, Beaver?” he asked Mike, sitting next to him on the Little Bird’s port outrigger bench. “Ships on the horizon…”

  “Say again?”

  “I thought I saw ships on the horizon…”

  Mike leaned forward, looking. He shook his head. “There’s nothing there. Better get you some bifocals when we get back, old man,” he chuckled. Cooper held up his middle finger.

  The pilot’s no-nonsense voice crackled over their headsets: “Coming up on final approach. Viper flight, hit the deck.”

  In perfect formation, Cooper watched the trailing Little Bird swoop gracefully through the turn and then angle down to where it, along with Cooper’s vehicle, was skimming the ocean swells, just fifteen feet above the waves. He leaned out around Mike and could see the lights along the Santa Monica Freeway rapidly approaching. Cooper noticed how deserted the shoreline
was as they roared toward the glittering line of white that was Santa Monica State Beach. He had heard that the flu was getting bad, but never thought it would empty the beach on a fine day like today.

  “Anyone want to stop at the Pacific Park?” asked Charlie from the second bird as they flew over the park. Cooper grinned, watching the few people walking around The Pier look up in surprise as the four small black helicopters split the peaceful evening air and flew overhead in an arrowhead formation.

  “Nest, Viper Lead. Viper flight is feet dry,” reported the pilot.

  “Roger that, Viper Lead,” replied the voice of the mission handler back at base.

  They followed the Santa Monica Freeway for a few minutes before approaching their destination. “Two minutes,” reported the pilot.

  “Get your shit wired SEALs, this is the real deal,” Cooper called out.

  He looked to his own load-out and checked his HK MP5 submachine gun. The integrated red-dot/laser and a rail-mounted tactical light, were all functioning properly. The front grip was secure and ready. One magazine fully loaded, a round in the chamber, and 4 more across the front of his tactical vest. He had his radio, a pouch loaded with M-79 rounds for the ‘pirate gun’ he had strapped to his pack. He also had an old K-Bar that had been handed down to him from his father, a Marine in the First Gulf War.

  “There’s the interchange…forty seconds…” announced the pilot. “Viper Two, on me. Viper Three and Four, take the triangle and call it.”

  “Roger that, Viper Lead.”

  “Shifting for approach on your starboard,” answered one of the pilots behind Cooper’s aircraft.

  “Viper Four has starboard flank.”

  “Here we go ladies…stay frosty,” said Cooper. The silence he received by way of reply was expected and comforting. His men were locked, cocked and ready. Nothing else need be said. They had executed protection-extraction missions before in enemy territory, under fire. Here, flying over Los Angeles at sunset, would be pure cake, but no one was slacking off.

  As he focused on the odd, arrow-shaped building that was All Saint’s Hospital, the sky behind him suddenly lit up to noon-bright.

  “Missile!” someone yelled.

  “Holy shit!” screamed Charlie.

  “SAM lights, Viper flight, evasive! Scatter!” yelled Cooper’s pilot. Without further warning, he pulled the Little Bird into a gut wrenching dive that caused the world to spin past Cooper’s head in a dizzying blur. The other pilots responded, creating a confusing jumble of chatter in Cooper’s ear.

  “Nnnnnh…” someone grunted.

  “Hang on!” roared Cooper.

  “Rooftop, two o’clock low, here comes—”

  Another explosion lit up the early evening sky, this time right in front of Cooper. Two screams were cut off in a hiss of static. As his own pilot forced the little helicopter to gyrate and drop even lower, he could see parts of the unfortunate Viper 3 and its passengers shoot out in all directions from the fireball.

  “No!” someone roared.

  “LT!” Cooper heard himself scream.

  “Taking small arms fire,” warned the pilot. “Hang on back there.”

  “I got targets on three rooftops—aaah!” yelled Jax.

  “Jax’s hit!” said Petty Officer Alexander Knuteson from the other side of the helicopter.

  Cooper was desperately scanning the buildings blurring past his field of view looking for targets. The pilot was flying forward even faster now, nose down, zipping in between buildings. Muzzle flashes to Cooper’s left caught his eyes as he struggled to keep his head level in the wind.

  “Tangos, seven o’clock high, the rooftop! Light ‘em up!” Cooper called out. He pulled his MP5 to his side and fired a burst in the general direction of the figures on the roof of the apartment building they roared past. He had little hope of hitting anything with the pilot jerking the aircraft as if he were flying drunk, but at least it gave the enemy something to think about. Three more weapons spat fire and bullets from his helicopter. He could see flashes coming from behind them and knew Charlie’s fireteam was shooting back as well. The broad starburst of Jax’s M60 shredded windows where someone had taken a few pot-shots at their aircraft.

  The pilot came to an intersection and dove for the street. Cooper felt sick to his stomach. That had never happened to him before. Making a hard bank to port, the pilot hugged the street and Cooper and Mike were almost low enough to touch the cars below. Cars, delivery trucks, motorcycles, and scooters were squealing out of the way of the little black helicopter as it cruised through the intersection doing 80 miles an hour only ten feet off the deck.

