Black Ops

by Alan Baxter

  “All right,” Hatcher said, projecting his voice. “You all know the mission and the plan. Time to suit up and go Tom Clancy. If you have any questions, they better be good ones, because the time to ask them was during the six hours of briefing, not now. Otherwise, get your weapon and lock and load.”

  “I got one.” It was Garza. Sniper. Ex-Marine. Short and top heavy. Scar deforming the side of his upper lip. “Why aren’t we doing this under dark cover?”

  It was a good question. One he’d asked himself, when the operational parameters had been explained to him. He was told not to volunteer the answer if it came up, to give some lame rationale about airspace and international treaties and technical distinctions between hostile incursions and minor violations. But he wasn’t going to keep anything from the team.

  “The people we’re working with on the ground, including our contacts, are superstitious. I’m not sure how else to put it. They believe there are threats in the darkness, risks they aren’t willing to take. They insisted on daylight. That’s why we’re being dropped at the crack of dawn.”

  Hatcher knew the locals were right. There were threats in the darkness. But he doubted what they were afraid of had anything to do with the kinds of things he knew to be true, the kinds of things he knew to be lurking in the dark. And he seriously doubted there was anything to the particular superstitions that caused many in the region to participate in a robust black market for albino body parts, prizing them for some sort of mystical qualities it was believed they possessed – a practice that apparently motivated the woman Hatcher and his team were tasked with rescuing to do volunteer work in dangerous territory, angering dangerous people—other than maybe the power that comes from a long history of folklore. Still, the thought bothered him.

  The loadmaster was a small NCO. He stood near the rear and began a roll call of assigned numbers. The first guy to grab his M4 from the man chuckled. His name was Ivy, ex-SEAL. He tapped the magazine against his helmet. Ivy was medium height, medium build. Well proportioned. Very dark skin with high cheek bones.

  “Superstitious,” Ivy said, chin swaying. “Never known a brother who wasn’t.”

  Some laughs from the group. Zorn, an athletic looking guy with sandy brown hair in a neat flat top sat up stiff, making a show of concern. “Hold it, now, I was told you were the only black guy I’d have to put up with. And they promised you weren’t allowed to speak. They ain’t paying me enough.”

  A few more laughs. Ivy made a comment about Zorn’s mama having plenty of quarters to spread around, last he’d heard, and Hatcher stepped in to shut everyone up. This, he figured, was why they didn’t want that kind of thing talked about. An off-color joke, a poorly-phrased comment – the slightest wrong note at a fragile moment could spell trouble. Cooperation could be cut-off instantly, especially when you were dealing with people who had it rough, people who had little else but their pride.

  “Not a word of it. Not to our hosts, not to anyone from this point on. You all have the Ugly-American angle covered well enough with your looks.” He stared each of them down, one by one, before catching Woodley’s eye. “When the bird lands, you and I are out first. Ivy, Zorn, you’re next, but on signal. Garza, you follow them. And watch it with the jokes. Save ‘em for the flight back. Game-face time.”

  Hatcher gestured Woodley near. He was the first in the group Hatcher’d been introduced to in that basement dungeon of offices, during the carrot portion of the pitch, right after the stick. Tall, athletic in a lean way. Smiled way too much, kept patting Hatcher on the back and talking about how glad he was Hatcher was on board. Hatcher had taken an instant dislike to him. The gung-ho attitude and Aryan features screamed poster-boy for the Hitler Youth. “You understand why we’re first, right?”

  Woodley chewed on it, but not for long. He registered his comprehension with a pop of the eyebrows. “Got it.”

  The muted rhythm of helicopter blades thumped against the aluminum skin of the plane. The rear cargo hatch lowered like a drawbridge. The loadmaster called out the remaining numbers, handing each man his rifle and five magazines. Hatcher went last. After the weapons and ammunition were distributed, the loadmaster unlocked a separate container and handed Woodley a silver metallic briefcase. The men exited single file, headed straight toward the chopper. Hatcher waited for everyone else to board, scanning the tree lines, before climbing on.

