Divided We Fall (Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Book 6)

by W. J. Lundy

The pilot walked around the helicopter, inspecting bits and checking off items on a clipboard. “I just want to give you fair warning that I’m not current on the Chinook.” Looking at the man, Brad stopped and held his gear in his hand. The pilot turned, seeing Brad’s worried face. “Hey, it’s okay; I have over two thousand hours on the thing. I’m just not current. Driving CH-47s keeps me fed and out of trouble so I agreed to come out of retirement.”

  Brad shook his head, walked to the rear of the helicopter, and waited for his men to assemble with all their packed gear. If this mission went correctly, they would not be returning to Savannah. Brad watched as a large, white school bus entered the airfield and turned toward the three parked CH-47s.

  The bus pulled up and stopped, its brakes hissing. The side door opened and Joey walked out carrying his heavy rucksack and rifle. He searched left and right. “Where the hell is Chief? And Brooks?” he asked.

  “They are going with the Rangers. Colonel asked for their help; they needed shooters,” Brad said.

  “Then they should have took me,” Joey whined then walked off toward the large twin rotor CH-47 helicopter. Brad walked away from the bus, allowing the soldiers to unload. When Turner exited, he stopped beside Brad and smiled as the rest of the men from the compound fell out, along with several of the Afghan guards. Brad caught the eye of Hassan, who stopped and grabbed him tightly; Brad promised they would have more time to catch up on events once they reached their destination. Brad was surprised to see so many Afghans in the group. Turner later explained to him that the men pleaded to be allowed to join the mission. Colonel Ericson saw no reason to segregate them and allowed any who wanted to volunteer.

  Brad stood smiling as he watched Mendez and Cole step off the bus; they all embraced in a tight group hug. Brad traded quick greetings with them, avoiding conversations about families, knowing that there was no word from their home base. Mendez had a large family at Fort Benning before their deployment to Afghanistan; as far as anyone knew, Benning was gone now and soldiers had moved to other bases. All over the country, families traveled with them or to different evacuation areas. For now, Mendez and the others had to just pretend everything was okay at home, that their loved ones were safe. At least until they had an opportunity to investigate on their own.

  Chelsea was the last off the bus. She was given the option to stay behind with Ella, but she declined, leaving Shane instead. “Must feel good seeing your people,” Chelsea said to Brad.

  Brad knew that much of Chelsea’s unit was gone, most killed on the platform and several others while trying to reach the States. “They’re your people too, Chelsea.”

  She forced a smile. “I know.”

  Brad walked beside her to the rear of the CH-47. They had three helicopters in their flight. With only thirty personnel in the advanced party, they would split into two helicopters, allowing the parties the ability to split up to support each other, or as a quick reaction force if need be. Brad’s team would drop in first to secure a landing site, and then Turner would go in behind him. The third helicopter would stay in orbit, providing cover.

  Cloud relayed coordinates of an open recreation area near his family’s home; from there it would be a short foot patrol to the ranch property. Cloud showed some concern that if the helicopters tried landing directly on his father’s property, his dad might get the wrong impression and try to shoot them down. Cloud said his old man was a bit of a prepper and a recluse. His father only kept a few people on the ranch as farmhands, but he had his suspicions he would take in nearby neighbors, and Cloud knew, of course, that his wife and daughter were there.

  He moved to the rear ramp of the lead CH-47 and pushed in along the center. Long benches ran the length of the aircraft and orange cargo netting was fixed to the walls. Men sat on the benches with their rucksacks between their legs, rifles held with the muzzles down. The soldiers were now properly dressed in Army uniforms and new body armor, similar to what Brad was wearing. Their final outfitting he supposed; if things worked out at the ranch, there would be no reason for them to return here.

  Brad walked along the center of the helicopter, nodding as he passed his men. He stopped at the front and sat near the crew chief, who was standing in an open window inspecting a machine gun. Brad gave the crew chief a head count and acknowledged they were ready. The man shot a thumbs up and talked into a microphone. The helicopter whined to life, the engines growing louder. The crew chief left the rear ramp deployed and Brad watched as the bird left the ground and circled the outpost. They stayed quiet as the helicopter climbed into the air, the loud noise of the engines blocking out their thoughts. Brad caught a small package of earplugs and stuffed them in his ears to muffle the sounds.

