Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  Unmanned surveillance drones would monitor the exercise. A major in the Marines’ FORECON, or Force Reconnaissance, had been assigned to the Ranger unit, as an observer. He would halt the exercise if he believed serious injury or the death of a participant was imminent. The major was to report via an encrypted cell phone signal to Levell, McCoy and other controllers, who were in a cabin a few miles away near the town of Rosman, just above the North Carolina-Georgia line. The drones transmitted signals to this same location. In addition, the Ranger unit also carried technology enabling them to receive the drones’ signals. It gave them a decided advantage over Whelan’s unit.

  The strike would occur in the heavily wooded, mountainous terrain of western North Carolina. The Rangers had been told only that this was a training exercise involving simulated combat with another elite military unit. Being Rangers, they welcomed the opportunity to excel in any combat situation.

  They had been transported by van to a spot just off NC 215, which had been closed to traffic north of Rosman for the duration of the exercise. The area was uninhabited. The drones, equipped with thermal imaging technology, confirmed the absence of anyone other than the Rangers.

  They wore full combat gear. Their weapons bore close resemblances to M16A2 and M-4 combat assault rifles. But they had been modified for war games purposes to fire projectiles similar to paintballs. They also carried specially made, nonlethal knives that were designed to leave simulated bloodstains when used in close quarters combat.

  They forded Diamond Creek, a tributary of the French Broad River, and climbed up and over a steeply sloped ridge to the west. At the bottom of the far side, they turned north and hiked along a narrow valley between two thickly forested ridgelines. The air was fragrant with pleasant smells of wild blueberry, mountain raspberry, red elder, and bush honeysuckle.

  Just as dusk was setting in, the Rangers reached a small glade and set up camp. Their first task was to place a number of protective surveillance devices along a perimeter one hundred fifty yards out from the encampment. They used the LKMD motion detector, a small, wireless ground sensor designed to detect intruders.

  Two sentries were posted; one across the creek and upslope from the encampment, another above the bivouac area about fifty yards up the opposite slope. Each sentry carried a hand-held remote control module for the LKMD detectors, as well as a laptop for monitoring the signals sent by the drones patrolling above. There would be two-hour shifts throughout the night.

  As the first two Rangers took up their posts, the others ate their Meals, Ready to Eat, or MREs, and turned in. The Marine Corps major carefully surveyed the surrounding area. Satisfied that nothing seemed out of the ordinary, he walked fifty feet back down the creek to a spot where a small fallen tree had formed a convenient bench-like seat. He climbed over the trunk and inspected it closely for insects. Finding none, he scraped the fallen pine needles, leaves and other soft forest detritus beneath it with his boot to form a small depression, then climbed back over the trunk. The major dropped his pants, sat back on the tree trunk with his butt hanging slightly off of it, and responded to a call from nature.

  When he finished, he used a small amount of tissue that he carried in his backpack and pulled his trousers back up. He stepped over the trunk one more time and began scruffing leaves and other materials over the feces. As he did, something caught his eye: a small white X painted on the tree trunk that hadn’t been there when he’d inspected it moments before. He recognized it as a war games symbol for a planted explosive device. He was stunned that someone could sneak up that close to him undetected. If this had been a genuine combat situation, he knew he would be dead now. He suddenly had a better understanding of an earlier comment McCoy had made about the Dogs’ senses of humor. “Dammit,” he said under his breath.

  As quietly as he thought he had said it, the voice of one of the sentries came through his ear bud. “Something wrong, Major?”

  “No. Just keep your eyes open. Stay alert.”

  Immediately, McCoy’s voice burst through the Marine’s ear bud, “Dammit, Major, your role is that of an observer. A silent observer.”

  Shit, the Major thought as he walked back to the encampment. First I get my ass theoretically blown off while taking a dump, and then I end up on Ball-Buster McCoy’s shit list. He was angry, but he was developing a very deep respect for the Sleeping Dogs. Maybe some of the myths and legends surrounding them were true after all. One thing, he thought as he lay down on the bed of leaves and pine needles he had piled up, it was going to get very interesting very soon.