  There was no preflight briefing. There were headsets, but none of the team reached for one and Hatcher decided not to, either. The right-seat pilot shut the sliding passenger door and climbed back in. The engine grew louder a moment later and the craft shifted, a sliding feeling, then it rose. The nose dipped before it got twenty feet off the ground and then they were accelerating forward.

  The ride was smooth. It was Hatcher’s first time in a Lakota. Much nicer than the Hueys and Chinooks he was used to, but he reminded himself that had been over a decade ago. He watched the terrain roll by below, green concentrations of heavy vegetation, beige-yellow plains. They were barely ten minutes into the flight when the pilot gestured back, then pointed. The helicopter descended into a clearing.

  Hatcher slid a hand to the small of his back, feigned like he was scratching. He touched the tiny metal cylinder tucked behind his belt, a tool he’d taken to carrying everywhere, ever since his last run-in with the police. Why the feel of it at a time like this gave him comfort, when he was armed to the teeth, he wasn’t sure. Maybe because he felt trapped, roped into an operation against his will, and the reason he always carried it was to make traps seem less hopeless. The idea made him feel silly.

  Two automobiles emerged from beyond the tree line, approaching. One was an olive-green Land Rover with an open rear and a large metal frame instead of a roof, what looked like a podium extending over the hood surrounded by a railing. Safari observation platform, Hatcher supposed. The other was a bleached-out tan Humvee. Both were beat up, with numerous dents and bond-o blotches and mud-caked rugged tires that were worn long past their replacement date. The Land Rover had a driver but no one else in it. The Hummer had a driver and a passenger.

  Woodley opened the door and glanced at Hatcher. The others were all in various states of lean, ready to go, but Hatcher held up a fist. He picked a headset off a hook, made sure it was plugged in, and spoke into the mouthpiece.

  “There’s always a chance they may pull weapons. At the first sign of anything that I or the team member with me can’t handle, you get these men out of here and abort.”

  The pilot nodded. Per the mission rules, there would be no radio traffic. Extraction was set by time and coordinates, with a contingency meeting point set two hours later. There was no host government involvement, so risk of a communication capture was to be avoided with extreme priority. While nobody liked those kinds of orders, Hatcher grudgingly understood. The entire mission was a gross violation of national sovereignty. The ramifications could be far reaching and threaten myriad pacts and alliances, formal and informal. There was no escaping politics.

  Woodley hopped out and Hatcher followed. They double-timed it in a slight crouch until they reached the Hummer.

  The driver opened the door and put one foot on the ground, standing, but didn’t get all the way out. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses that reflected the glowing sky to the east. A khaki shirt, pockets but no sleeves. To Hatcher’s surprise, he didn’t appear to be armed.

  The man slapped the outside of the open door – pop pop – then held out his hand at an expectant angle. His dark skin was wrapped tight around a lean, corded arm, a bump for a bicep, a knob for an elbow. He snapped his fingers, fanned his hand toward his body.

  Hatcher shifted his eyes to Woodley and gestured with his chin. Woodley stepped forward with the briefcase. The man grabbed the handle and tossed the case into the jeep behind him without so much as a pause to glance at it.

  Woodley stepped back. The man leaned on the vehicle door, h
iding behind his mirrored lenses. He seemed to be waiting for something else.

  “You got your money,” Hatcher said. “Now, where are we heading? Distance and direction.”

  The man stared at Hatcher. His upper lip and the side of his mouth curled enough to show teeth, but he said nothing.

  “You’re either the leader of whatever gang or outfit or tribal clan you belong to, or the guy sent by the leader. That means you speak English.”

  Woodley started to say something, but Hatcher threw up a palm without looking at him.

  “Well?”

  “I am thinking,” the man said. He took a long minute eyeing Hatcher, head tilting up and down. “About what I am being paid to do. It is not easy to betray someone.”

