DARK HEARTED (The COIL Series)

by Telbat, D. I.

  Then it came to him, even through the fog of disease that plagued his mind. Standing at the window, he studied the courtyard again. There were two four-wheelers parked against the wall opposite him. If he could get to one of those and get the castle doors to open, he would be free to speed away. But they had guns and it was daylight. He wouldn't be able to do it without the cover of darkness. So, he would need somewhere to hide.

  As he watched, two men exited a door in the opposite wall and climbed onto the four-wheelers. Both men wore fatigues and carried assault rifles. Nathan licked his lips. Where were they going? Maybe they'd do his job and come to him.

  Sure enough, they started the four-wheelers and the castle doors creaked open. It was a routine patrol, Nathan figured. He watched as they exited the gate, then one turned left, the other turned right, and the door closed behind them. The hum of their engines faded, then the sound came from behind him! With widened eyes, Nathan shuffled quickly to the window facing the forest. One of the four-wheelers was patrolling along the outside of the wall below him!

  Nathan had two seconds to react. It wasn't a conscious decision he made, but a reaction. Putting a knee on the windowsill, he fell out, rather than dove. His hands reached out like claws. The driver of the four-wheeler flinched as Nathan fell on him from above, but it was too late for the gunman to aim his weapon or brace for the impact. The bulk of Nathan's body landed on the guard's right shoulder. Rolling away in the snow, Nathan clutched at the driver's parka. Together, they stopped free of the four-wheeler, sank into two feet of snow, and lay still, with the ATV idling nearby.

  A long moment passed before Nathan moved. Rising up on one elbow, Nathan tried to remember why he was not in his familiar cell. The snow numbed his flesh. His mind registered the sound of the four-wheeler engine, and his escape became his priority once again. There was a man lying next to him. Nathan checked his pulse, found he was alive, and then stole his bulky coat. After crawling through the snow to the four-wheeler, Nathan pulled himself onto the machine. Twisting the throttle, he turned the ATV around to head toward the front of the castle. There had to be a road away from the fortress near the doors.

  Driving close to the castle wall, he knew there were guards above him on the wall, possibly watching him even now. The parka was his only disguise. With his speed low, he rounded the northwest tower of the wall. A well-traveled road headed into the forest and away from the castle to the west.

  Gunning the engine, his wheels spun through the powdery snow for an instant before catching. Snowflakes started to fall as he sped toward the road, then turned onto it. Someone on the castle wall behind him called out casually, then in alarm as he surely saw the shaggy face and long hair. Nathan sped faster as gunfire peppered the snow around him.

  Suddenly, there was a gate and station house in front of him, and two armed men were taking their rifles off their shoulders. Cranking the handlebars to the right, Nathan bounced over the snow bank, nearly falling off. Then he crashed into a tree. The engine sputtered, but he gave it gas and it caught. Yelling and radio chatter came to his ears from behind him. He had only seconds. Bullets slapped the bank where he'd turned into the forest. It wouldn't be hard to follow him with such obvious tracks.

  "Lord, I'm begging You…"

  He threw the engine in neutral and pushed away from the tree. With fumbling hands, Nathan switched to drive and weaved through a dozen trees as bullets raked branches around him. The second four-wheeler was gaining on him. Turning left through a gully, he climbed over a snow-hidden windfall, and bounced over a snowdrift. His left rear tire exploded from a bullet. The machine pulled to one side, but Nathan compensated and sped faster, barely squeezing his wheels between branches and tree trunks.

  The ATV soared over another snow bank and back onto the road two hundred yards west of the gated checkpoint. With head tucked, he sped away on the ATV. Nathan prayed that he wouldn't meet any other vehicles coming from the other direction.

  The road curved to the left and right, then straightened out. He saw level ground ahead and wondered if it was another road. Too late, he realized he was coming upon it too fast, but couldn't slow down. The four-wheeler behind him was gaining since his own was somewhat disabled.

