Grave Mistakes (The Grave Diggers Book 3)

by Chris Fritschi

  “You’re gonna hit Top!”

  “If I look out there they’re gonna hit me!” screamed Monkhouse.

  “Move an shoot,” barked Rosse. “Don’t shoot from the same place twice.”

  Rosse rolled away, popped up, and fired a burst into the house. Bullets peppered the rock wall just as Rosse ducked down. Grinning at Monkhouse, he gave a thumbs up and rolled to a new position.

  Monkhouse rolled the other way causing the hood of his poncho to flap over his face. Cursing, he brushed it aside then with yell he sprang up and fired a burst at the house. The reaction was instantaneous as bullets ripped the air over his head, so close he could feel their heat.

  He rolled to another position and fired again, taking cover and feeling a small confidence in his new tactic.

  Tate slapped at his chest, feeling for the hard, plastic canister of his smoke grenade. Yanking it out of its sleeve he steadied his shaking finger from the adrenaline flooding his body and threaded it though the pull ring. He jerked out the ring and took his finger off the safety lever. The ‘spoon’ flew off with a sharp crack and white smoke instantly spouted from the top of the grenade. Risking a quick look at the house, Tate hurled the grenade. It bounced once on the front porch of the house and rolled in. With no time to spare, Tate braced himself against the car and shoved off towards the wall. Suddenly, geysers of mud erupted in front of him. Tate hurled himself back to the cover of the car as the unmistakable thump of a light machine-gun churned up the ground.

  Rosse glanced over the wall long enough to see gouts of flame coming from the open window of the other building.

  “Shoot the window!” yelled Rosse.

  Monkhouse popped up from behind the wall and focused his fire on the window. To his horror the machine gun's blooms of fire swiveled towards him and he dove into the mud and rolled. The wall exploded as the machine gun cracked the rocks, knocking a hole where Monkhouse had just been.

  Someone, inside the house, kicked Tate's smoke grenade back outside where it landed and sunk into the muddy ooze. White smoke bubbled up, but was swept away in the wind.

  Tate saw the machine gun go to work, like a sledgehammer, on the rock wall Rosse and Monkhouse were using as cover. He knew they were pinned down and if either of them broke cover and ran they’d be cut in half.

  Rosse fired a burst and his gun locked open. “Monkhouse, I’m empty,” yelled Rosse, punching the wall with empty rage. But he got no response. An icy sickness clenched his gut as he saw Monkhouse, several feet away, curled up in a ball on the other side of the widening gap in the wall.

  Ignoring the bullets tearing past him, Rosse dashed from cover and dove next to Monkhouse as bullets erupted spouts of mud close enough to splatter him. Unconcerned for his own safety, he began pulling at Monkhouse’s poncho, looking for blood.

  “I got ya buddy,” said Rosse. “Take it easy. Tell me where ya got hit.”

  Monkhouse shuddered and looked up at Rosse with panicked eyes through his mud splattered face. “Where’d you come from?” muttered Monkhouse.

  “Hey! Where’re ya hit?” urged Rosse.

  They both flinched as the machine gun rammed a stream of bullets next to them, pulverizing the wall in seconds.

  “I’m not hit,” said Monkhouse.

  “What?” said Rosse, disbelieving. He jerked Monkhouse’s gun from his hands and saw the magazine was nearly full.

  “I can’t do this,” whimpered Monkhouse. “I thought I could, but I don’t want to die.”

  Rosse’s face flushed red and he punched Monkhouse in the face. Blood ran down his face, but Monkhouse hardly moved.

  “That’s Top out there,” growled Rosse. “He’d give his life to save your ass any day and you’re hide’n here while he's getting shot up?” Monkhouse grunted as Rosse shoved the gun back in his hands.

  “You think I ain't scared, ya dickhead?” yelled Rosse. “I think I crapped myself, but you gotta fight because that’s what we do for each other.”

  Monkhouse looked down at the gun in his hands then back at Rosse.

  "I'm outta ammo," said Rosse. “If you don't fight we're all gonna die."

