Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  “Me?” Cooper held the little box in his hands. It was a huge double-promotion, the open door to a whole new career.

  “Son, we took a beating on the day it all went down. We’ve got members of the other Teams spread all over the globe. For right now, you’re Top-Hat stateside, if you want the job.”

  Cooper came to attention. “I’ll do it, till you find someone better—but I don’t need a promotion, Admiral.” He tried to hand the box back.

  The Admiral smiled at him. “Son, that right there is exactly why you’re getting the promotion. If we’re going to have to refill the officer corps, I want it to be filled with men like you.” After a moment, he said: “I understand Charles Marshal was due to be promoted…”

  “I was about to be drummed out, sir,” said Cooper. “Charlie was next in line—”

  “Belay that. He’s now your Master Chief. I’ve got Silver Stars for the rest of your Team, as well as a Presidential citation.”

  Cooper frowned. “Sir, just point me in the direction of the armory.”

  The Admiral shook Coopers hand again and smiled. “I know you don’t want all the attention, Lieutenant. That proves I was right in my decision, though. Do us proud, son. Good hunting.”

  The Admiral saluted, then left.

  Jax all but tackled Cooper. “Lieutenant! What the hell is this world coming to? Next thing you know, they’ll be giving me a gun and telling me to go shoot people!”

  Charlie offered a wan smile and shook hands with Cooper. “Congratulations, sir.”

  “Congrats yourself, Chief,” said Cooper with a smile.

  “Master Chief! Hooyah!” hooted Jax as he shook hands with Charlie.

  “Well, now that this little love fest is over, can we go get some guns? I feel the need to blow some shit up,” quipped Mike, arms crossed.

  The smile faded from Coopers face. “Beaver’s right. Let’s get our heads straight,” he said, looking at Charlie. “We’re fixin’ to jump into enemy territory boys.”

  Cooper glanced at the map as the remnants of his Team filed out heading for the armory. Frowning, he stared at Boston on the map with angry, red marker and the German flag. Suddenly, he realized that he and Brenda were alone in the room. His heart raced.

  This is so screwed up.

  Before he could open his mouth and make a witty comment about the awkwardness of the situation, she leaned in to him and kissed him on the cheek. He could smell a faint bouquet that reminded him of honeydew melons.

  “That was for getting us—me—out of Los Angeles.”

  Cooper felt warmth creep up his neck. Then she put a hand on either side of his face and pulled his head down to plant a long, tender kiss on his lips.

  “And that’s to make you come back.”

  He grinned like a fool and she blushed, as if suddenly realizing what she’d just done. She smiled and hurried from the room, stumbling again as she found the door.

  Cooper stood there, dumbfounded for a moment and looked down at his right hand, holding the display box with the lieutenant’s bars inside. Fear and self-doubt welled-up inside him and shoved aside his new-found emotions revolving around Brenda as he pondered what it meant to be an officer in charge of a SEAL Team−commander of all stateside SEALs. The awesome responsibility to his country, to the men he would command, to their families—it was almost overwhelming as it settled on his shoulders like a wet cloak.

  He slipped the little box into a pouch on his vest and resigned himself to worry about the details later. He left the room and jogged to catch up with his men. He had a mission to execute, and he had to stop thinking about Brenda until all this was over.

  But that kiss! Holy hell—I’ll cut through the whole North Korean army to come home to more of that.

  CHAPTER 29

  Salmon Falls, Idaho.

  DENNY LOOKED UP INTO the chilly rain that poured out of the sky. It appeared to be sunset, but in reality, that would happen for two hours yet, according to his watch. The dark clouds continued to pummel Salmon Falls with their torrential payload. It was a cold, drenching rain. Denny pulled the poncho tighter around his neck. Mother Nature really knew how to cap off a day.

  "Won't be long now," whispered Deuce, kneeling next to him. They were crouched at the corner of a house scanning the deserted street out front. Denny could hear the cold rain drumming off the Ranger’s helmet and body armor.