  46 Acid Test

  The Dogs had hiked down the west side of Diamond Creek the previous day. Their own well-placed and camouflaged surveillance devices had picked up the Rangers moving steadily toward them. Judging from the pace the Rangers were maintaining, and knowing they wouldn’t want to continue through the rugged country in darkness, Whelan had accurately identified the likely spot where the unit would bivouac for the night.

  The Dogs were aware of the surveillance drones and the LKMD perimeter devices the Rangers were using, and they had a few tricks of their own. Each of them was packing a specially made ghillie suit, a camouflage outfit designed to blend into the surrounding flora. The suits were long a mainstay for snipers. Very recently, one of the labs controlled by the Mueller brothers had improved the materials for the suits. It reduced the wearer’s body heat envelope so that a person would register on thermal imaging devices as a small animal about the size of a raccoon.

  Among the Sleeping Dogs, Stensen was the finest marksman. His job on this exercise was to take out the sentries at the appropriate time. He had been motionless on the forest floor in a thick copse of red spruce for several hours. The ghillie sniper suit he was wearing was lightweight, and he could feel the late evening chill of the mountain air. Even so, he was beginning to sweat. A bead of perspiration meandered slowly from his hairline to his right eyebrow. He blinked rapidly a couple of times, hoping to redirect it. It may have altered course slightly, but it didn’t stop, eventually rolling over his eyebrow and down into the corner of his eye.

  He held a British-made L115A3 Long Range Rifle or ‘Long’, as snipers liked to call it. In the hands of the right person, it had the capability to take out targets from as far as a mile away. Ordinarily, it weighed fifteen pounds and fired 8.59-millimeter rounds, but Stensen’s had undergone modifications. It now fired a very potent tranquillizer dart, but at a much reduced muzzle velocity to avoid seriously injuring human targets. As a result, its distance and accuracy also had been reduced to an effective range of one hundred fifty yards. This particular weapon had been equipped with a suppressor and a night vision scope. The scope worked wonders with the ambient light, but it reduced vision to two dimensions. Tough conditions for a sniper.

  At last, about one-thirty in the morning and approximately thirty minutes after the third shift change of sentries, Stensen heard the sound of a small click in his ear bud. After two seconds, it was repeated twice in rapid succession. Whelan had given the signal. Stensen sighted through the infrared night vision scope. He took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, gently increasing his finger’s pressure on the trigger.

  The dart flew true and straight. The head of the sentry posted on the opposite side of the creek snapped sharply to the right. Instinctively, the Ranger grabbed at the spot of the stinging pain in his neck where the left carotid artery carried cerebral blood flow to his brain. In an adult, CBF is typically seven hundred fifty milliliters, or more than one and a half pints, per minute. It’s equivalent to fifteen percent of total cardiac output. His hand clutched at the shaft of the dart. Too late. His brain slipped into blackness and he pitched forward. Part of the surrounding forest rose up to catch him. It was Kirkland in a ghillie suit.

  On the other side of the creek and upslope from the encampment, the other sentry sat with his back against a balsam tree. He was unaware of it, but he was just beyond the critical range of accuracy for Stensen’s modified L
ong. The Ranger was watching the screen of his laptop for signals from the overhead drones that might show signs of living creatures that approximated the size of human beings. Other than a few small animals, he saw nothing remarkable. This rugged, virtually uninhabited area was home to bobcats, gray and red foxes, coyotes, feral pigs, and other wildlife. Most of these animals foraged at night, so their presence was neither unusual nor unexpected.

  Periodically, the sentry put his night vision field glasses to his eyes and carefully swept the area. He saw nothing. Only rarely did he glance behind him toward the encampment, believing that area to have been secured previously. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have noticed Larsen in his ghillie suit slowly, almost imperceptibly, edging up on him. After a while, the Ranger stood and began to stretch. His body was stiffening from the effects of the cool night air and the cramped sitting position.

  Suddenly, a force far greater than the Ranger could handle swept him off his feet. It held him a few inches off the ground in a one-armed bear hug. He felt as if he was snarled in a steel hawser being tightened on a ship’s capstan. His assailant’s other hand clamped firmly over his mouth. The Ranger was young, strong and well trained. He tried wiggling free, but Larsen’s grip was so tight he almost couldn’t breathe. Next, he attempted to smash Larsen’s face with a blow from the back of his head, but Larsen had tucked his face into the Ranger’s back, leaving nothing to strike but air.

