Killswitch

by Cliff Hedley

  After another twenty minutes or so of driving through the darkness, Chase flipped his night-vision goggles down for about the fifth time. Still nothing out there he could see, other than the sliver of light from the tail lights on the vehicle ahead. Then, in the distance, he could see a glow and breathed a small sigh. The lights growing out of the gloom were FOB Ramirez, visible just slightly off to the right of centre from his side of the Humvee.

  He turned to Tucker. “I see Ramirez, sir.”

  Tucker let out a small half-sigh himself. They were almost home — still in danger, but the closer they got to those lights, the safer they would be. “Copy that, Chase.” He keyed his radio again to address the column. “Almost home, gentlemen. Keep your eyes peeled until those gates are locked behind us.”

  Chase grinned. He liked Tucker, who was a good CO to have because he was a safety-first kind of guy. The rest of the platoon felt the same way. He never risked his team unnecessarily, and would probably be a rank or two higher if he hadn’t chosen to place the safety of his men higher than the priorities of the occasional mission that he considered to be ill-conceived. It was his job to be the eyes on the ground and make those calls but it took guts to do it.

  Tucker’s cautious approach also meant that they saw eye-to-eye on a lot of things, where Chase had to advise how to safely manoeuvre the men around likely IEDs and choke points. His “every angle” motto was a shortened version of “take no risks, check every angle” and the whole platoon had adopted it.

  Chase no longer needed to lower his goggles to see the surrounding road. As they lumbered their way towards Ramirez, the light it cast outward around the surrounding terrain grew. There was no point in hiding the location of the base under the cover of darkness. It never moved and its location was well known by all. Instead, spotlights along the perimeter faced out into the darkness and gave sentries posted in watch towers a better view of any approaching people or vehicles.

  The convoy slowed towards the gate, which swung open to greet them and finally Chase and Tucker’s Humvee passed through the gates. Chase turned in his seat to watch them close behind them. Once they were secured, he cracked a smile.

  “Good to be home, LT.”

  “Amen to that, Master Sergeant.”

  Tucker keyed his radio for the last time that evening, as the Humvees found their way to the parking bay.

  “Quick debrief in the bay, Roadrunners.” He turned to Chase. “Let’s go debrief the Colonel when we’re done.”

  Chase nodded a quick “Yes, sir,” and as their Humvee swung last into the row with the rest of the platoon, they swung out of their seats and headed for the base commander’s office. The rest of the platoon had gathered together beside the lead Humvee and Tucker paused in front of them briefly, noting their generally dusty appearance.

  “Good work out there today gentlemen, thank you. Go hit the showers, get some chow and grab a beer if you can find one. We’ll be in the office, so expect word on tomorrow’s patrol.”

  His words were met with a cheery chorus: “Yes, sir!”

  With that, Tucker turned back to the road and Chase quickly locked step alongside him. They made their way past several rows of large tents, gravel crunching under their feet and dust kicking up behind them. The road up to “the office”, as they called it, was a straight line up from the parking bay through the centre of the camp, which made it easy to head to their debriefings whenever they came back in from the field. They eventually came to a tent that looked like the others save for a radio and communications mast next to it, which ran a series of wires down to the command centre itself. Chase reached for the flimsy door and held it open for Tucker.

  They were greeted by a burly staff sergeant just inside the door, who was clearly expecting them. He nodded towards the rear of the large tent, past a partition.

  “The Colonel is in the back.”

  Tucker made his way through another internal door with Chase right behind, and they entered into the command centre, where Colonel Jeremy Winters was leaning over a map next to a young corporal. He heard the men enter and stood to turn and face them. His close-cropped grey hair seemed somehow at odds with his muscular physique and still-youthful face. Chase had no idea how old the Colonel must have been but it could be anywhere from forty to sixty-five. There was a betting pool running in the camp on guessing that age, with a payout on the closest year and birth month. Chase figured that Winters hadn’t really aged in the past couple of decades, because regardless of where he was stationed, his morning routine had never changed; up at 5 a.m. on the dot without needing to set an alarm, into the gym for heavy weight-training and straight to work with no sustenance save for a cup of unsweetened black coffee. Chase had been stationed with him on and off for several years and the Colonel had not aged a day or slowed a step in that time.