  They were on the outskirts of town, behind one of the very last houses on Main Street. The Russians were checking each house in this end of town, searching for them. The storm had arrived after their disastrous initial assault and had given them the cover they needed to escape annihilation at the hands of the Russians.

  Denny could still see the flaming wreckage of the two Apaches spiraling down to earth when he closed his eyes. His hopes, and those of the Rangers with him had been dashed when only two of the three attack helicopters had arrived on station. They had no idea what had become of the third; they only knew how critical it had been to the success of their attack.

  The Russian patrol they’d been stalking eventually spotted their position and opened fire. The Rangers had to request immediate sniper support—which never came. Then Captain Alston had received word that something had happened to Tuck, their sniper, off to the west of town. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but the Captain was awful upset about it and no one was talking—they were too busy shooting and trying to stay alive.

  The attack had turned into a running retreat as the Russians continued to chase and pour fire on them from different directions. Denny managed to keep up with the Rangers as they moved house to house and cut through yards and brier patches with reckless abandon.

  At one point, Garza had dropped his pack and gear and tore off into the surrounding brush with only his sidearm and a medical kit. That was a bad omen, Denny had figured. The remaining Rangers and Denny then went in the opposite direction and made a lot of noise doing so, hoping to draw the Russians away from Garza.

  The plan had initially worked. A little too well for Denny’s liking, but it had worked. They soon found themselves on the outskirts of town with a pack of trigger-happy Russians on their heels. They had been pushed back to a position where, if they had to run for cover, it would be a long and dangerous one. That end of town emptied into a broad plain that had been carved by the Salmon River eons ago. They were well east of the shelter of the mountains and well south of the foothills and forests that surrounded the rest of Salmon Falls.

  “Okay, we either make a stand here, or we double-back and look for cover farther north,” Captain Alston had said. They were all crouched at the corner of George McDonnell’s small ranch house.

  The Rangers took up positions at the rear corners of the house—some knelt, others lay prone on the ground. They kept a sharp vigil for the Russians, still a ways down the block and systematically searching house by house for the Americans.

  “Cap, we got maybe half an hour before they’re on top of us,” said Deuce.

  “The rain is helping slow them down,” mused Captain Alston. He looked up at the gray sky, squinting in the deluge. “Be full dark soon…” He shivered and hunkered next to the wall of the house.

  “Golf, what’s the sit-rep?” he asked with his hand on his radio.

  After a moment of ear-numbing rain, Garza’s voice replied, “Got ‘im stabilized. This rain isn’t making things any easier.” He panted. “Ran into a couple hunters heading home. They’re assisting.”

  “Keep trying to contact…anybody,” Captain Alston said. “See if you can make a shelter out there and ride out the storm. We’re going SERE. Actual, out.”

  “Hooah,” was the response.

  “See-er?” asked Denny in a whisper.

  Zuka grinned, rain running down his face in rivulets. “Survive, Escape, Resist, Evade. We train for this stuff.”

  “Zuka, you take Mr. Tecumseh here and make your way to the river,” said Captain Alston, motioning to the east, across the street. “W
ork your way north along the river and try and flank these guys.” He took another peek around the corner of the house into the gathering twilight.

  “They got their flashlights out now—that should make it easier to avoid them.” Captain Alston looked up at the roof line of the house and nodded. After wiping the rain out of his eyes he squatted in the little group and continued his plans. “Deuce, get inside—”

  “Nice.”

  “I’ll get up on the roof next-door and get behind that chimney there,” he said pointing up. “Should give me some decent cover. I’ll be able to paste them as they head down the street.”

  Denny looked at the Captain. “How you planning on getting in?”

  Deuce grinned. “Door, meet foot.” He reared back and prepared to kick the back door.

  “Wait!” Denny said. “I know the old man who lives here. Give me a second.”

  “Sir, we can’t risk someone—” began the Captain.

  “He’s a Desert Storm Vet. Good people. You’d like him.”

  The Captain looked above Denny at the porch light. He nodded at Deuce, who reached up and twisted the exposed light bulb a little but left it in the socket. Denny rapped on the window next to the porch door. He flinched when the shade pulled back and George McDonnell appeared, his face illuminated by a flash of lightning.

