Black Ops

by Alan Baxter

  “Can they be moved?”

  “They probably won’t survive the trip to the boat, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Krandle frowns in thought. “What about to that bridge?”

  “I don’t know what good that will do, but probably that far and not much more. Honestly, chief, with night coming on, these people will be better off leaving these two and finding somewhere safe. If they leave now, they may be able to put enough distance between them and the town.”

  “Do what you can,” Krandle says, rising and heading toward the now huddled group of survivors.

  “Okay folks, here’s the deal. And, you may not like it much. I know you’ve already been through a lot, but I’m going to lay this out bluntly. First off, we can’t take you aboard the sub we came in on, there’s just not enough room. As you may already know, there’s a town on the other side of those woods, along with thousands of night runners. So, staying here is a death sentence,” Krandle says.

  “So, you’re not going to help us? You’re going to just leave our wives and daughters in the hands of those assholes,” one man says.

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just laying out the situation for you.”

  “Let the man speak, Phil,” Doug says.

  “Thank you. Two of your wounded may not make it… more than likely they won’t, and they can’t be moved far. With nightfall coming on in a few hours, one choice is to leave them and put as much distance as you can from the town. You’ll have to carry the man with the leg wound.”

  “We can’t do that. We can’t just leave them to die all alone. That would be akin to murder,” another man says.

  “I said that’s one choice. Another is stay here with them, but you won’t make it through the night. That’s just a fact and it won’t help your loved ones much. I know you’re wondering if we can help, both through the night and for your wives and daughters. I and the others will want to stay, but the overall choice isn’t mine to make. I know you may not understand, but we’re it for a bunch of other folks, too. It’s a fucked up world. It sucks, I know, but I just wanted to let you know your options if we can’t stay. I’m going to try and convince my boss to remain. I’ll leave you to talk things over.”

  Krandle calls the others in and relates the information he received.

  “How could they be so stupid?” Speer asks.

  “You know, everything aside, leaving them with wounded to slow them down so they can’t follow makes some kind of tactical sense. That shows what we may be up against if we opt for a rescue attempt. Although, they may not have had that in mind and are just assholes,” says Franklin.

  “Ah, shit. We’re staying, aren’t we? I know that look in your eye,” Speer says.

  “Do we really have a choice?” says Krandle.

  “No. But, dammit. I don’t mind missions and shit, but I miss the downtime in between with beers and women.”

  “You don’t get women, Speer, unless you pay for them. And then, it’s still fifty-fifty. Remember Bangkok?” Ortiz says with a grin.

  “Shut the fuck up about that. That… never happened. And I get more than Blanchard over there.” Speer points toward the medic hovering over the injured.

  “You know, I seriously doubt that,” Miller says, glancing at Blanchard with a speculative expression. “I bet he gets more than the rest of us combined.”

  “What the fuck do you know, chief?” Speer says.

  Miller shrugs, his words for the week spoken.

  “Those guys who ambushed these poor fuckers were on quads, so they can’t be that far,” Ortiz says.

  “Agreed, but we’ll deal with that later, unless we come across their tracks. It’s a fair bet they’ll be far enough away to be out of range of the night runners. Right now, we need to think about getting through the night. The ammo we’re carrying might not be enough for the night runners laired in the city,” Krandle says.

  “More good news,” Speer mutters.

  “We have claymores and grenades,” Franklin says, ignoring Speer.

  “That we do. If we’re saddled with the wounded, we won’t be able to make it far. Blanchard says they’ll make it to the bridge south of us. It’s the best defensible area in sight, effectively giving us a single front,” says Krandle.

  “Then the bridge it is. Have you spoken with Leonard? He may order us to return,” Franklin says.

  Krandle shook his head. “No, not yet. I’m going to give him a call now and I may leave out a detail or two.”

  “I have my shiny armor all polished if we’re going to rescue those damsels in distress come morning. All I need is a white horse,” Speer says, looking around for one. “Let’s just hope the dragon is asleep.”