  Cycling through the techniques he had been taught, the Ranger tried to smash his booted foot down on the arch of Larsen’s foot, but he was being held too high off the ground to succeed. In desperation, he swung his heel backward toward Larsen’s shin. Larsen simply threw his left leg around both of the Ranger’s legs and locked his left foot behind his own right knee, balancing perfectly on one leg. Using the hand gripping the Ranger’s face, Larsen pulled the man’s head around to the right until it reached the point where vertebra would begin to separate. His victim began making guttural sounds out of pain and fear.

  Larsen said in a low whisper, “This is supposed to be a simulation, and I’m not supposed to really kill you.”

  The Ranger grunted.

  “But,” Larsen said, “if you don’t play by the rules, I will snap your neck like a pencil. Got it?”

  As difficult as it was, given the position his head was in and the strain on his neck, the Ranger managed a slight nod.

  Larsen said, “When I take my hand away, don’t make a sound, not even a deep breath. Understand?”

  Again, the Ranger managed a nod.

  “I want you on the ground, face down,” Larsen said. “I’m gonna truss you up in case you have any second thoughts about playing dead. This will all be over in a couple of minutes and I’ll be back to release you.” He lowered the man’s feet to the ground and slowly loosened his grip on his face.

  The man knelt, then stretched out face down on the forest floor. Larsen quickly bound his wrists behind him with plastic ties, then did the same with his ankles. He bound both sets of ties together with a third one. Finally, he produced a cloth from beneath his ghillie suit and stuffed it in the Ranger’s mouth, ensuring it would stay there with a strip of duct tape that he wrapped around the man’s head. Then, just as quickly as he had materialized, Larsen was gone.

  * * *

  The Marine FORECON major was cold and uncomfortable. He stirred restlessly and tried to find a warm spot under his blanket. The slight mound of leaves and other decaying forest detritus that formed his bed was hard and damp from recent rains. He rolled over onto his back and raised his head for a look around the encampment. He glanced at the Rangers. They seemed to be sleeping peacefully, but he knew they were trained to awaken and leap into action without hesitation. Nothing seemed out of place, yet he sensed the Sleeping Dogs were close. Very close. When were they going to strike? And how?

  He saw one of the Rangers get up and walk a sanitary distance into the darkness for a latrine break. The man carried his modified M16A2 with him. The major doubted he would have an opportunity to use the weapon, and also doubted he would be returning. He was right. As the Ranger relaxed and began to relieve himself, a hand suddenly clamped over his mouth. Simultaneously, a modified knife slid across his throat, leaving a red stain to simulate the gaping wound a real blade would have left.

  Startled, and angry that he had urinated on himself, the Ranger started to struggle. With a hand still clamped over his mouth and his assailant’s other arm now wrapped around both of his, his efforts were wasted. The FORECON major stepped in front of him, shaking his head, and pointed to a spot on the ground. Very quietly he said, “Sit down soldier. You’re out of the game.”

  Quentin Thomas nodded at the major and quickly gagged and bound the Ranger in the same fashion as Larsen had trussed the sentry. Then, he slipped away into the darkness.

  A few minutes before 3:00 a.m., two Rangers arose, stretched, and, picking up their weapons, began walking upslope in opposite directions toward the sentry posts. Each inadvertently triggered a trip wire and compressed air devices splattered them with a white, paint-like substance. It simulated the lethal damage an actual explosive device would have caused. Larsen wrapped up one of the Rangers like a boa constrictor crushing its prey. “You’ve been blown up and are out of it. Understand?”

  The Ranger grunted something that sounded like “Uh huh”, and Larsen released him. A few moments later he was trussed up similarly to the others who had been removed from the exercise.

  Things didn’t go so smoothly on the other side of the creek. Kirkland had grabbed the Ranger who had triggered the other simulated IED and instructed him much as Larsen had done. But when he released the Ranger, the man was so frustrated he shouted, “Goddammit!”