  The whine of the helicopter hummed in their ears. Hatcher felt Woodley tense, sensed him shifting his weight forward. He stuck out his arm like a road block.

  He didn’t like any of this. Didn’t want to be there, didn’t like being in charge, and sure as hell didn’t like having been blackmailed into the whole thing. But even if he’d signed up willingly, he would have hated this plan. This was supposed to be a hostage rescue, but they were paying for the location. Half rescue, half ransom. That meant dealing with shifting allegiances and incomplete information of unknown reliability. His objections had been overruled. The plan was put in place at too high a level to change it, he’d been told. And that plan was to pay the money, get the location, and extract the young doctor with the powerful parent back home who’d made the possibly fatal mistake of doing her volunteer work in the wrong country at the wrong time.

  “Then don’t,” Hatcher said. “Stick with the deal as planned. The one you made with the people who sent us. What you’re doing will free an innocent woman. That’s not a betrayal. That’s doing the right thing. No need to complicate things.” A moment later, he added, “any more than they already are.”

  The man ran his long fingers down the side of his face. His knuckles were cracked and chalky from callouses and scabbing.

  “That is a good way to think of it. I will take heed of your words.” The man seemed to shift his attention to Woodley for a moment, then back to Hatcher. It was hard for Hatcher to tell with those glasses. “The camp is nine kilometers northwest. We will take you and your men to a location a little less than one kilometer from it. From there, I will escort you and one other to the perimeter. Exactly as agreed. Then, my men and I will take our leave.”

  Hatcher nodded once. He turned to the helicopter and held up an arm, pointed his index finger to the sky and swirled it. His team egressed one at a time, moving swiftly, heads low, weapons in a ready position across their chests.

  Leaning in toward Woodley, Hatcher said, “Keep your eye on him.” He gestured with his eyes back to the driver. “He’s hiding something.”

  Woodley swallowed. The exchange had clearly rattled him; a greasy film of sweat slicked his forehead.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked.

  Hatcher’d openly wondered at the first briefing why they hadn’t just put Woodley in charge, since he seemed to be the only one in the group with current military ties – though his actual status had been vaguely referenced as classified – and knew more about the situation than any of them. One reason had become obvious. He was jittery, uncertain. Maybe the powers-that-be weren’t as oblivious as Hatcher had assumed.

  “Well, aside from the fact I can tell… the only people who don’t count money from strangers are ones who are doing it for something other than the cash. And I don’t know what that something is. Do you?”

  Another swallow, followed by a deep breath. Woodley looked over his shoulder at the driver, thoughts swimming behind his eyes. He dropped his gaze to the ground, his body stiffening, as if gathering resolve.

  “I don’t know why anyone does anything, anymore,” he said. “So I sure as hell don’t know what motivates these guys.”

  The drive through the jungle was only about five miles, but the indirect route carved out of the terrain made it seem closer to twenty. The road was more of a trail, the destination a location chosen for its remoteness and lack of accessibility. Branches and fronds draped themselves over the path, rubbery, leafy shapes swatting off the windscreen of the lead vehicle, the wilds of an untamed land trying to reclaim its own.

  Far from the chopper, the sound of the vehicles was not enough to drown out the fluty call of birds, the piercing ululations of… what? Monkeys? Hatcher couldn’t be sure. He just knew that at each tight curve, as the engines slowed to idle, the hue of wildlife was like a background track. Whistles and whoops and trills.

  The lead vehicle pulled to a stop where the path took a sharp turn. The other vehicle stopped behind it.

  “This is as far as I can take everyone but two of you. I will show you the camp. But your men will have to stay back. I do not want to get caught in the middle of a firefight.”

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Mbuyi.”

  “No offense, Mbuyi, but this sounds an awful lot like a trap.”

