The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  "What's this?" he said around a mouthful of what he thought was turkey and cheese on white with mayo. It tasted stale, but he didn’t care.

  "Seems you have a secret admirer," Jax said, a grin spread across his face.

  Charlie's expression of contentment turned into a frown. Cooper suddenly felt guilty that things were going so well with Brenda. Every time Brenda’s name was mentioned it was clear Charlie thought of his wife and child somewhere out there all alone in enemy-occupied California. Cooper couldn't blame him, but he was starting to get tired of the resentment being hurled his way—even if it was just dirty looks.

  It was a distraction and one that needed to be dealt with before their next mission—less than that had killed operators before. One distraction was all it took, one moment when you took your eye off the target to think about home—that was when the bad guys found you. Not on Cooper’s watch.

  He swallowed the last of his sandwich and washed it down with a mouthful of Coke, his eyes on his XO. I have to deal with Charlie soon.

  When Charlie looked up from the tangled mess of his HAHO suit, Cooper looked away. He examined the cardboard box on the desk. For now, I'd like to deal with this.

  “You gonna open it or not?” asked Jax as he sat on his cot and leaned back against the wall. He held a bottle of Coke up in salute.

  Cooper flipped him off and picked up the box. “Well, let's see what this is…" He undid the twine. Inside was a bottle of Old Grand Dad. “Bourbon,” he announced to a round of cheers. Cooper laughed as he pulled the bottle free of the box. A note inside fell out into his hand. He tossed the box back on the desk and read the note aloud: "To a job well done."

  "I didn’t think you'd gotten to that job yet," said Sparky, with a raised eyebrow.

  “Must’ve made an impression,” observed Swede.

  Jax burst out laughing and even Charlie had a smile on his face.

  Cooper felt heat rise up his neck. He cleared his throat, but the laughter only increased. "For your information, that mission has not been completed yet," said Cooper. The men roared with laughter. "But," Cooper said raising the bottle. "Even if it had, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell—Admiral Bennet sent this.”

  “Well, don’t want to upset the Brass, do we?” Swede chuckled.

  Jax picked up two plastic coffee cups from the food tray. “A gentleman may not kiss and tell, but he does share," he said, handing the cups over to Cooper.

  Cooper opened the bottle and took a whiff. He smiled as the scent burned his nose. "Indeed he does." He poured a round for everyone and walked a cup over to Sparky, who sat on a cot adjusting the bloody bandage wrapped around his leg.

  As the men raised a toast to Tank and other fallen comrades of the past, the room’s intercom buzzed. Cooper saw a shadow through the small porthole in the airlock.

  "Medical staff to inspect the wounded. Please step back from the airlock hatch."

  Cooper walked over to the intercom and pressed the transmit button. "Copy that, come on in." He stepped back and stood sipping his whiskey as the bio-security measures inside the airlock took place. He could hear a faint popping from the wall followed by a hiss. After a few seconds, the little window set into the hatch lit up as the green light inside the airlock illuminated a single figure. The door hissed—it sounded much louder without his bubble hood on—and a medic stepped into the room carrying an equipment case. He closed the hatch and stood there a moment, taking in the scene.

  Cooper turned to look at his team—or what was left of it—and frowned. Sparky sat on his cot, his right leg propped up. His thigh was wrapped with a red and brown-stained bandage. His forearms were caked in mud from the Mystic River. Jax appeared none the worse for wear, other than a bandage over his right bicep. Swede flexed his hands and rolled his neck with a pained look on his face, but Cooper could see no obvious injury.

  He looked down at his own hands and noticed that they were bruised. Also, the skin around his wrist and the back of his neck was sensitive to touch. Felt like a sunburn. Of all the SEALs, Charlie was the only one that had sustained no injury. Safely encased in his HAHO suit for the entire mission, Charlie had been unscathed and unexposed.

  The medic crossed the room and examined Sparky's leg first. As he set to stripping the soiled bandage away, revealing the long gash on his thigh from a German bullet, Cooper sat down at the desk and drained his cup.