  He nodded to them, eyeing up the two dust-covered soldiers before him. “Lieutenant Tucker, Master Sergeant Chase.”

  They both saluted and the Colonel returned with a salute of his own. “At ease.”

  Tucker and Chase both stood at ease, their hands behind their backs, waiting for the Colonel to start the debriefing.

  “So you lost Mojo, huh?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Tucker. “We used the PackBot to check out a suspect roadblock on the way back to camp. There was an old car dragged into the road and the only way past with room for the Humvees looked suspicious.”

  The Colonel nodded. “What did it look like to you, Chase? How was it triggered?”

  “Remote, I think, sir. I got pretty close and just as I noticed that there was a small remote aerial on it, it was detonated. I’m not sure if the roadblock and IED were designed to keep us out of the canyon road home, or to herd us back along a different route.”

  “Either way, it was sketchy, sir,” Tucker added. “If we had proceeded, we would have been moving towards an elevated position with the sun in our eyes. The canyon has tight walls, which would inflict maximum damage if there had been any more IEDs laid — and there aren’t many options for escape routes. I suggest we sweep that valley tomorrow. I also don’t like that we got redirected. I agree with Chase, sir. It’s unclear whether attacking us on our return route was the intention, or we were getting herded.”

  The Colonel folded his arms. “Or maybe it was just a disruption tactic, designed to create doubt and see what you would do, how you would react? Or simply an opportune place to hit you. Either way, you made the right call. I would have done the same. The problem now is, we’ve seen a lot of extra activity in the area. It’s been building the past few days and it’s keeping us busy. I want you to go back out tomorrow and check that valley. This time you’ll have air cover and a second platoon will go up the ridgeline on foot. One problem, though.”

  Chase and Tucker gave each other a sideways glance.

  “We are fresh out of PackBots, or any tactical robots for that matter. That means you’ve only got your suit, Chase. Frankly I’d rather you didn’t need to use it. If you spot anything funky, see if you can get a look, then get the boys to set it off from a distance with the fifty-cals. You move out at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow. That should give the advance team enough time to get above you on foot. If there is anyone or anything waiting for us on or above that road, we flush it out and secure it. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” Tucker and Chase responded in unison. Chase knew the canyon road was a key tactical route to maintain, one of the main corridors they needed to keep secure in order to get safely to and from FOB Ramirez.

  “Then that will be all, gentlemen,” said the Colonel. “Every angle.”

  “Every angle, sir.”

  ***

  Chase left the command tent and headed towards his own barracks. His feet felt heavy and he still had his pack slung over one shoulder, which weighed him down further. As he walked, dust kicked up from the gravel road and added to the laye
r caked all over him already. The monotonous crunch-crunch-crunch sound of gravel under his boots let up as he turned off the road and made for his barracks. He was trying to decide whether he had the energy to shower first, or whether collapsing into his bunk was the better plan, when he heard a familiar voice.

  “Renshi!”

  Chase grinned. “Evening, Sensei. Getting in some bokken practice?”

  In front of Chase was a fellow sergeant wielding a wooden sword.

  “Hai,” came the affirmative answer in Japanese. “Just working on my form. I figure I’ll have plenty of time ahead of grading by the time we get out of here.”

  Chase dropped his pack against the side of the barracks and turned to watch. The sergeant was making use of an open area in front of the barracks, where he had plenty of room to move.

  “All right then, Sensei. Let’s see it.”