  Monkhouse’s eyes seemed to lose their glassy panic as he nodded through his shivering. He scrunched up onto his knees and brought his gun to his shoulder. “Nice knowing you,” he said and then popped up from the wall.

  His finger stopped before pressing the trigger as he saw several people standing near Tate who had his hands on his head. Monkhouse could see at least two of them had their guns pointed at Tate.

  “Whoa, cowboy!” said Toby, from behind Monkhouse. There was an audible click as Toby cocked the hammer on his gun. “I think we’re done with all that for today. Now, both of you put down your guns.”

  Rosse didn’t need to be told twice and stood up, flinging his empty gun into the mud.

  Tate’s face was a mix of barely contained rage and frustration. He’d lead his people into a trap and had probably just cost them their lives. He would carry that regret to his grave, but he suspected that could be a short walk. Through the haze of rainfall, he saw someone with their gun to Monkhouse’s head. Monkhouse dropped his gun then everything was black as someone blindfolded Tate.

  * * *

  Wesson, Fulton, Ota and Kaiden were hiking back to meet up with Tate and the only good news was the rain had finally stopped, but the jungle always had ways of punishing intruders. They began to stew in their ponchos and put them back in their packs, but the jungle was saturated and everything they touched dumped water on them. Soon they were soaked, their clothing clinging to their skin like a wet, sticky film, but the wetness brought no relief from the humidity.

  The impact force of the downed satellite fragment had buried itself in the muddy ooze of dead, rotted plant material and animal dung. By the time they’d dug it out all of them were caked in the foul smelling muck only to discover this part of the satellite didn’t contain the database.

  No sooner had the rain stopped than the jungle came back to noisy life. Sounds echoed from the canopy high above and tree limbs rustled and snapped as monkeys screeched and chased each other in a fight for territory cheered on by the cries and howls of their clans.

  The jungle stopped abruptly at the road which lead to the village. Everyone was grateful to be out of the soggy tangle of roots and vines and onto firmer ground. Wesson stopped the team, confirming everyone was present with a quick head-count before moving on.

  “Anything from Tate?” Wesson asked Fulton.

  “I haven’t been able to reach him,” said Fulton. “But this radio is junk. The weather seal is cracked all over the place.” It was Fulton’s pet complaint and he wasn’t wrong. Patches of duct tape were all over the radio, plugging seams around the antenna sockets and covering splits in cable insulation.

  The last word from Tate was a static filled transmission to join him at the village. As the first buildings of the village came into view, Wesson was keen for a situation report. They were tired and hungry, and she was looking forward to taking off her sodden boots and having something to eat.

  Kaiden had been walking next to her since they’d reached the road. Taller than Kaiden, Wesson’s view of her face was blocked by Kaiden’s operator cap making it impossible to read her expression. If she had any concerns, she wasn’t sharing them with Wesson. Kaiden moved with her typical easy pace, her gun cradled in her arms. Strands of auburn hair clung to the sides of her face, but most of it was kept out of the way in a tight braid.

  “Kind of makes you forget what dry feels like,” said Kaiden.

  “Uh,” mumbled Wesson. “Yeah.”

  Once again, Kaiden seemed to have sensed Wesson’s thoughts, or had caught her sideways glance at her. The sensation that Kaiden could read her made Wesson uncomfortable.

  Wesson preferred things out in the open. She always considered people who talked in subtext and innuendo were hiding something and that made them untrustworthy. Wesson was very conflicted about Kaiden. She ticked
all of Wesson’s boxes on her list of things to be suspicious of, but on the other hand Kaiden had saved her life. It made it hard for Wesson to know how to classify her; which was another thing that bothered her about Kaiden.

  “Do you smell that?” asked Kaiden.

  Wesson took a moment to refocus on the here and now then recognized the smell. Looking up she saw a tendril of smoke rising above the trees. She wasn’t alarmed, but it made sense to approach with caution.

  The road bent around the high trees and opened to the village. Water dripped off metal clad roofs as they made their way deeper into the village until they stopped in front of a string of homes lining the left side of the road; across from them was a home set further back with a courtyard bordered by a crumbling, low rock wall. The smell of smoke was stronger and they could see the charred damage to the front of the home.