  A semi flew past on a paved highway in front of him, and then a car. A highway! Nathan hit the brakes lest he run into another speeding vehicle. Bullets zipped through the air all around. Briefly, Nathan looked both ways. Left or right? He had to go now! It wasn't an option to outrun or out-drive his pursuer. The highway didn't help him any more than give him some sense of direction, and he certainly didn't want to put anyone else in jeopardy.

  Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa!

  Nathan didn't bother trying to find the source of the five muffled clicks. Even in his sluggish mental state, he recognized the familiar sound of an automatic NL-3 rifle. With the prospect of safety nearby, he hit the gas on his four-wheeler and crossed the highway in front of an SUV. He drove a few feet into the thick brush, then dove free of his machine.

  Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa!

  The pursuer returned fire, then the shots ceased altogether. Nathan lay on his back in a snow-covered shrub. Every bone in his body hurt, but if he died now, it was okay. He was free. Thank You, Lord, he praised.

  "Hey, you okay?" someone called in German, as he cautiously crept closer.

  The voice wasn't familiar, but if this person had COIL weaponry, he had to be a friend. Struggling, Nathan forced himself to sit upright.

  "Stay away! I'm infected! Keep back!"

  Footsteps paused. A man peered around a pine tree, his COIL rifle leveled at Nathan. The man looked like he was barely twenty, but the fact that he wasn't an enemy, Nathan didn't care how old he was. He'd saved his life.

  "Don't come near me," Nathan instructed. "A cell phone. Do you have a cell phone?"

  "Of course," the young man replied. "Who are you?"

  His strength exhausted, Nathan lay on his back again, but all he could think about that instant was Milk. They had to go back and get Milk!

  "Throw me your phone. I need to call someone. And watch that road. There's a small army down there. I'm a COIL operative."

  **~~~**

  Chapter Twenty

  June's eyelids began to droop in the moments before her earpiece chattered.

  "What's taking Johnny and Memphis so long?"

  It was Scooter. Shaking herself, June trained her weapon on the desert. The sun was high and they were all growing weary of waiting, but they knew nothing would be decided that day on the desert until darkness had settled on them. Behind her, Brauch's NL-X1 fired a projectile at a Janjaweed soldier who woke from the second or third tranq shot he'd received that day. Every minute, another militant woke up. As soon as one stirred, Scooter or Brauch put him down for another hour. It was a round-eating task.

  The Janjaweed no longer lay down cover fire before they moved. Though they had superior numbers, they apparently knew they were dealing with forces from the West with advanced technology. They surely waited for darkness, and as veterans of East African warfare, they were more patient than the COIL team.

  "Anybody alive out there? This is Memphis. Over."

  Though June wanted to talk to him, to hug him for coming to their rescue, it wasn't her place. Scooter was in charge since Corban was out of the picture.

  "Corban's down," Scooter reported, "and we're running low on ammo. Over."

  "Corban's down? How bad?"

  "He was securing a few targets when that second wave swept over him. About four hundred fifty yards east from Brauch on the south flank. Hasn't moved in hours. We've got sixty or seventy Janjas scattered all over the plain. The boss tied a few of them, but those that didn't take off back to their camp are playing possum behind one another. A lot of their horses were taken out, but they've woken up since then and trotted off for water. Over."

  "I figured as much. A few of the poor beasts wandered into Kalma," Memphis said. "The refugees are cooking horse stew as we speak. Where do y
ou want Johnny and me? Over."

  "Bring all the ammo you can," Scooter instructed. "Memphis, you go to Brauch and December on the southern front. Johnny, you come to Bruno and me in the north. We'll cover your approach with the last of our ammo, so you two better reach us. The real battle will begin at sundown. You copy all that? Over."

  "We copy, Scooter. It's a long crawl out there, though. Over."

  "Hey, it's December," June interrupted. "Corban was up all night digging foxholes west of our position. I thought they were for our retreat, but they'll work for your approach. There must be twenty of them behind us. Over."

  "Roger that, December. That'll help. You doing okay? Over."

  "I'm all right. Over."

  "Just get here before dark, Memphis," Scooter urged. "Everyone in the camp get supplied? Over."

  "Affirmative. Roger and his wife seem like pros at all this. We'll get moving toward you in ten minutes. Out."