  He felt the alcohol rush immediately to his head—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d anything to eat or drink prior to that inadequate sandwich a few minutes ago. With clumsy hands, he slowly unstrapped his boots and removed the rest of his HAHO suit. He kicked the sweat-soaked bundle of fabric and wires into the middle of the room, sure that someone would be along shortly to collect all their gear. Probably incinerate it or something—he didn't know and couldn’t care less.

  His cot was calling to him from across the room. The mission was over and if he couldn't have a hot shower and couldn't have Brenda, then by God he was going to have another couple drinks and catch some sack time.

  Cooper poured himself another cup and offered more to Sparky.

  "Are you insane?" growled the medic. "This man has a severe a leg injury. The last thing he needs is alcohol—"

  “You're wrong there, Doc. The first thing that man needs is alcohol." He ignored the medic’s protests and handed Sparky the cup. The sniper raised his cup in salute to the angry medic and drained the bourbon in one gulp.

  "You guys are crazy," said the medic.

  “You got that right,” mumbled Swede.

  Cooper stood and stretched, the delicious feeling spreading down his back as his tired and sore muscles began to unkink. He felt a few more pops than he remembered should be there and sighed with the effort. "Well, we're something, all right. But the only thing I am is dead tired. Let me know when you’re ready to check me out."

  The medic looked Cooper up and down. "Got any complaints?"

  Jax hooted from his own cot. "Yeah, I could use a burger or six."

  The medic turned and looked at Jax, a blank expression on his face.

  Jax eyed the tray of sandwiches dubiously. “Are there more where those came from?"

  The medic looked at the tray of food. "How should I know? I'm not here to feed you guys. Move your leg for me, please.” The Medic mumbled to himself as Sparky winced, trying to flex his injured thigh. “Nice job bringing in Dr. Boatner by the way" the medic said. He poked the wound with a gloved finger.

  “Ow!”

  “Good, pain is good.”

  “Poke me again. I’ll share the goodness…” said Sparky through clenched teeth.

  “Easy there, killer,” chuckled Swede.

  “What? It fucking hurt!”

  “Awww,” said Swede. “Want him to kiss it and make it better?” He laughed. “Not like we all haven’t been shot before, man. Suck it up, puss.” Swede flopped down on his cot with a sigh.

  “When I get me some crutches, I’m gonna kick your ass…”

  The team laughed at the sniper’s expense. Sparky laid back against the cot, rested his arms under his head, and let an easy smile cross his lips as he closed his eyes.

  It had to hurt like hell, Cooper figured, but like Swede had said, they’d all been shot before. Cooper well knew what that tearing, burning sensation felt like deep down inside your leg where you can’t reach it. A finger of pain crackled up his leg from his repaired knee. He knew about that kind of pain all too well. It’d only been a few months back when he’d taken a round to the knee that nearly ended his career.

  When the medic was done cleaning Sparky's wound and bandaging it as best he could, he stood. "You seem to be able to walk on this," he said. "That's good. That’s about all I can do here. We'll get some bloodwork done on you. Then, I'll see about getting you into the operating room. They need to examine you further and probably do an x-ray to make sure there's no bullet fragments left inside.” He put his tools in a plastic bag with a red biohazard symbol o
n the front and placed the bag inside his case. “I’ll let them know to come get you for an x-ray after you get a chance to eat."

  He did a cursory exam of the rest of the team before closing his case and heading for the airlock. "Well gentlemen, welcome back. Enjoy your rest. Get lots of sleep, drink plenty of fluids.” He shot a look at Cooper. “The non-alcoholic kind, please. You’re gonna need a nice dose of vitamins, antibiotics, and anti-inflammatories. Alcohol will only inhibit the abilities of the medications to help you heal."

  Cooper shrugged. "Hey Doc," he said as the blue bio-suit disappeared into the airlock.

  The medic stuck his hooded head back through the hatch. "Yeah?"

  “How’s Mike doing?"

  “Who?”

  "The guy they took in here on a stretcher?"

  "Oh, him. I don't know," said the medic. "They took him down to crit-care. I can tell you, though," he said as he began to shut the hatch, “if he has any chance at all, it’s with the people down there."

