Black Ops

by Alan Baxter

  Hatcher took a step himself, a much quicker one, slamming full frontal into the man, wedging the AK between them. He threw one arm around the man’s neck, clenching him tight, hooking his chin from behind and giving it a hard yank. He swung his hand up to grab the stock of the AK between them at the same time, clamping a hold of it to keep it steady, and braced for the sting.

  The rifle erupted in a rapid tattoo of shots, bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap. The sound jackhammered his ears, more distinct and a bit louder than an AR. The barrel swept in a tight arc as Hatcher spun the man by his jaw, the burst of rounds taking out the four men in front of them before they could return fire, their boss being in the way causing all kinds of confusion. A stream of scalding brass bounced off his chest, a few singeing his neck and face.

  The firing stopped. No surprise there. Full auto only lasts a few seconds

  Other than the guy he had wrapped up, there were two left, the ones prepping to climb the vines. Hatcher gave another violent torque to the man’s neck. The guy was trying to resist, most of his efforts directed at regaining his balance, but the laws of kinesiology were governing him for the moment. Where the head went, the body had to follow.

  A complete circle, the man stumbling around Hatcher’s radial until Hatcher stuck a leg out and threw himself backwards, dropping the man on top of him as he let go of the rifle and stabbed a hand at the man’s sidearm. He jerked it free of its holster, aimed at the one of the remaining two who had gotten his weapon the highest, and squeezed the trigger.

  The hammer pulled back on the double action, then punched forward with a click. Son of a bitch. Hatcher bit his lip in disgust, but didn’t have time to curse his luck. Rather than relinquish his grip on his shield’s neck, which would have taken more time anyway, he rotated the pistol sideways and slammed it against the man’s head, digging the rear sight into his temple as hard and as deep as he could, and in one continuous motion shoved the handle forward. The man screamed as Hatcher racked a round into the chamber.

  One of the gunmen let off three rounds, apparently writing his boss off for dead. Two of them hit the man, jolting his body, the other sizzling past Hatcher’s skull. Hatcher fired one shot at center of mass that knocked the shooter back just as another round, this one from Whittling Guy, took a chunk of Knit Cap’s head and splattered blood across Hatcher’s face. Hatcher fired another shot, this one missing, but far worse than that was the sight of the slide open, stuck halfway back, the end of a protruding shell visible in the ejection port. A jam. Hatcher knew before he’d even glanced at it, knew without even thinking about it. Cheap loads, limp wrist. To clear it, he’d have to slap his palm against the bottom of the magazine and rack the slide again. But that would mean tossing off his shield. And there wasn’t enough skull left on the body lying on top of him, now dead weight, for him to try another forced rack. He looked to be out of options. To make matters worse, the first gunman he’d shot wasn’t even down, he was pressing his hand against a wound in his abdomen, intent on rejoining the fray, a bit hunched over, but looking directly at Hatcher and managing to point his rifle using his other arm. The second one, Whittling Guy, seeing the malfunction, stepped forward, focused on not wasting any more rounds, the set of his jaw dead serious, moving in for the kill shot.

  He’d have to risk it. The chances of him not taking hits seemed about zero, but there really wasn’t any choice.

  Hatcher rocked to the side, ready to throw the body off him, hopefully have enough momentum to roll over it, pop onto a knee on the other side, tap-rack-fire. The closest rifleman snapped his AK higher, sighting it in, just as Hatcher flung the body over.

  The eruption of rifle fire hammered his ears. His back seemed to be exposed for dozens of bursts. He braced himself for the burn, tensing in anticipation, figuring at least the pain would let him know he was alive.

  He bounced up, one knee down, just as planned. He was already slapping his hand against the bottom of the pistol, jacking the slide back, thrusting the barrel out.

  No one was there. No one standing.

  Whittling Guy was on his back, body arched and slowly sagging to ground as his neck went limp. The other rifleman was facedown, several wounds in the top of skull leaking thick streams of blood.

  A voice projected from the jungle a few yards away.