  Fires still burned in all directions as the helicopter cut through large banks of smoke and turned northeast toward their destination. He searched the faces of his men; most lay on the benches, heads back, and no looks of anticipation on their faces—these men were spent from the months of being on alert; they had no adrenalin left to give. This was not Brad’s first air assault mission, but even he was having trouble getting focused. He looked at his bag between his knees and tried to visualize the gear inside. Going over a mental checklist, he felt the pockets where his ammo and other essentials were stored.

  There was no time to rehearse the landing or go over battle drills. No dry runs if they ran into trouble. Brad focused on the faces of the men and tried to let his mind wander to avoid stressing over the things he had no control of. He put his head down and looked at the floor; the sounds of the engines felt soothing. Close to a three-hour flight to reach the mountain region, they were pushing maximum ferry range for the helicopters. Even with extended fuel tanks and splitting the cargo capacity of the helicopters, they were cutting it close. Still, the CH-47s would be required to stop and refuel at a remote location on the return leg—an operation that could prove to be far more dangerous than Brad’s mission was.

  Brad felt a slap on his Kevlar push his head down; he opened his eyes and looked up into the face of the crew chief. “Five mikes out,” he yelled, his mouth inches from Brad’s ear. “I’ll give you the two clicks out warning. When we hit, you need to unass, pronto. We have no time to loiter, no fuel to waste, do you understand?”

  Brad acknowledged the instructions. He tapped the soldier next to him and held up five fingers; the man nodded and did the same, passing it down the line. Brad watched as men pulled their bags tight between their knees and readied their weapons. He searched their faces and saw Chelsea sitting between Cole and Mendez. She felt his stare and looked back at him with a slight grin; she appeared eager to get this done. The helicopter dropped altitude, banked hard, and quickly changed direction. Brad’s stomach dropped to his throat as he looked through a port window; all he could see below was a thick blanket of trees.

  The crew chief was standing, his head hanging from the gunner’s window; he looked back and showed Brad two fingers. The men on the benches saw the same thing and readied themselves. The Chinook flared again; turning sharply, it dropped to just above the trees then made a steep dive and dropped into a clearing. Before the helicopter had stopped moving, the crew chief was walking the isle hurrying them to the back and down the ramp. Soldiers poured out of the back, tossing their bags just off the ramp then continuing to run forward before dropping to the prone position in a semicircle. Brad had just taken two steps off the ramp and dropped to his knee when he felt the down draft of the Chinook taking flight.

  The helicopter left a swirling mist of dust and debris as it departed, leaving them in eerie silence. His team lay motionless, allowing the sounds of the forest to return as their ears adjusted to the elements and their eyes adapted to the light. Brad heard the second Chinook; the forest was so thick that the sounds bounced off the dense cover, and he couldn’t predict its direction of approach. From behind, he spotted it moving toward them, and then watched as it performed the same maneuver—circling then quickly losing altitude before flaring j
ust feet from the ground to allow the men to spill from its belly. The soldiers departed and disappeared in the knee-high grass as the second CH-47 pulled away. The third made one quick orbit before it too vanished, following the others.

  Brad sat on his knees, his head barely visible above the grass. They would wait ten minutes to make sure they were alone. He lowered himself deeper into the grass, disappearing and trusting his point men while he pulled a handset from his pack. Brad knew that Turner would be doing the same on his side of the landing zone. He lay on his belly and consulted his map. Without visible landmarks, he would have to trust they were dropped on target. Just through the woods, directly to their front, would be a small blockhouse and picnic area overlooking a narrow mountain road.

  Brad peeked at his watch and lifted his head, taking a quick sweep in all directions. Confident they were alone, he opened the mic and whispered, “Three-Zero, Three-One, over.”

  “Go for Three-Zero.”

  “All clear, we are proceeding to the first waypoint, over.”