  The man Chase called Sensei was Sergeant Ray Collins, a demolitions expert and marksman. They had bonded over a beer or two around eight months ago after finding they both practised the same style of martial arts. Collins had gained his full third-degree black belt a year or so before shipping out. His next grading would be around four years after that, assuming he could line up some time at home. That next grading would bring him up to fourth degree, the same rank as Chase, and move him from the teaching title of Sensei to Renshi. Both gradings involved displaying kata, or forms, then their application to defence against three attackers. The third-degree grading was hand-to-hand combat; fourth degree introduced weapons and as a result could be spectacular to watch and a crowd favourite at the senjos, or major gradings. While Collins would be free to choose any other weapons from a wide variety of options, he would need to demonstrate mastery of the katana, the primary weapon of the samurai. Rather than a live blade, it was common to practise with the bokken. This would also be used against his “attackers” during the grading, for obvious safety reasons.

  Collins had quickly requested Chase’s help once he realised he would have his own personal instructor on base. Chase had happily agreed to mentor Collins — being able to teach let him keep his own skills sharp.

  Collins kneeled in the dust, the bokken placed in front of him. He bowed towards Chase, who stood directly in front. The curved edge of the “blade” was respectfully pointed towards Collins and away from Chase. Collins deftly scooped up the bokken, making two swooping cuts, before turning it to his side as he raised his left leg, so he now kneeled on his right and tucked it into his belt on the left side.

  He stood, his left thumb tucked over the hilt, and his right hand over the end of the handle. He bowed again towards Chase and brought the bokken out of his belt in a perfectly fluid motion, arcing outwards and upwards as he rolled his wrists and brought it down again from above his head. He stepped out, the wooden sword making whooshing noises as it passed through the air with each stroke and subsequent step. After a series of moves, he placed it back into his belt with one fluid move, again bowing to Chase.

  Collins spun around, drawing the bokken again, changing direction and thrusting the blade to imaginary attackers behind and to the side. Collins was a big man — he was tall, broad-chested, with very wide shoulders and hands like fists of ham. Collins claimed his size came from the Samoan side of the family. He stood a few inches taller than Chase’s own six-three but it was clear that he had a thicker bone structure too. Chase was only moderately built and while he was fairly well-muscled, he was neither overly solid nor slight. He figured the kind of size Collins possessed would have come in handy in the few kick-boxing ring fights Chase had fought in younger days. Despite his size, however, Collins never once looked clumsy.

  Chase waited for him to finish. Once his moves were complete, Collins again bowed towards Chase, who had stayed perfectly still the entire time, casting a watchful eye. Chase said nothing for a moment. Collins quickly regathered his breath, and calmed his body from the exertion by slowly inhaling through his nose and slowly exhaling through his mouth. He had clearly been putting in a lot of practise, as attested by the sweat drenching most of his army-issue T-shirt.

  “Nicely done, Sensei. You’ve stopped putting your leading leg in the way of the blade. There’s some hope you won’t cut your own leg off now.”

  “Hai, Renshi,” came Collins’s reply, along with a grin.

  “You moved very well. Your balance is good and your footwork has come a long way in the past eight months. I have no other advice for you now. Just remember to stay centred, control your breathing and mind your footwork — everything we’ve talked about — and you’ll be fine.”

  The formalities dispensed with, Chase stepped towards Collins and extended his hand, which was readily accepted along with a warm slap on the shoulder. “Beer time, Renshi?”

  “Beer time, Sensei.”

  Chase and Collins turned and bowed as they left the patch of dirt in front of the barracks, which they considered to be their dojo. Chase grabbed his pack while Collins held the door for him.

  Chase felt slightly more energised after the chance encounter with Collins and could feel the pull of his thirst overpowering the appeal of his rack right now. He dropped his pack off inside next to his bunk and waited for Collins by the door. Having put his bokken away, Collins returned and they headed to the small Sergeants’ mess that one of the British soldiers — they were famous for their obscure pub names — had dubbed the Dusty Piglet. The “dusty” part was fairly self-explanatory and the “piglet” referred to the size of the tent and the smell. There wasn’t a lot of room inside and it generally smelled like a hog due to its visitors stopping in for a beer before a shower after a day in the field.