  “Hold fire!”

  Hatcher remained still for a moment, then lowered his weapon. Woodley emerged, gesturing above his head. Others appeared from different points, rifles trained on the bodies, barrels snapping from one to another to another. No one appeared to be taking any chances. Only Woodley seemed confident the threat had been neutralized.

  Half of Woodley’s face tightened into a smirk. “Didn’t really think we were going to leave you in the hands of a bunch of guerrillas, did you?”

  Hatcher narrowed his eyes at the man before bouncing glances at the others. They were too engrossed in the task at hand, checking the bodies, alert for undetected hostiles, to make eye contact. He let himself exhale fully for what felt like the first time in minutes. His body suddenly felt heavy, his limbs weighted down. He stared at the ground and gathered enough strength to push to his feet.

  “Why?” Hatcher said, running his gaze over the bodies.

  “I know you’ve got lots of questions. First, let Ivy take a look at you, make sure you’re not carrying any unwanted metal or losing any tomato juice anywhere.”

  “Why,” he repeated, less a question this time than a command.

  “You’re angry. I get it. I would be, too. But you know how it works. Orders.”

  “Bullshit. That doesn’t answer the question, and it sure as hell doesn’t let you off the hook.”

  “Whoa, now. I’m the guy who just saved your ass, remember? Yes, it was a shitty thing to do. The world’s a shitty place.”

  “I’m only going to ask one more time. Why?”

  “I can only tell you what I know, which is what they told me. The PMU that had her, that was their price. They asked for you – demanded you – by name. A swap.”

  Hatcher straightened up. “They asked for me, by name.”

  “That’s what I was told. My orders were to accomplish the exchange, clear the hostage, then track and retrieve you.” Woodley took his eyes off Hatcher, snapped his fingers. “Ivy, check him out, will you?”

  Ivy slung his rifle behind his back and approached Hatcher, removing a pack from his belt.

  Hatcher barely glanced at the man, keeping his eyes on Woodley. “You have no fucking idea what you’ve done.”

  “Hey, it’s not like I was the one who came up with the plan, or even had a vote. And, in case you’re wondering, the others didn’t know. Ivy here didn’t know. I briefed them once we were clear.”

  Hatcher flinched as Ivy reached toward his face with a swab.

  “There’s a lot of blood.” The man’s expression was apologetic. His lips were pulled tight in a flat smile that was more of a sympathetic frown. “Just let me clean it off and make sure none of it’s yours.”

  The swab felt cool, even as it stung. The smell of alcohol scraped his nostrils. It perked him up a bit. A slant of sunlight stabbed through a net of leaves and fronds, flashing in his eyes. It was almost dusk.

  Almost dusk meant almost dark.

  There was too much information to process and not enough information to process it with.

  “That looks better. Lemme give you a quick exam and we can get out of here.”

  Hatcher locked his eyes on Ivy’s, then fixed his attention back on Woodley. One piece clunked into place.

  “That’s not the plan, though, is it?”

  Woodley said nothing.

  Ivy paused. “What do you mean?”

  “Tell him the truth, Woodley. Tell them all what we’re really here for. Because I’d like to hear it myself.”

  “Hold on, now. I haven’t lied. I to
ld them after we rescued you, Phase One of the mission would be complete. That’s the truth.”

  “But you didn’t tell them extraction wasn’t until Phase Three, did you?”

  “No,” Ivy said. “He didn’t.”

  “He sure as hell didn’t,” Garza said. “Next thing up was supposed to be evacuation.”

  “Guys, I’m just following instructions, same as you.”

  “That’s a load of horseshit and you know it. You may be an ass, but you’re not a dumb one. If the mission was to rescue a captive, trading me, you could have staged an assault right after the exchange. You could have attacked the camp. You could have done it a dozen different ways that would make a hell of a lot more sense than this. And you would have told them that, so Keegan or whoever was calling the shots had to give you more.”

  Woodley tilted his head to the side and rolled his eyes. But his embarrassed smirk gave it away.