  “Roger.”

  Brad brought his team of fifteen to their feet; they formed a hasty wedge formation and moved to the tree line. Turner kept his group in cover, watching and waiting as Brad and his men moved toward the picnic site. Turner would stay back the entire trip, just out of site, but ready to move forward if support was needed. Other than that, Brad’s team was alone. He moved through the tall grass, which quickly turned to mangled and thorny brush. He swam forward through it, breaking into the tree line.

  He lowered his hand and heard the swishing of grass and brush behind him go silent. He knew his men dropped out of sight when he’d signaled. Far to his right, he saw Cole kneeling alongside a tall tree. Brad nodded his head, and Cole stepped into the opening of the picnic area. Just as described, it was a long narrow park with a slim trail running down the middle. Rotting picnic tables were on both sides and a partially collapsed log cabin sat near the entrance, some sort of commemorative plaque on a timber post near its base. Cole moved slowly along the picnic tables; following the road around, he moved next to the blockhouse then paused before waving the others forward.

  Brad got to his feet and rushed ahead, falling in alongside Joey as they moved to join Cole. They waited together at the blockhouse as the others moved out of the landing zone and joined them in the park. Soldiers stayed behind, providing security while Brad quickly consulted his map. He drew a line with his finger and indicated the direction of travel to Cole and Joey before sending them ahead on point. Brad found Chelsea and she moved up beside him. They stepped off, following the point men and watched as the rest of the team did the same, forming two columns on each side of the road as they wound down the steep terrain to the mountain trail below them.

  Brad quickly relayed instructions back to Turner over the radio, letting him know they were moving to the next waypoint. At the bottom of the road, Cole stopped and waved Brad forward. The mountain trail showed signs of travel and a fight. He silently pointed to spent shell casings, a clear blood trail, and farther down the road to where there was lump in the center, probably a body.

  “You want me to run down and check it out?” Joey whispered.

  Brad shook his head. “No, best to keep moving.”

  “Thought it was supposed to be all clear up here?” Cole asked.

  “It’s supposed to be. Keep moving,” Brad said.

  Cole nodded and looked to Joey; they stepped off together and made the right-hand turn following the pass farther north. The road was heavily rutted and filled with muddy prints from recent travel. The sides of the footprints were still firm with moisture and not dried or crumbling, making them recent. No distinction between living or Primal to speak of, but it was apparent by tire tracks that trucks had traveled on the gravel road within recent days.

  As they moved forward, Brad saw no signs of life but continued searching the dark forest on both sides of the road for threats. Chelsea stayed close to him, covering his flank. Brad turned and looked back, observing as his soldiers patrolled closely with their Afghan counterparts. Mendez stayed farther to the rear to help keep the men from getting too spread out. All on the same team now, they moved together, pointing things out in the distance and helping with maintaining their patrol distance.

  It didn’t take long for Cole to call the column to a halt. Brad traveled to the head of the formations and joined his men. Piled brush was moved and scattered to reveal a turnoff that led deeper into the woods and up to higher ground. A pile of mangled fly-covered bodies lay in a depression at the shoulder of the road. Brad looked at them and turned to Joey, who’d just walked away from the pile.

  “Primals, by the look of it; took a lot of gunshot to bring ’em down,” Joey said.

  Brad nodded, starting to sweat as the mission became more dangerous.

  He looked at his map; Brad knew the turn off was the approach to the Cloud family farm. He made the decision to go ahead with only Chelsea and Joey, holding the others back. He wanted to approach the gates in a small patrol so as not to startle any guards or someone hiding. The others halted and formed a small security perimeter at the base of the drive. He passed instructions back to Turner, who was traveling the road just a few minutes behind them and would hold in place, ready to move up as a quick reaction force if needed.

  They walked in a square, Joey beside him, Cole and Chelsea behind him, slowly moving up on what was quickly showing more signs of a fight. Another Primal body lay in the grass, then a man with a shotgun blast to his shoulder.

  “Sure this is a good idea, boss?” Joey asked. “I mean, just walking up all casual like this?”