  The door cracked. “Denny? What the hell you doing out here in the storm?”

  “George, I don’t have a lot of time. I’m with some Rangers—”

  “Army Rangers?”

  Captain Alston stepped out of the shadows. “Well, we’re not Park Rangers.”

  The old man took his hand and shook it, a smile plastered on his face as the rain soaked his arm.

  “What can I do for you, Captain? I’ll be glad to help—Russian bastards been ridin’ the town pretty rough.”

  The Captain nodded. “We saw. I need to station one of my men in your home, sir, if that’s okay by you. The Russians are heading this way and we’re going to try and ambush them.”

  “Done,” said George. He stepped aside as Deuce filled the door. He turned back to face the remaining men standing in the rain. “You got time to come inside out of the rain and get some chow?”

  “Thank you, but that’s a big negative. There’s a Russian patrol hunting for us, up the street—”

  “Son of a bitch!” said George through clenched teeth. He grabbed a rifle from beside the door. “That was you guys earlier? I heard them Apaches. Haven’t heard that sweet sound since my time in the Sandbox. Sounded like they were really spankin’ ‘em. Then…I saw the smoke…” he looked down sadly. His face brightened quickly. “I was a pretty good shot back in the day. Let me help. Ain’t got nothing else to do.”

  Captain Alston considered this a moment as he checked on the Russians. He relented. “All right, go see my Corporal inside. He’ll tell you what to do.”

  “Great. And thanks. Stay safe, Denny. I wish I was out there with you.” He tapped the prosthetic legs under his bathrobe with the muzzle of his hunting rifle.

  “You’ve already done your part, sir. I appreciate the assistance,” replied Captain Alston. They shook hands again.

  “Here,” said the Captain, after the door shut. He tossed Garza’s M4 and ammo kit. Denny caught the rifle in mid-air, splattering himself with water. “Best get going, sir.”

  “Roger that,” said Zuka. He turned to Denny. “Follow me, sir, if you can keep up.” The short Ranger grinned and dashed off into the rain, running low and hunched over.

  Denny nodded, slung the olive-drab messenger bag over his shoulder and ran across the street in his best imitation of Zuka’s hunched-over run. He found the small Ranger lurking behind a pine tree on the corner of the lot opposite the McDonnell place.

  “Not bad, sir. Not bad.” Zuka pulled out a small LED flashlight and clicked it on and off twice, using his hand to shield it from the Russians up the street. Denny watched as a light blinked twice in the gloomy darkness.

  “How far are we to the river?” asked Zuka, peering into the sodden darkness on the other side of the tree.

  Denny thought for a second, catching his breath. The rifle was not too heavy just standing around, but running across the street with it had winded him. The adrenaline didn’t help either. He squinted through the rain.

  “I think it’s about a hundred yards.”

  “You think?” Zuka chuckled to himself. “Well, it’s all we got, I guess—”

  "All units stand-by," Captain Alston's voice announced.

  Denny’s thoughts drifted to Chad Huntley, the civilian that had started this whole mess. Where was he? Was he alive? Did he run off and leave Tuck to die? Was he kidnapped somehow? Denny shook his head in disbelief that so many people were risking their lives for Huntley. A traitor—if one was to believe the ever changing public announcements on the radio.

  "Enemy patrol sighted," whispered Deuce. “Two-man element. East side of the street. They’re not checking door to door. Coming straight on. I think they know we’re here.”

  “Uh-huh. Ivan’s sending out two guys to anchor the line and keep the rabbits from running off into the storm,” said Captain Alston. “Too bad for them, we ain’t rabbits.”

  “Hooah!” whispered Zuka. He shot a grin at Denny.

  "Deuce, you take the first shot as they pass your position. Everyone else, that's your cue," said Captain Alston.

  "Stand-by one," muttered Deuce’s voice. Next to Denny, Zuka was peering through the small scope on his rifle. He clicked a small button and adjusted a dial, then started to calm his breathing.