  Another piece clicked into place. “You put a tracker on me. Where? My boot?”

  “Yes.” Woodley nodded, letting out a weary sigh. “Good call. In the heel.”

  “And you couldn’t let me in on it because they knew I’d refuse, because the plan was stupid and risky and unnecessary. And because I would know if they asked for me by name, there were factors in play that make this whole operation a very, very bad idea. And you couldn’t tell the others because they would also point out there was no need to delay the rescue and would have to be let in on the real mission.”

  Ivy turned his head back and forth between the two men a few times. “What’s the real mission?”

  “They needed the people who took me to lead them to something,” Hatcher said. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Well, golly gee fucking willickers, Hatcher…” Woodley tossed a hand up and let it drop, slapping his thigh. “You might as well give the whole briefing, if you know so much.”

  “No, that’s about all I got. I have no idea what they were wanting these guys to lead them to. But I can tell you that whatever it is, we don’t want to be anywhere near it.”

  Garza stepped closer. “It was bad enough we find out about Hatcher after the fact, Woodley. You didn’t tell us about any other mission, you son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah,” Zorn said. He was the biggest of the group, with pale skin and a corn-fed look that at the moment was turning a shade of red beneath his crew cut. “Why don’t you fill us in before you’re grabbing your ankles and yelling BOHICA?”

  “Everybody just calm the fuck down, okay? Jesus. Now that we’ve liberated our asset, the next phase is supposed to be the easy part. All we have to do is kill some animal. A big dumb thing the locals are afraid of.”

  Hatcher took a breath. “Animal. What kind of animal?”

  “Natives call it Kongamoto. Some sort of giant bird. They’re very superstitious about it, scares them to death. They practically worship it, like some demon god or something. If things are still going according to plan – and there is no reason to think they aren’t – they’ve led us to where it nests. All we do now is perforate it with a few hundred rounds and we can get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Scout’s honor. Look, as much as it pisses you off to hear it, I really am just following orders. We’re supposed to kill the bird and get our asses out.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why? For fuck’s sake, Woodley, the ‘why’ is always what matters. So, why the hell does the US government, or even just some rogue bureaucrat, want us to kill this thing?”

  “What can I say? It’s all political. You know, do a favor for this leader, have a chit to call in later... Who knows? I’m just a worker bee, here.”

  “Political? That’s—” A piercing screech ripped through the air before Hatcher could finish. The trees shuddered silently as every other sound seemed to disappear. The echo throbbed several times before fading away.

  The ensuing silence was finally broken by Garza. “What in the name of Jesus tap-dancing Christ was that?”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and say it was Kongamoto, whatever the hell that is.” Hatcher turned to Woodley. “We need to get these men outta here. Right now, like this damn minute.”

  “Let’s just get a grip, okay? Whatever it is, I doubt it’s fucking bullet-proof. I mean, show some sack, all of you. We’ve got enough firepower to cause an extinction event. What the hell do we have to be afraid of?”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “About this thing? It’s supposed to fly. Maybe like a pterodactyl or something similar. Possibly related to a bat. But it should be an easy target. It’s big. Should be hard to miss.”

  “How big?”

  “They weren’t sure. Size of a small plane, they guessed.”

  “A plane?” Garza threw his head back and did a half-pirouette. “You’re talking about a dinosaur, for Christ sake!”

  “They assured me it’s just an animal,” Woodley said, snapping the words. “All we have to do is put some rounds in it. What the hell, people? Going up against armed militia, you don’t bat an eye, but shooting some animal that can’t fire back makes you piss your pants?”

  Hatcher looked through the trees, eyed the dappled golden glow starting to recede. “Woodley, I’m not going to say it again. We need to get everyone out of here. Now.”

  “In case you hadn’t guessed by now, you aren’t actually in command here, Hatcher. I know you’re pissed, but everything really is going according to plan. Except that, maybe, you forced our hand a bit earlier than I’d have liked.”