  “No—as a matter of fact, I don’t,” Brad said.

  They approached the rear of an old blue pickup truck, the front windshield shot out. Bullet holes cut through the side fenders. Brad held the others back as he walked up along the side of the vehicle and looked into the empty cab. Behind it, another truck followed a long, tubular steel gate blocking the road ahead. The air was damp and swampy from the heavy trees holding in the decaying moisture of the forest floor. There was a subtle breeze dissipating a heavy smell of death, the stench instinctively raising Brad’s alert lever. He walked forward around the front of the truck and heard a shout.

  “Stop where I can see ya!”

  Brad froze and held his hands in the air, allowing the rifle to hang from its sling.

  “It’s okay; I’m with the Army. Colonel Cloud sent us,” Brad said.

  “The Army, you say?” the man replied. Brad watched as a skinny rag-covered man stepped from the shadows alongside the gate. Dressed in canvas pants and a flannel work shirt, he stepped into the open, his right hand holding an AR15, his left scratching at his beard.

  “That’s right, we’re with the Army,” Brad repeated moving to where the man could see him clearly. Another man stepped into the open, dressed similar to the first but carrying a pump shotgun and had a bandana wrapped around his forehead. The men walked to the steel gate and waved Brad ahead.

  “Hell, we ain’t seen much of anyone up in these hills,” the bandana man said while the first continued to scratch at his beard.

  “You okay?” Brad asked the scratcher.

  The bandana man laughed, smacking scratcher on the back. “Lice” he said. “Everyone’s got ’em.”

  Brad subconsciously took a step back, causing both of the men to laugh. “Hell… ain’t nothin’ to be a–scared of,” Bandana said, watching Brad step away. “Chuck is gonna make a run into town and get us something for it once things settle down again.”

  Brad heard a branch snap behind him. The two guards raised their weapons, and Brad turned to see the rest of his group approach the truck. Joey and Cole stepped out to the side while Chelsea stayed just behind them.

  Scratchy’s chin lifted. “That a woman you got with ya?”

  Brad ignored the question. “I’m looking for a man. Dan Cloud; is he here?”

  The two guards looked at each other; one pu
lled the other back so Brad couldn’t hear what was said, then he looked back at Brad. Bandana turned back while Scratchy jogged up the road. “We gonna go get Chuck; he’s in charge. He can tell you best about Dan.”

  “Is Dan here?” Brad asked again.

  “You should just talk to Chuck. He’s a soldier like you all, and you’ll like him,” the man said.

  Brad stood waiting; he pulled the mic from his shoulder preparing to speak.

  “Whoa… what’s that?” the man asked, pointing at the radio hand mic.

  “Just giving my people an update. I have a whole lot of soldiers down on the road waiting to move up.”

  “I think you best wait before you go doing that. This is our place; we might not find you all welcome.”

  Brad nodded, letting the radio mic hang at his shoulder. He turned and saw that Joey had moved a bit to the left, better positioning himself. Cole was doing the same on the other side. With Chelsea now perched alongside the fender of the truck, the group formed a small defensive triangle, putting themselves within a quick leap of cover.

  Brad saw Scratchy jog back down the driveway; more men followed him, and a fat man moved slowly behind, badly limping from a poorly bandaged leg wound. Brad reached at his chest, pretending to adjust a strap while the others’ attentions were focused on the limping fat man. Brad slipped a hand to the radio pouch and muted the volume of his radio, while hot mic–ing the transmitter. It opened the channel so Turner would be able to listen in on their conversation.

  The fat man limped ahead while the rest of his party spread out behind him. Every one of them filthy, dressed in rags, and carrying weapons in their arms. The fat man got to within a few feet of the gate. Brad could already hear his heavy breathing and see the man’s forehead beading with sweat. The man stopped and looked Brad up and down; his eyes drifted, searching the rest of Brad’s group, then locking on Chelsea to linger a bit too long.

  Brad spoke, breaking his stare. “I’m Sergeant Brad Thompson. I’m here looking for Dan Cloud.”