  Krandle steps away and raises the sub on the radio and gives Leonard the situation. He informs him of their desire to stay with the wounded and move them out of harm’s way, to watch over them for the night before sending them along on their own. The radio silence that follows is palpable.

  “Chief, you realize you’re all we have… that you have other responsibilities as well,” Leonard finally says.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “I don’t like it, but very well. You make it back, and that’s an order. We’ll be standing by in case.” Leonard’s frustration with his SEAL team leader is evident.

  “Aye, aye, sir. We’ll radio our coordinates when we have them.”

  There isn’t a reply and Krandle knows that he’s in for an earful once they return. But, that was their bargain for Krandle and his team staying. They had a chance to leave with Captain Walker and his group when they all met at the Bangor Naval Station. Leonard commanded the sub, and in essence, his SEAL team. But, the world had changed and even Leonard eventually came to recognize that. For Krandle and his team staying, an agreement of sorts was made. Krandle could make the final decision whether to go ashore and when to pull back or proceed. Leonard was still in overall command, and could have ordered them back, but gave Krandle the leeway as the on-scene commander.

  “What did he say?” Franklin asks upon Krandle’s return.

  “It’s not so much what he said, as what he’s going to say when we get back.”

  “That sounds like it’ll be fun,” Franklin mutters.

  “About as much as a visit to the proctologist. Okay, we’re heading to the bridge. I want Speer and Ortiz to scout ahead on the left. Franklin, take Miller with you on the right. I don’t have to tell you to keep an eye out for our mysterious guests.”

  “Copy that,” Franklin says.

  “We’ll get the wounded loaded and follow.”

  The four scouts fade into the woods on both sides as Krandle returns to those gathered.

  “Okay, we’re staying. We need to build stretchers for the wounded and move toward the bridge. It’s not far and we can expect company this evening, but that’s where we’re staying,” Krandle says.

  Fourteen shoulders sag in relief, looking almost like candles melting under high heat.

  “Thank you,” Doug says.

  “I hope you understand it’s not like we didn’t want to help, it’s—”

  “We understand,” Doug interrupts. “And thank you again.”

  “Do any of you have any weapons? Those that weren’t taken?” Krandle asks.

  “Only in that,” Doug says, pointing toward the smoldering wreckage of vehicles.

  “Fair enough. Your people will carry the wounded. My medic will stay with them and monitor them. I want to be clear, they may not make it very long. You need to be prepared for that.”

  Doug nods. “And our wives?”

  “We’ll talk about that in the morning. We have an interesting night to get through first.”

  Gathering a few thicker branches, they create a couple of makeshift stretchers using ponchos and Para cord. The femur isn’t broken, but Blanchard suspe
cts it’s fractured. Using a crutch cut from a bough and the help of a shoulder, the man is able to hobble along. Another small dose of morphine helps, but Blanchard is fairly sure they’ll have to make a third stretcher before they reach the bridge.

  The group manhandles the stretchers past the fallen tree and begins the trudge down the highway toward the distant bridge. Knowing the other four of his team has the front covered, Krandle positions himself at the rear. Gazing up at the afternoon sun, they’ll have only a couple of hours of light once they reach the span. Time weighs on his shoulders and he mentally urges the group to move faster, knowing they’ll have a lot to do once they arrive.

  “We’re at the edge of a ravine that the bridge crosses. All clear to this point,” Franklin radios.

  “Continue across and scout the far side. We don’t want any surprises coming from there. We’ll be a while yet getting there,” Krandle replies.

  “Copy that. We’re on the move.”

  As they walk, Krandle observes the group’s nervous looks toward the trees, as if expecting the bandits to suddenly materialize. He assures them the others in his team have reached the bridge and reported the way clear. That does little to alleviate the anxious looks. Several times during their trek, Blanchard has them halt and tends to the man with the chest wound.