  The Dusty Piglet was often staffed by a member of the Royal Logistics Corps, the British Army food and beverage specialists who were attached to the British military units sharing the base with the US Army. Today was no exception and behind the tiny bar was a friendly private Chase had seen a number of times before. British pub, British barkeep, Chase mused. Very authentic.

  “Two Heinekens, please,” Collins ordered. He clinked his bottle against Chase’s and they both took a long pull. “Damn, that’s good,” Collins grinned. “Best recovery fluid ever.”

  “Until they let us have top-shelf bourbon in here.”

  “I heard you had a tough day at the office. Is it true that you lost Mojo?”

  The men found their way to a small makeshift table, made from old packing crates, and pulled up a pair of folding chairs.

  “Yep,” Chase nodded.

  “Damn. How many missions did he make it through?”

  “This one made fifty-four deployments.”

  “Well, he served his purpose, right? Better a few broken parts than you turning to red mist.”

  “I’ll drink to that, Sensei.”

  Chase knew full well that the little robot was expendable. It had been used exactly as intended — to stop him or another member of the team having to get a close-up look at the IED, not to mention disabling it, one way or another. He could tell that Collins was picking up on his level of concern, so he kept talking.

  “I’m not sure what bothers me more — whether losing Mojo is a bad omen, or that we don’t have any replacement wheelbarrows on base.”

  “Like I said, that’s what Mojo was for. Any idea when the next ones come in?”

  “No but we move out tomorrow morning. So it’s me in the suit, or shoot at anything that looks suspicious.”

  “Sound advice. The shooting part, I mean.”

  “Yep. Though disarming rather than exploding something can be better for anyone standing nearby.”

  The door of the Dusty Piglet opened and Tucker stepped in. Chase and Collins both turned to face him and he raised his hands, gesturing to them to relax and stay put.

  “Are you slumming it with us today, sir?” Chase asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do, Chase.�
�� He nodded to the private who slid him a fresh beer, which he raised to clink against Chase and Collins’ bottles. Tucker took a long swig and sighed with satisfaction. “I needed that.”

  Chase and Collins grinned in response.

  “I figured I’d find you in here, Chase. Thought I’d let you know that the Colonel just got word on a replacement shipment of PackBots. We’ll have three more on base in five days’ time.”

  Chase felt a slight weight lift from his tired shoulders, which Tucker read.

  “Yeah, I know. It takes the heat off us a little bit but we’ve still got to take extra care between now and then.”

  Chase nodded. “Yes, sir. Every angle.”

  “Every angle.” Tucker stood to leave. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it. See you in the truck at oh-eight-hundred, Chase.” He headed out the door, his half-drunk beer still in hand.

  “You could always prod anything you don’t like with your bokken, Renshi,” Collins cackled.

  “Or I could pull rank and send you out instead of a PackBot,” Chase laughed back.

  Collins gave him a mock scowl in return.

  ***

  Chase hit the shower, standing under what was a fairly weak stream of water but glad that he could wash the dust of the day off. It would be back before long, though the respite was welcome. He towelled off and pulled out his razor. He liked to stay clean-shaven so the dust and sunblock was easier to remove at the end of the day. He sometimes wore stubble but he found it just made his face grimier and more difficult to wash out here in this harsh landscape. He rinsed his face when he was done, checking that he hadn’t missed any spots, then grabbed his gear and headed back to his bunk. He had a fresh uniform on standby, the usual desert fatigues. They would be covered in extra desert before long but for now it was good to have clean clothes on. Next to his pack, leaning against the wall, was his own bokken. He smiled and gave it a quick pat, before making sure his gear was ready to go for tomorrow. His canteen needed filling, so he took care of that, re-stowing it once he was satisfied that he was good to go.