  June saw a Janjaweed soldier within her range climb to his knees and sight down his barrel at Brauch. She was ready and shifted her aim to the right to squeeze off a burst of pellets into the man's throat. He sprawled backwards, flinging his rifle two yards away. After mentally marking the man's position, she checked her watch. When he woke up in twenty minutes, she'd need to pop him again.

  Using her scope, June checked on Corban. He hadn't moved an inch! Very near him, two hobbled militants struggled against their flex-cuffs. They'd been awake for several hours, but since they were bound, the team hadn't wasted their ammo to tranq them again. June wiped her brow. It was so hot. Some of the Janjaweed who were pinned down without canteens wouldn't get any water this day, either, but they'd live.

  Another hour passed. Half of June's ammo was gone, and Brauch was down to his last couple magazines. Scooter was even more desperate. Without the NL-X1 long-range ammo, the enemy could crawl within one hundred yards all around them. Their thousand-yard arm had been the battle's difference, but they would have no hope if they faced the enemy with only NL-3s. Their foxholes would be overrun and overwhelmed within minutes after dark.

  Checking to the west, June saw two figures shimmering in the heat waves far away. Memphis and Johnny were working their way from hole to hole, as they carried extra ammo pouches. Suddenly, bullets whistled over her head at Memphis.

  "Pay attention, December!" Brauch growled.

  Spinning around, she peppered a Janjaweed with pellets. He slumped back to the rocky sand.

  "Sorry." June felt like a fool. They were all weary and stressed about the coming night. But the battle wasn't to the west! She had to stay focused.

  The Janjaweed soldiers would know what Memphis and Johnny were up to, and they were surely figuring out that they weren't fighting a foe that used live rounds. That made the murderers more blatant about their attempts to rise up and fire. A few of them began to rush forward as soon as they woke up. They'd get taken out, but within an hour, they would wake up again and charge forward, every time getting closer. The COIL operatives were not delusional about the inevitable, and that the inevitable would happen not long after dark. Many of the soldiers were now communicating in small groups, but since they were so exposed on the flat ground without even their downed horses for cover now, Brauch and Scooter were still able to take them out easily.

  At four o'clock, Memphis and Johnny reported that they were nearly to their positions.

  "Tell me where you want me. Over," Memphis said to Brauch.

  "There's a two-man foxhole southwest of me." Brauch took a handful of sand and tossed it into the air. "See me?"

  "Yeah, I see you."

  "I have two rounds left. Over."

  Johnny made similar arrangements with Scooter and Bruno as to placement. Scooter was out of NL-X1 rounds completely. While he was two hundred yards back, Memphis announced that he was preparing a pouch for Brauch, then, with a final dash, he ran forward and hurled the pouch toward Brauch's foxhole. Several Janjaweed rose up to take him out, but Memphis dove into the designated hole as June and Brauch took down the targets.

  "Cover me, December!" Brauch ordered.

  He didn't wait for confirmation. June laid down cover fire as Brauch scrambled like a crab across the sand to retrieve the ammo pouch that had landed ten feet from his hole. Before June clicked on her empty magazine, Brauch was out and back. But she had only one two hundred fifty pellet mag left.

  Brauch quickly reloaded his NL-X1 and started attacking targets several hundred yards out that had grown restless. To the north, Scooter was also resupplied.

  "These guys are getting too close to me," June voiced. "What should I do? Over."

  Since June was in such a forward position, the Janjaweed were charging her first—though only a few steps at a time. And every time they awoke, they still managed to get off a few shots. The nearest had gotten within twenty yards of her post.

  "Get back to me if you can," Brauch suggested. "You can cover me from here as things escalate tonight. Memphis can cover us both. Get ready, Memphis. She'll count down and move. Over."

  "Roger. Go, December. Over."

  June wasn't very excited about moving again. The last time she ran for a different foxhole, she had taken the wound across her shoulder blade. She wished there was an alternative, but there wasn't. Worse yet, she had to carry her pack, as well as Corban's, and run fifty yards of wasteland back to Brauch behind her and to the south. Almost fifty pounds of dead weight would be in her arms, and her left arm hurt to move from the wound.