  The man shrugged. “One of me, two of you. I will take you to where I can show you the path to the camp. But no farther. I have one pistol. You have automatic weapons.” He shifted his gaze to Woodley, looking him up and down with what seemed to Hatcher like a palpable disdain. He wondered if it was the blond hair. “I am in no position to control what happens after that. I will do exactly as was agreed.”

  “How far is it?” Hatcher asked.

  “Half a kilometer, perhaps.”

  Woodley looked at Hatcher. “Your call. We can tell the rest of the team to be ready for a rapid response.”

  Nothing to like about it, but they needed eyes on the camp to decide the specifics. That was always the weakest part of the plan, which was saying a lot. But they hadn’t given him much of a say in the matter. They hadn’t given him much of a say in anything.

  “Do it. But get us back here in thirty.”

  Woodley signaled to the others to stand ready in place, threw up three fingers then a circled palm, fingertip touching thumb. This had been part of the brief. If they weren’t back at thirty-one minutes, the team was to treat every non-team member as a hostile.

  Mbuyi tossed a wave over his head to his associates and started driving again. The path was narrower now, used infrequently, barely two ruts through the trees, whose branches clawed at the windshield and scraped the metal above their heads.

  After maybe three or four hundred yards, Mbuyi braked and put the vehicle into park. He stepped out and gestured to Woodley, pointing into the back. Woodley looked down, then handed him a machete that was on the floor. Mbuyi dipped his head toward the heavy brush past him.

  “This way. One hundred meters or thereabouts. There is a clearing.”

  The machete hissed and thwacked its way through branches and stems and vines, fans of green, nets of hairy ropes. The route Mbuyi forged had been cut before and the jungle had all but reclaimed it, leaving Hatcher to wonder if that sort of reclaiming had taken weeks, or only days. The going was slow but steady, within a few minutes, the growth became less dense. An area opened; a small spread of field. It was littered with the skeletal remains of animals. At least, Hatcher hoped they were all animals. Ribs and spines and giant drumsticks. Straight ones, curved ones, broken ones; jagged and smooth and bleached and yellowing. Large and small.

  A light breeze puffed their faces. The stench it carried was unbearable.

  “This place is called the Garden of Bones. You will find such gardens throughout the nearby valley. And the areas that surround it.”

  Hatcher glanced at Woodley, tightened his grip on his M4, raising it slightly. Woodley wrinkled his nose and hitched a shoulder, frowning with one side of his mouth.

  “Why are we in the ‘Garden of Bones,’ Mbuyi? Where’s the camp?”

  “I’m afraid you will find
out soon enough.”

  Movement along the far treeline. Hatcher dropped to one knee and raised his rifle to a ready-fire position.

  “Hostiles. Woodley, cover left.”

  “Unfortunately,” Woodley said. “I’m too busy covering you.”

  Hatcher turned his head. The barrel of Woodley’s rifle was pointed straight at him. Its bearer was staring down the sight, weapon securely in firing position.

  Six men emerged from the brush. Most had AKs. One had an Uzi. All were pointed with varying degrees of apparent know-how in his direction. No uniforms, just jeans and sweats and t-shirts and a few caps. A woman was with them. Her wrists were pulled behind her and a dirty pillow case covered her head. Her bare arms were pale beneath smears of grime.

  Hatcher eased the grip on his rifle, letting it sag in his arms. “I don’t even have any live rounds, do I?”

  Woodley gave his head a shake. “Dummies. Had to make sure the weight and balance was just right. Knew you’d check.”

  The approaching men drew closer, their steps slow and cautious. Hatcher set his rifle down and stood.

  “So, what’s the play? Me for the girl?”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  Hatcher looked at Mbuyi, then back to Woodley. “What could possibly make me so valuable?”

  “You’ll have to ask them,” Woodley said. “I’m sorry about this, Hatcher. I really am.”

  “I bet.”

  “Believe what you want, but it’s true. They had me by the short hairs. Worse than you, a lot worse. I’m just following orders. Nothing personal, man. It’s all part of the plan. Remember how you kept saying, trust in the plan?”