  Ota was the first to see the bullet holes. “We should move,” he said, crouching.

  Wesson turned to see what Ota was talking about. The front of the building was peppered with bullet holes and by the look of the exposed wood, they were fresh.

  “Everyone spread out,” said Wesson, “and…”

  Her next words froze in her throat as several gun barrels sprang from the building’s windows.

  “Take it easy,” warned a voice from the shadows of the building they were facing.

  Reflex made the team begin to crouch, preparing to fire, but all of them understood that would be suicide.

  “Drop the guns,” said the voice in a curiously friendly way.

  Wesson didn’t know why, but was surprised that Kaiden was the first to surrender her weapon. Fulton followed her example and then Ota. Wesson was the last as she slowly eased the light machine gun to the ground.

  “You guys are doing great,” said the voice. “Now, turn around and put your hands behind your backs. Some of my friends are going to tie your wrists. I know somebody’s thinking that’ll be the best time to fight back, or take a hostage. I know that’s what I’d be thinking, but just between us, that thinking will get all of you killed.

  Wesson and the others turned around putting their hands behind their backs. There was the sound of footsteps in the mud then suddenly something ridged slipped around their wrists and was cinched tight.

  There was nothing Kaiden could do now, except collect as much information about their captures as she could. She quickly looked over at the man tying up Wesson. There were no wasted movements, no smiles of victory. The soldiers eyes remained watchful for any attempts to fight back. Then a blindfold covered Kaiden’s eyes and she bent her mind to focus on her other sense. She felt hands roughly pat her down for other weapons. The hands didn’t linger or molest her. This was a professional soldier who’s focus on a single objective.

  Each of the captives were held by the shoulder strap of their tactical vests and lead to another part of the village. The soldiers never said a word, but someone in their group was humming.

  It might have been a small thing, but it made Kaiden change her mind about getting out of this alive.

  She reasoned he captors had plenty of opportunities to kill them. They could have easily ambushed them on the road. Wesson, Fulton, Ota and herself would all be dead mowed down in an instant. When the guns appeared from the windows they weren’t shot, but told to disarm. Even now, bound, blind and helpless they could be executed with no trouble. Instead these soldiers wanted to take them out of action, but the humming.

  That person was a wildcard. Not like the other soldiers, this one felt like he picked and chose which rules he’d follow as his mood suited him. That made him unpredictable and dangerous.

  Kaiden was shaken from her thoughts as someone firmly pushed her against a wall, the meaning was clear. Stay!

  Her head was tugged forward as the blindfold was untied and removed. Squinting in anticipation of the bright light, her eyes quickly adjusted to her new surroundings. Before her were six, armed men in jungle camo and tactical gear. To her left was Fulton and Wesson, also bound, but blindfolds removed. To her right was Ota and, to her relief, Tate, Rosse and Monkhouse.

  “Lets dump these losers and go,” said Marc.

  “I’m setting some ground rules first,” said one of the other men.

  “Rules?” said Marc. “C’mon Hall. Who plays by rules?”

  “All right, listen up,” said Hall, ignoring Marc, as he stepped up to his prisoners. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know you’re here for the satellite, same as us.” Looking up and down at the bound team members he sighed as he scratched his chin though his reddish, brown beard. “Our job is to get the satellite. Nobody’s been hurt, and I’m good with it staying that way. We’re leaving you here, tied up. We checked the area and you don’t have to worry about Vix, at least for a while. By then you’ll be out of those cuffs.” He nodded to the pile of captured weapons he stood next to. “We’re leaving your weapons so you can get back to your helo in once piece.” He swatted at something on his neck, cursing under his breath. “Now you’re thinking if you move fast enough you’ll catch up to us and take the satellite, but you’re not going to do that because that man,” he said, pointing to Fernandez, holding his sniper rifle, “will rag-doll your ass before you ever hear the shot.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHOICES

  “We see anybody within a klick of us and we’ll take all of you out,” said Hall, pointing at them. “Go home.”

  Hall turned back to his team, but stopped as Tate spoke up for the first time.