  She strapped Corban's heavier pack onto her back and picked up her own. In her other hand, she carried what was left of her ammo pouch and her rifle.

  "Three…two…one!" she announced, and rose to her feet.

  The Janjaweed who were playing dead nearby didn't hear or see her for the first ten yards, but then they charged, shooting as they ran, trying to mow her down for the rest of the way. June felt the jackhammer of two rounds hit the pack on her back. She tried to tell herself they were merely helping her forward momentum, but then a round zipped through the flesh on her neck. The impact spun her to the right as if she'd been punched in the carotid artery. For an instant, she blacked out, then came to on the hot sand as she was sliding forward on her back. Above her, the vultures circled. No, she wasn't sliding anywhere; she was being dragged. So, she wasn't dead yet. The vultures would have to wait another day to feast on her!

  Brauch pulled her by her pack headfirst into his foxhole. Fortunately, June had kept hold of her rifle. The desert was quiet again; the Janjaweed had no target. Quickly, Brauch checked her for serious wounds, then gave her his gauze wrap to tie around her light neck wound. Thankfully, it wasn't bleeding much.

  In the north, Scooter and Johnny joined up in the same hole, as well, covered by Bruno in the rear. The team waited out the last few hours of daylight, sniping at any Janjaweed that twitched in front of them. They tried not to look at the buzzards overhead. Many of them swooped down to antagonize the flex-cuffed militants on the ground. A couple found Corban's body as a possible meal since he didn't even wiggle when they ventured close. At four hundred fifty yards, Brauch took out two of the buzzards who pecked at their downed leader.

  Everyone took a few minutes, in shifts, to eat and gulp down fluids. It would be their last for possibly hours.

  An hour before dusk, Brauch used the handheld transmitter in Corban's pack to summon the Turkish United Nations garrison in the vicinity. He reminded them of their agreement if the team fully disabled the Janjaweed forces.

  When dusk closed, several of the bound Janjaweed cried out in thirst to their comrades.

  "Ignore them," Brauch whispered to June when he saw her shiver at their cries. "A man can live three days without water. It hasn't even been one day yet. They thirst, but they will survive. One way, or another, it will all be over tomorrow."

  Not responding, she watched the darkness close and the stars begin to emerge. None of this seemed real. Not long ago, she was worried about her ratings, the next paycheck
, the slide scanner she wanted to buy, and the puppy at the shelter she wanted to bring home. That was the old June, she reflected. Now, she was December.

  "Get your night scopes out if you haven't already," Scooter advised. "These guys will be slowly moving closer, thinking darkness will cover them. They don't seem to have night vision of their own."

  June and Brauch clipped on their night scopes. Brauch's was an adaptor on his existing riflescope.

  "No one's moving," she whispered to the ex-assassin.

  "Be ready," Brauch warned. "They'll come all at once. I have seen this many times. African fighters are experts at both night stealth and silent coordination. This is as you Americans say—'the calm before the storm.'"

  For thirty minutes, no one moved, even those who had awakened. For good measure, Brauch and Scooter tranquilized those nearest.

  Still, the Janjaweed waited. June stared through her scope in shades of green and gray at a man she knew was only playing dead. He was eighty yards out. His face was turned toward a number of other Janjaweed behind him. She aimed carefully and shot him once on top of the head. A harmless round to get his attention. When he looked up, she shot him in the mouth. Again, he drifted to sleep.

  Another soldier over one hundred yards out used hand signals to convey orders to the others. In the darkness, his fellow soldiers could barely see his signals, but the team with night vision could see as clear as day. Something was about to happen.

  "Brauch…" June breathed.

  "I see them. They don't know we can see in the dark yet, but they will. Let them get to their feet first. Hold your fire."

  Then they rose. As one, sixty militants with rifles rose silently from their bellies to their knees, then to their feet. These ghosts were experts at killing silently, snuffing breath, and life. Staying in a crouch as they moved, making smaller targets, they crept forward with stealth that would shame a panther.