  Denny raised his own rifle and peered into the darkness. He couldn’t see anything past fifty feet. Just a wall of rain.

  A single rifle shot broke through the steady din of the storm. Denny was amazed the sound of the gun was so quiet. What gave away the Ranger assault was the muzzle flashes. He grinned. Even that, reflected as it was off the houses and cars in the street, looked like the lightning that had been pummeling the area for over an hour.

  Zuka took off for the street at the start of the shooting, in order to take out the other Russian. Denny followed, crouching as he ran, but by the time he got to the front yard, it was all over.

  He held up a hand to shield his eyes from the rain and could see Zuka’s shadowy form dragging a dark object off the street toward another abandoned house. As he trotted over to the scene of the ambush, even the blood was being erased by the storm. Zuka slipped past him back into the shadows of the house and handed off an AK-47.

  “Put it over your shoulder. Never know when you’re going to need some more firepower.”

  Denny took the heavy rifle. He ducked under the strap and adjusted it before he too crouched and headed for the safety of the pine trees.

  "Never knew what hit 'em," commented Deuce.

  "Settle down, people. A two-man patrol ambushed in these conditions is nothing to cheer about. Any one of you should have been able to do that by yourselves. Stay on mission.”

  By the time he and Zuka reached the churning river that gave its name to the town, Denny had a newfound respect for the physical conditioning of the Rangers. He was panting and doubled over to catch a sodden breath when they paused to get their bearings.

  Zuka appeared to be none the worse for wear, despite carrying his rifle and battle load-out. Denny had his tomahawk and the borrowed M4, with the addition of the liberated AK-47. Hunting the mountains around town during the year, Denny had always assumed he was in the best shape of his life—yet the short Ranger was on a whole other level.

  "Whenever you're ready, sir..." smiled Zuka.

  “Heads up,” warned Captain Alston’s voice. “Ivan’s stopped about four houses up. They’re gathering in the street. Hard to see through the rain but it looks like they’re arguing.”

  "Movement! Get down!" hissed the Ranger.

  Denny dropped into the mud next to Zuka and tried to calm his heart. He strained his ears to pick up any sound that would mean appro
aching Russians. Any radio, any foreign sounding chatter. Zuka planted a finger across his lips and shook his head. He pointed at his eyes, held up three fingers, then gestured to their right, along the shoreline toward the town park to the north end of the street. Denny nodded, then turned his head ever so slowly until he could see the dark outline of the jungle gym in the gloomy distance.

  There. A tiny red light flashed. He looked back at Zuka who nodded and held up his fingers to his lips as if he were smoking a cigarette. Then he frowned and shook his head in a gesture of disbelief.

  They were both laying along the side of a riverfront fishing shelter, completely exposed to the Russians. They had the storm for cover, but otherwise, only a stretch of too-tall sawgrass and deep mud sheltered them from direct sight of the enemy patrol. Zuka pulled his rifle ever so slowly through the mud until he had it at his shoulder. He settled his cheek against the stock and peered through the scope.

  Denny started to move his own rifle when Zuka, without looking waved him off in a tense gesture. He pointed roughly in Denny's direction and held out his hand in the universal stop sign.

  How did he know I was moving? Denny wondered, blinking through the rain.

  “Heads up Zuka…BTR in the street. They’re getting reinforced. Four houses up now,” Deuce’s voice warned over Denny’s headset.

  Denny saw the headlights lance around the side of a house in the distance. Great white beams of light cut through the storm and swept around the playground as the vehicle pulled up alongside the Russians. His blood chilled. As the lights illuminated the patrol, he and Zuka saw that it wasn't just three men, but ten, all clustered around the jungle gym.

  When the big, armored personnel-carrier stopped, rain-slick brakes squealing in protest, the Russians all eagerly moved inside through the big hatch that opened up on the back. The vehicle sat there for about three minutes, the engine growling at idle, exhaust smoking in the chilly rain. Then as Denny was about to tap Zuka on the boot to signal they should move, they saw one last figure leave the jungle gym. Very slowly, the Russian moved his rifle around, scanning the area.