  “Do you know how dangerous the information is, inside that satellite?” growled Tate.

  “Knowing isn’t part of the job,” said Hall.

  “The people who hired you will use that to throw an entire country into chaos,” said Tate.

  Hall paused, studying Tate as he considered what he’d heard. He inhaled, about to say something.

  “The country?” interrupted Marc, walking up, next to the bearded merc.

  “I got this,” stated Hall.

  “This guy’s a true believer,” continued Marc unabated. “You all look like raggedy militia, but you aren’t, are you.”

  Except for the Grave Diggers unit patch on their shoulders, nobody in Tate’s team wore any form of identification or rank. Marc walked up and yanked the velcro patch off Tate’s shoulder.

  “We don’t have time for this,” pushed Hall. “We have a short window to get back to camp and up-link the intel.”

  The patch had been Tate’s idea and his rookie team had eagerly adopted it. A red bordered shield with a field of green. On it was a black dagger through a scowling, white skull. Across the grip of the dagger was a red banner with the unit’s motto, “Remorseless Relentless”.

  About to toss it on the ground, Marc gave it a second look. “Now that’s some balls,” said Marc. “That’s a Fairbairn Sykes dagger.” Marc held up the patch for his team to see, but they were uninterested. “You guys know who has that same dagger in their patch?” he asked.

  “That’s those US Army Special Ops Command, dudes,” said Fernandez.

  “That’s Delta Force,” said Hall.

  “Give that man a gold star,” said Marc. Tate glowered at him as Marc slapped the patch back on his shoulder with a grin.

  He looked down and saw Tate’s empty leather holster. All of their gear was dated, but Tate’s holster was a real antique. His great-grandfather wore it in World War Two. Tate had found it rummaging through the attic, as a small boy, and wore it every chance he could. He still remembered how his small, toy cap pistol rattled around inside of it and the first day it held his Colt 1911. Although battered and scuffed, even today, the large “US” embossed on the flap of the M1912 holster was easily visible.

  Marc looked closely at Tate's face, intrigued by something until recognition lit his eyes and a boyish smile spread across his face. "No. It can't be."

  He quickly went to the pile of weapons and pushed off the top guns with the toe of his boot.

 
; There was a collective groan of protest from the other mercenaries.

  “What’re you doing?” called Fernandez unhappily. “What’s he doing, man?”

  Hall shook his head in exasperation and leaned into Andy’s ear. “You have been a pain in everyone’s ass from the moment we put boots on the ground. I’m getting paid to run this op and bring back that satellite, and I’m telling you to get back with the others, or I’ll leave you here.”

  In answer Marc picked up Tate’s tomahawk and 1911 pistol and showed them to Hall as he went back to Tate.

  “Tiller?" said Marc. "Is that you?”

  "You know him?" asked Hall.

  Turning to the other mercenaries, Marc held up the weapons. “Guys, I want you to meet my old Delta Force team leader.” He turned back to face Tate with a big smile. “Sergeant, First Class, Jack Tiller of the 471st Special Missions Unit. The Night Devils.”

  “I remember you,” growled Tate.

  “Tiller?” puzzled Fulton quietly to Monkhouse.

  “Shut up,” hissed Monkhouse, but Marc had heard him and walked over to Fulton.

  “I ran Delta ops with a guy that carried this tomahawk and beat up, piece of junk,” said Marc, holding the Colt .45. “His name was Tiller.” Marc tapped the flat side of the tomahawk on Fulton chest. “What do you call him?”

  Fulton flattened himself against the wall, away from the sharp blade that glistened inches from his throat. Swallowing hard he said nothing else and did his best to look straight ahead, ignoring Marc.

  Marc walked up to each team member, looking at their patch then scrutinizing each of them with a smile. “You aren’t Delta,” he said to Wesson. “Nope, not you, or you,” he said as he studied each of them, and stopped in front of Kaiden.

  Unlike the others, who either glared at him, or ignored him, she smiled back, unfazed, keeping eye contact with Marc. Putting his hand on the wall just above Kaiden’s shoulder, Marc leaned in close to her. “One of these things is not like the others.”