  That changed things from stealth to open combat. Instantly, the five remaining Rangers were awake and reaching for their weapons. Whelan and Almeida were ready for the unexpected. They fired rounds that, had they been using real bullets and not dye pellets, would have been fatal. A couple of the Rangers seemed confused by the suddenness of the ambush and appeared ready to react to the assault. The FORECON major shouted, “Stand down. This exercise is over!” As a Marine, he secretly was pleased that an elite Army unit had been taken down. He was certain a Marine unit would have fared better. Still, it bothered him that the winners, these Sleeping Dogs, were so secret that no one knew whether they even were a military unit.

  The trussed-up Rangers were released and Whelan explained to the stunned unit how he and his colleagues had managed to take them out.

  One of the Rangers, a Staff Sergeant, said, “I heard rumors about a special black ops unit. My brother served in the Gulf War. He said these guys actually infiltrated Saddam’s palace, killed a couple hundred of his elite guards and came very close to killing that sonofabitch himself.”

  Whelan looked at the soldier with a steady gaze. “War creates a lot of rumors.”

  “That’s a hell of a note,” Almeida said. He spat the words out like they were flavored with vinegar. “Served our country and that’s all we are. Just fuckin’ rumors.”

  All eyes quickly turned toward him. Whelan locked him in a withering gaze. “Rafe!” The word came in a low, rumbling growl; threatening, like the sound a lion would make just before pouncing on a cornered eland.

  “Well, then who the hell are you guys, to be able to take us out like you did?” the sergeant said. “I mean we have LKMD perimeter devices, surveillance drones with infrared sensors, thermal vision night goggles. Who can get through that?”

  Whelan shrugged. “Let’s just say we’re testing new gear that’s still in the experimental stages.” He paused momentarily then said, “That’s enough Q and A. Anything else you need to know will be provided at the discretion of the Department of the Army.” He motioned to the rest of his men and, except for Almeida, they rose in unison to leave. Almeida climbed wearily to his feet, sighed and began to trudge after the others.

  A moment later Whelan’s earbud crackled. Levell said, “C
ongratulations, men. Training is over. We’ll take a day off, then begin preparing for the mission.”

  47 Boys’ Night Out

  The tavern was on an empty stretch of Highway 64 about halfway between Brevard and Rosman. It was in a relatively flat area in a valley carved over the eons by the meanderings of the French Broad River. The place wasn’t much to look at. It was built log cabin style and, judging from its appearance and glaring lack of symmetry, had been expanded more than once over the years. The few windows, dusty and long in need of washing, were filled with neon signs advertising various brands of beer. By the time Whelan and his team arrived at a few minutes past eight, the lot was filled with pickup trucks, SUVs, a few battered sedans and several motorcycles.

  They squeezed the borrowed Hummer into a narrow strip between the edge of the highway and the tree line and walked back up the road to the bar. Most of them wore jackets or windbreakers against the evening chill. Almeida wearing only a t-shirt, led the way, eager to start drinking. Larsen strode close behind him to keep him on a short leash. Kirkland walked beside Larsen. His lightweight bomber-style jacket concealed the two nunchaku stuffed into the rear waistband of his jeans. Thomas, Stensen and Whelan walked together a short distance behind the others. Each of them quietly studied the vehicles in the parking lot, their license plates, the structure of the building, its surrounding area, and the traffic passing by on the highway.

  Larsen and Kirkland weren’t missing much either. Almeida couldn’t have cared less. He threw open the door to the tavern, stepped in and, in a loud voice, said, “Uncle Rafe is here, ladies. Line forms on the right.”

  Several men turned to look at him; some of them may have been of a mind to kick this brash stranger’s ass. Then they saw the Man With No Neck. And the four other dangerous looking men with him. Everyone returned to their drinks and conversations; their interest in Rafe Almeida vanished.

  Whelan paused just inside the door and appraised the environment. Country music coursed loudly through the sound system. A few couples were using a small dance floor that was squeezed into the center of the room. There were booths along the front wall and down the wall to the left of the entrance. An L-shaped bar paralleled the wall to the right and across most of the back of the room. A kitchen of sorts was squeezed into the area behind the bar in the rear. There was a small hallway to the left. A sign that said “Restrooms” hung over it. Whelan’s gaze swept over the room. He instantly picked out the four bouncers. There were several other men in the crowd that looked like they could be brawlers. He watched Almeida swagger across the room, and thought, this could be one of those nights.