  The hatch closed tight and the locks clicked as they engaged. Cooper sank down onto his cot and sighed. "Well, I guess there’s nothing left for us to do but get some shut-eye.”

  The moans and groans of his team as they settled into their cots faded into the background. Cooper felt himself already starting to drift off into sleep.

  “Time for your debriefing, boys,” the intercom buzzed, rudely jerking him back to consciousness.

  Cooper opened his dry eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Of course it is.”

  CHAPTER 20

  CAPTAIN ALSTON SHOUTED INTO the darkness: “Everyone hang on!"

  "We're going down!" called out Sergeant Garza to Chad's left.

  No shit, Chad thought. His teeth were clenched so tight, he was afraid they’d shatter. At least Garza had woken up.

  The Osprey bucked and rolled. Chad held onto his seat with white knuckles. In the darkness, he could only make out the faint silhouettes of the closest of the Rangers.

  More holes appeared in the fuselage on the far side. Someone groaned in pain.

  "He's hit! Tommy's hit!” a voice said in the darkness over the roar of the dying plane. It had to be one of the Marines—Chad didn’t know a Tommy.

  The plane suddenly lurched down, pulling Chad up out of his seat so that he felt weightless for a gut-wrenching moment. The engines whined and Chad was pressed into his seat and found himself looking up as the aircraft rolled. The sound of the engines screaming as they tried to claw their way back into the sky was terrifying—it sounded like a wounded animal struggling to regain its feet in the face of a predator. It seemed as if the fuselage was trying to shake itself apart. Chad gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, praying that when the end came it would be swift and painless.

  "Brace for impact!" hollered Alston.

  Chad had enough time to open his eyes in surprise at the command before the entire world descended into chaos and pain. He felt the airframe shudder as they hit…something. He was thrown forward in his seat when the plane tried stopping on a dime and spun.

  The next thing Chad knew, he was slammed back and lifted up out of his seat. He imagined the plane was trying to skip across the ground. He could hear trees snapping and branches scraping the side of the fuselage as they crashed.

  The actual crash seemed to last forever—just when Chad thought that his teeth would come flying out of his head from the vibration, there was one last tremendous jolt and he was jerked painfully to the left in his harness. The straps cut into his arms and shoulders. Then, something heavy on his right crushed the air from his lungs. He felt a sharp pain in his ribs with the impact. He cried out in agony and only then did the sounds of those around him penetrate the noise of the landing. He heard moans, cries for help, and multiple grunts of pain. Over it all, he heard 13 raise her voice.

  "14! Can you hear me!" she called in the darkness, cutting through the surrounding chaos like a knife.

  Chad suddenly became aware of the sensation that he was hanging from the straps. No wonder his shoulders hurt. He tried to move his hips and discovered that his butt was completely free of the seat. Wherever they had landed, the plane was on its right side.

  "Smoke, we got smoke!" said Garza’s voice somewhere to the right. He coughed.

  "Rangers, sound off!" said Alston. He heard some rustling and suddenly the man was by Chad’s side. "Mr. Huntley, are you okay?"

  Chad coughed and spoke through clenched teeth. God, his ribs hurt. "Yeah, I think so… Something hit me hard in the side, my ribs hurt…"

  “Mr. Huntley!” called out Sgt. Garza. “I’m coming—hang in there.”

  Chad frowned, feeling the blood rush to his head as he hung by his seat straps. I don’t have much of a choice, do I?

  "Deuce!”

  “Hooah! That was one hell of a ride!"

  “Glad you enjoyed your flight Deuce,” replied Alston with more than a little sarcasm in his voice. “Go check on the Marines and find us a way out of this thing.”

  "Pilot’s dead!" called out a voice from farther forward in the plane. "Sir, I lost two of my Marines.”

  "Roger that, Gunny. We need to get out of this thing, most riki tic.”

  “Marines!” bellowed what sounded like a drill instructor. “Clear a hole, we are leaving the aircraft!” The speaker Alston called ‘Gunny’ forced his way toward the rear of the vehicle, jostling and shoving people and supplies aside, yelling the entire way. “If you are capable of standing I want your ass against the ramp! I will not be dying in this tin can today!”