  Cooper got a blurred glimpse of windows exploding and more muzzle flashes. “They’re everywhere!” someone called out. Loud metallic pings and pops echoed around Cooper.

  “We’re taking damage,” grunted the pilot. “Losing hydraulics…hang on!” The helicopter was smoking now, leaving a curling black trail in the air about ten feet above street level. Cooper could see people running for cover.

  “There’s a parking garage, dead-ahead. Hit the roof, Viper Two!”

  “I’m right on your six…”

  “Ten seconds,” warned the pilot.

  As the Little Bird flared out over the upper level of the garage, dirt, gravel, and thick acrid smoke flew up into the faces of the four SEALs. Cooper ignored the stinging from his face and was thankful he had his clear goggles on. Ten feet, five…

  “Now!” he called out. Safety straps were ripped clear and his SEALs leapt from the still moving helicopter and rolled clear. In a heartbeat, the pilot hit the throttle and powered the aircraft up and away, engine whining, heading north in a cloud of smoke.

  As the Killer Egg lifted out of his line of sight, he could see the last remaining helicopter perform a similar maneuver on the building across the alley. It was a five-story medical building with a few large air-conditioner units and heli-pad on the roof.

  In seconds, the helicopters had passed from sight and slipped in between taller buildings, effectively leaving the remaining SEALs in silence.

  “Cover, now!” hissed Cooper. His black-clad squad crouch-walked to the edge of the roof and ducked down below the short facade. They were in near-darkness – there was only one light on the roof, glaring balefully above the single roof-access door.

  “Ell-Tee?” Cooper said. He checked the frequency on his radio. “Echo? Stumpy, Little John—anyone, come in…”

  “What the fuck was that?” called out Charlie’s voice over the net.

  “Head count,” said Cooper, angrily pulling his clear eye-shield off his helmet. He looked at his fireteam.

  Swede was finishing up a field patch on Jax’s left arm. On his other side, Mike was peeking over the edge of the building with his next-gen night-vision goggles already in place.

  “Team 1, good to go,” Cooper said, satisfied that his squad was combat-ready.

  “Team 2 good to go. I think we lost both birds,” said Charlie from the next building’s rooftop.

  “I know,” Cooper said through gritted teeth. “Those assholes were waiting for us –“

  “On our whole flight path?” said Charlie’s voice in disbelief. “That’s not possible…”

  “Someone must have gave them our flight path. It was a Goddamn trap. In Los Angeles.” He punched the graveled roof by his side in frustration, but calmed himself after a second and called out, “Nest, this is Striker One, Actual, do you read me?”

  He got no response.

  “Hey Coop, I see some of ‘em on the building across the block to the south. I count six,” whispered Mike. “They’re right between us and the hospital.”

  “Nest, Striker One, Actual, do you read me?” Cooper called out again. Static was the response. “Tank, keep trying to raise fleet.”

  “On it,” came the deep reply.

  Cooper closed his eyes tight for one deep breath. Get a hold of your emotions, Master Chief. There will be time to mourn later. You have a
mission to perform. And you will exact retribution.

  With two bright fireballs, he had lost half his Team, including his commanding officer and close personal friend. He was now in command of what was left of SEAL Team 9.

  Two days…they were going to retire my ass in two fucking days…

  “Sparky what you got?” asked Cooper.

  “Got a dozen more on the two buildings east of the hospital. Damn it…there’s a lot of them,” reported the deep bass voice from Petty Officer First Class John Sparks, the platoon sniper. “They look like they’re setting up some comms. Some kind of mast array. Industrious little bastards.”

  Cooper leaned around Jax and Swede and could see the Nebraska native on the other building with his Mark 12 5.56mm SPR sniper rifle perched on the edge of the building, scanning for targets almost half a mile away. Cooper closed his eyes again, leaning back against the facade. He needed three heartbeats.

  Three…two…one…

  When Cooper Braaten opened his eyes, he was the cold, hard, killing machine that the Iranians had feared for nearly a decade. All his storm-tossed emotions—the anger at the breach in operational security, the upwelling of grief over the catastrophic loss of half his Team—everything not essential to mission completion were locked securely in the sea chest of his heart. He would deal with that post-op.

  “Yo, Coop, I got Nest,” whispered Tank over the net.

  Cooper switched channels on his radio. “Striker One, Actual, to Nest.”

  “Go ahead, Striker One, Actual.”

  “We made a hard landing with Bravo platoon only, grid Poppa-Bravo-Niner. Repeat: Alpha Platoon is down. Assuming command and proceeding to objective, approaching from north. Multiple tangos on rooftops to north and east of original LZ, there’s a shit-ton of civvies in between us and the objective, please advise, over.”

  After the briefest of pauses, he heard the reply: “Nest copies all, Striker One, Actual. You walked into a real sierra-sierra. We’re getting some interference on—” Static broke up the transmission.