  Hatcher struggled to control his anger, most of it at himself. Of course, he hadn’t actually been in command. But they needed him to think he was, so that he wouldn’t have the luxury of sitting back and analyzing Woodley for tells, so that he’d be too wrapped up in the feeling of responsibility for the team to look for the indicators he’d otherwise so easily have spotted.

  “Now, Woodley. It’s getting dark. I don’t have time to argue with you about it.”

  “Darkness is what we’re supposed to be counting on. The thing won’t show itself in full daylight. We have state-of-the-art NVDs and FLIR. It should be like shooting ducks at a carnival.”

  “Listen to me. You don’t understand dick about what’s going on. If they wanted me, and specifically me, this isn’t just some animal we’re dealing with. This has nothing to do with being gutless. This is about being an idiot. A soon-to-be dead idiot, at that, if you don’t shake the shit out of your head and start listening.”

  Woodley held Hatcher’s gaze for a long moment. There was a cloud of doubt in those eyes. Hatcher could see the man thinking, weighing his options, working through how it would play out. Wondering if maybe he’d misread the situation.

  He started to speak, but before a complete word escaped his mouth, another screech erupted.

  This one was much closer. It stabbed Hatcher’s ears, caused him to flinch. He looked up just in time to see a creature diving straight down, ballistic, traveling at something close to terminal velocity.

  Garza raised his head just as the thing smashed into him, the sound of bones snapping and crunching clearly audible even in Hatcher’s ringing ears. The man’s body compressed into a misshapen sack, numerous splintered pieces held together by skin and cloth.

  The thing screeched again, a full-throated scream. It was a shimmering shade of black, almost glossy. It stood over Garza’s mangled body, stomping a taloned foot onto his chest and spreading its wings. The first thing that struck Hatcher was its size. Enormous, at least eight-feet tall, a wingspan that had to be more than twice that. It had an elongated head, something almost bat-like, but round and protruding downward, shaped like a mule’s. Its wings were leathery and it had four clawed fingers curving out at the apex of each. It looked straight at Hatcher, eyes
ablaze with a crimson glow.

  Zorn had been the closest. The creature’s dive had caught him by surprise and he dove to the side, rolling a few times to gain distance, and was now popping off rounds. Ivy was doing the same, having dropped his first-aid kit and swung his weapon off his shoulder.

  The thing hissed and raised its wing, using the upper part as a shield, then seemed to collapse into itself, forming a tight ball over Garza’s body. Hatcher could almost feel it coming, sense the tension coiling, ready to explode.

  “Get down!”

  Hatcher dove at Ivy, tackling him just as the creature spun out of its curl, the thing spiraling so fast it was barely more than a blur. Garza’s skull rocketed past, smashing Woodley in the shoulder and knocking him to the ground.

  The creature dropped back onto its feet, grabbed what remained of Garza’s corpse in its talons, and leaped into the air. Hatcher felt two powerful flaps of its wings, the gusts forcing him to blink, and when he looked it had cleared the trees and soared into open sky.

  Hatcher pulled himself off of Ivy. The man sat up, peered up into the gloaming and dusted himself off.

  “Ho. Lee. Shit.”

  Pushing himself to his feet, Hatcher looked back at Woodley. The man was holding his shoulder, rolling his arm forward and back. He shook his head and waved Hatcher off. Garza’s head lay wedged against a clump of grass a few feet away, mouth open, eyes dead slits.

  “Little help!”

  Zorn was cradling his abdomen. Hatcher glanced at Ivy, who nodded and picked up his first aid kit. He was a few steps behind when Hatcher reached the man.

  “Wouldn’t you know it,” Zorn said, coughing. He pulled his arm away from his stomach. “Boned by a teammate.”

  Ivy sucked in a loud breath through his teeth. Hatcher felt himself wince.

  Three bones, what looked like ribs, protruded from Zorn’s midsection. Flesh and muscle and connective tissue still hung in clumps from each. They seemed joined at a piece of breast bone.

  “Can you remove them?”

  “Not without a risk of him bleeding out.”