  As they step onto the span, Franklin and the others emerge from the tree line on the other side. “No sign of anyone for at least a mile,” Franklin reports.

  Krandle nods. “Have the civilians set up on the far end away from town, then grab your packs and meet me at the near end. If night runners show up tonight, it will be from that direction. We need to arrange a welcome.”

  With the group positioned, the team empties their packs. Krandle looks over the landscape while radioing in their position to the sub. The bridge itself is almost an eighth of a mile across, spanning a fairly deep gorge with a stream running its length. The tree-lined ravine shallows as it nears the shoreline, as does the stream before it empties out onto the sand and the incoming waves.

  Ahead, the two-lane highway stretches straight with narrow medians of tall grass to either side. The sward gives way to firs reaching skyward.

  Good line of sight to the front, but if they emerge from the trees nearby, we won’t have much reaction time. Krandle studies the terrain. They can’t move across the ravine, unless they go all of the way to the beach. And, the bandits won’t come out once the sun sets, so our rear should be secure.

  Krandle relates his thoughts to the team, “So, we need to focus on the front. If our scent is picked up, we have the potential of thousands heading our way. We’ll set our twelve claymores singly. I want one on each of the front girders with another two spaced along the ravine on either side in case we’re rushed and need to create a little room. The others staged in the grass along the highway. If they see us, they’ll make a beeline toward us… at least initially. Let’s not forget they’re cagey and have the capability to change strategies.”

  Turning to Blanchard, he asks, “How are the wounded?”

  “The one with the gunshot to the leg will live, although painfully for some time. I had to aspirate the chest wound several times. The one who is gut shot is bleeding out and I’ve run through all my IVs.”

  “Is there any chance those two will make it?”

  Blanchard shakes his head.

  “Then, I guess the only thing to do is make them comfortable,” Krandle says.

  “Any more morphine will kill them. But, I guess that doesn’t really matter,” says Blanchard.

  “Will you be needed with them tonight?”

  “There’s not really much I can do. I’ll give them a last dose of morphine, but that’s about it.”

  “Okay. I want you up here with us once the sun hits the horizon. We may need every weapon online.”

  “Aye, chief.”

  Krandle looks toward the beach and the sun closing in on the horizon. “Speer, how long will it take you and Ortiz to reach the shoreline, get to the raft, drag it near the stream, and make your way back?”

  “Are you asking about being stealthy, or going at a flat out run?”

  “Somewhere in between,” Krandle replies.

  “Well, seeing that Ortiz runs as fast as a turtle in mud… two hours… give or take,” Speer says.

  “Fuck you, Speer. I can outrun your skinny hillbilly ass any day of the week. The only time you may be able to run faster is if your mom caught you with your sister again.”

  “The only time you can remotely run fast, East LA, is if you hear the words ‘freeze’.”

  “If you two are done making out, you have two hours. That’s about all of the time you have unless you want to be supper. If the sun sets, you’ll both get a chance to set land speed records. Before you go, leave your claymores and clackers with Franklin.”

  As Speer and Ortiz disappear into the tree line, Krandle and the others set to laying the claymores and trailing the wires back to the bridge. Finishing, Krandle stands. Just as he feared, a slight breeze flows toward the ocean from the inland side. Staring toward where the others were waylaid, he knows that with the offshore flow, the scent of blood at the scene of the attack will make its way into the town. That will draw the night runners out and possibly to their position. He isn’t exactly sure to what extent the night runners have an enhanced sense of smell. It’s entirely possible they may investigate the site and not know the group is at the bridge.

  I can only hope we’re far enough away.

  Krandle turns toward the beach, seeing Speer and Ortiz manhandle the raft across the stream and store it in the dunes.

  “You know that won’t hold everyone. Even if they hang onto the sides,” Franklin says.

  “I know. But, if we get overrun and get scattered, it’s there.”