  Chad heard more rustling and curses as the Marines and Rangers began to claw their way through the wreckage. Whoever the hell that man was, he was a great motivator. He continued to roar and bellow, working his way toward the rear of the plane. Gear and weapons were strewn everywhere, making it difficult for—

  Chad blinked. Wait a second… I can see—there’s light!

  He wrenched his neck painfully to the left, looking forward, as Alston fumbled at his harness.

  “Hold still, sir, this isn’t easy—“

  "Oh shit," Chad said. "Fire.”

  “What?” asked Alston.

  “Fire!” yelled Chad. “I see fire! Up by the cockpit!”

  “Might have a fuel leak back here—something stinks and it ain’t me!” reported Deuce from the other end of the downed aircraft.

  “This time,” muttered Garza.

  “Stow it, you two. Get that damn ramp open, now!” roared Alston. Strong hands gripped Chad’s shoulders. “Sir, I’m going to need you to push off of me as hard as you can. We need to create some slack in the harness so I can use my knife to cut you free.”

  Chad raised his stiff arms and pushed down on Alston's shoulders, barely moving his chest back an inch. Alston pulled out his combat knife and sliced through the webbing of the harness. Chad's shoulders were suddenly free and he fell to the floor—which used to be the wall—in a heap. He cried out in pain. “God damn, that hurts!"

  "Garza, get up here and check on him! Deuce, how's that hatch?"

  "You and you—get your asses over here," called out Deuce from the far end of the aircraft.

  “When I say three, push. All together now, one…two…three!” Chad could hear a group of men straining and cursing in the darkness of the rear of the aircraft.

  "All right, you stay here with Sgt. Garza. I need to go help them get the hatch open,” said Alston. He stood and disappeared into the gloom.

  "I got him, sir," said Garza's voice. He helped Chad to his feet. “Whoa, steady there, sir. There’s shit all over the floor, watch your step,” Garza said.

  "14!" said 13 as her fingers groped in the darkness. Her hand brushed his leg. "Something landed on my leg—help me move it…”

  Chad shrugged off Garza’s help and knelt to find her still entwined in her harness on the floor with a heavy crate across her lower legs. He and Garza lifted the crate off her and Chad reached down to release her harness.

  "Hang in there,” he
grunted. His voice nearly caught in his throat from the pain in his side. “Let’s get you out of this thing," he said trying to sound reassuring.

  The smell of smoke grew stronger and stronger. Chad turned his head toward the dim light at the front of the aircraft and could see the crumpled cockpit engulfed in flames. The crackle and snap of the fire as it worked its way toward them raised the hair on the back of Chad's neck.

  Deuce had smelled a fuel leak at the tail end of the aircraft. Chad wondered how long would it take before the flames reached the fuel and they all went up in a giant ball of fire.

  He was determined, more than ever, to escape. They hadn't died in the air, they had survived the plane crash, and he would be damned if he was going to be roasted alive inside the Osprey.

  A loud, metallic shriek erupted from the rear end of the aircraft and suddenly daylight flooded the smoke-filled cabin. The Marines and Deuce cheered as they forced the ramp open. It swung to the right, like a door.

  "Everybody out!" yelled Deuce.

  "There's too much shit on the floor, we can't get back there. Fire chain!” said Alston. Rangers and Marines began flinging gear and weapons hand over hand toward the exit. Deuce was the anchor and flung the gear far as he could from the aircraft out into the sunlight

  Chad finally tore away the last of the restraints from 13's chest and helped her to her feet. She wrapped her arms around his neck and used him for support as he stood.

  For a moment—a slightly longer moment than he expected—the two of them stood together in the darkness, he with his hands around her waist, she with her arms around his neck. They stared at each other in the light that came in through the rear of the aircraft. She looked away first. As they stepped away from each other, Chad cleared his throat and brushed his hands on his pants.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  "Do not worry about me," she said softly. Her hands probed his arms, chest, and neck, seeking injury. He winced at her touch. “You are bleeding!”