  “Did you tell them about it?” Franklin asks, motioning to the group of civilians.

  “I will if it comes to that point. I don’t want them to get antsy if shit hits the fan and for them to make a run for it early. That will leave us stranded,” Krandle says.

  “Fair enough.”

  The sun is near the horizon, the western sky a myriad of oranges and reds. The beams of the dying sun ripple across the ocean, an endless dance of light. Speer and Ortiz arrive, pulling spare mags from their packs and storing them in every available space. They replace those that they can’t find room for and shoulder their packs. Donning their NVG gear, they take a knee near the front of the bridge.

  Krandle would have liked to create a barricade, but there weren’t enough materials. It may not have slowed the night runners any, but it would have given a little mental lift knowing there was something between them and the predators of the night. The sun dips below the horizon, light flaring upward, then vanishing. The deep blue sky to the east darkens, turning to black velvet which slowly invades the heavens. Stars stab out from an ebony background, twinkling silver. The sight of something so vast makes him feel small, as if their problem is so minute within the universe as to be non-existent. In the distance, screams echo across the newly darkened night.

  Time passes. Behind the NVGs, his eyes feel dry and gritty from lack of sleep. He scans the trees, looking for any sign the night runners are venturing from the city. Even with binoculars, there’s no way to tell if they are hovering around the ambush zone. With the drafts of winds swirling around, he knows the night runners had to have caught scent of the spilled blood. It’s just a matter of if they pick up on their trail or catch wind of their current location. They haven’t seen any to this point.

  So far, so good. Krandle turns to glance toward the civilians.

  There’s no sight of them at the far end of the bridge, having been told that it’s paramount they remain hidden. Although the night runners are able to see in the dark, again, Krandle isn’t sure exactly how well. A slight breeze chills his neck as it flows fr
om behind. The world beyond is bathed in a green glow for as far as he is able to see. The limited area of vision means they won’t have a lot of time to react should they be discovered.

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this. They feel close,” Speer whispers in Krandle’s ear piece.

  A chill runs up Krandle’s spine and the hairs on his neck stand on end; this time it’s not associated with any breeze. He’s learned to listen to Speer’s senses. When Speer voices one of his ‘feelings’, it’s damn near a fact in Krandle’s book. His finger runs along the trigger guard as he peers into the green-lit night.

  “There, to the left… near the road,” Speer whispers.

  A night runner emerges into view, its pale face almost glowing. It takes a step, face upraised as it sniffs the air. Another step, the head turning left and right as it attempts to pinpoint whatever scent it’s tracking. It’s too far away to ensure a killing shot. To fire now and only injure it will guarantee discovery. If it draws closer and hasn’t alerted any others, they’ll take it down before it can draw more into the area.

  “Remember gents, semi-auto,” Krandle whispers. “If we’re located, wait until they’re close. We need to make every shot count.”

  Another night runner joins the first, then another, all with their noses pointed to the heavens. Krandle’s experience tells him they left their lairs, raced to the smell of blood, and have been tracking the source ever since; moving from one side of the road to the other to pick up a trace scent in the swirling breeze, perpetually drawing closer. It’s just a matter of time before they’re located.

  Just a little closer. Slowly shouldering his M-4, he hand-signals targets to the others.

  His heart thumps solidly against his ribs, and he forces himself to draw in slow, deep breaths to calm his nerves. Each second feels like an hour, that moment in time just before a storm releases its fury… the waiting for it to unleash… hoping it will turn aside at the last instant.

  Krandle anxiously watches as the first night runner tenses, its body becoming rigid. In his mind, Krandle hears the rumble of storm clouds. The creature’s head snaps toward where the six of them are kneeling and leans forward. Its eyes glow with a silvery light, making the hairs on Krandle’s arm stand upright. He knows the night runner is staring directly at him. The two other predators standing in the grass also suddenly turn their heads. Krandle looks out from his NVGs at three pair of liquid silver eyes staring back at him.