Chasing the Lost

by Bob Mayer

  With a deep sigh, Kono finally stood, turned away, and joined Gator. They went to a stone that was streaked with moss and appeared to have fallen over. They reached under the mossy stone and, with a lot of effort, lifted it and slid it to the side, revealing a steel vault door set facing up. Kono jumped into the ‘grave’ and dialed in the combination. There was a satisfying click. Gator reached in and helped him lift open the heavy door. Nestled inside the spacious, buried hide, a former fallout shelter that had been brought here and buried with great effort and secrecy, was an assortment of weapons cases, crates of ammunition. and other assorted tools of warfare.

  Knowing his friend as well as he did, Kono handed him a long, hard-plastic rifle case first. Gator took the case and put it on top of the mossy stone. He knelt and reverently flipped the latches and opened the lid. Nestled inside was the rifle version of Gator: large, and on weapon steroids.

  The M82 Barrett had officially been adopted by the Army in 2002 as the Long Range Sniper Rifle Caliber .50, M107. It was developed out of a program called the Special Applications Scoped Rifle which Special Forces had begun way back in the ‘80s, searching for a rifle that not only had long range, but carried sufficient punch that it could be used against material and also as an explosive ordnance ‘disposal’ device. Strange as it might seem to civilians, but totally logical to someone like Gator, the rifle, which fired a half-inch diameter bullet and could reach out over a mile effectively, it was designed more to destroy things than people.

  Of course, Gator lumped some people into a category of things he didn’t like, and had as much compunction shooting them as he did a critical component in a parked jet fighter.

  Gator ran his hand along the dark metal barrel, almost a lover’s caress. He’d been trained to snipe while a young Spec-4 in the Ranger Battalion at Hunter Army Airfield. He’d then deployed with his battalion to Afghanistan, where he quickly became proficient shooting both objects and people. Despite his normal, high-tension temperament, once he laid down in a hide with the stock of the Barrett to his shoulder, Gator was perfectly calm. He’d once stayed in position with his spotter, along a ridgeline giving cover to a firebase that was being attacked for seventy-two straight hours. Even Gator didn’t know how many insurgents he killed during that period, although he was pretty sure if he ‘touched’ them with one of his bullets, they probably were dead.

  He’d been awarded the Silver Star for his actions, but the medal hadn’t helped him a year later when the Army gave him the boot. Gator shook off that bad memory, like a dog shaking off water, and pulled a large magazine out of its slot in the case. He pressed the spring, checking its resiliency. He did the same with the other magazines. Then he took the rifle out.

  “Not now, Gator,” Kono complained from his position inside the cache. “You can tear it apart later. We need to get this gear on the boat.”

  Gator sighed, but put the rifle back in the case, and secured it. He hopped inside the safe, joining Kono.

  As Gator lifted the twenty-four-pound barrel of an M-2 machine gun out of the safe with one hand, he looked over at Kono. “We knew the time would come. All that Sun Tzu shit Tear taught you was right.”

  “But a child involved.” Kono shook his head. “It is bad.”

  “We didn’t make it happen,” Gator said. “And we’re going to save a child. A child for a child.”

  Kono paused, a can of ammunition in each hand. “We must remember that. The child comes before vengeance.”

  “Sure,” Gator said easily, and just as easily lifted out the sixty-pound main body of large caliber machine gun, the veins on his arms pulsing with blood, as well as the one wired across his forehead. “Rescue. Then we kill the sons-a-bitches.”

  * * * * *

  Erin had gone through her operating room, filling a large pack full of supplies they might need. She was going heavy on bandages and sutures and IVs. She went over to a locked drawer. Pulling out her keys, she found the right one and unlocked it. Sliding it open, she reached in and retrieved a Walther PP9. She pulled the slide back, allowing a round to push, then let it go, chambering the round. She made sure the safety was on, then tucked it into her pocket.

  She left, locking the office behind her. She paused, and then went over to the side of the building to the old parking lot, which was now a checkerboard. The life-size chess pieces were frozen in action, the curious aspect of the game, where each move had to be made decisively, then the move could be considered, but not taken back.

  She walked among them, reaching out to touch the pieces as she passed.

  With a sigh, she left the game and went to her Volkswagen.

  * * * * *

  Riley opened up the storage shed and stared at the accumulation of a lifetime in Special Forces, which meant he wasn’t looking at much. Several cardboard boxes, full of whatever. An ALICE rucksack from back in the day, stuffed with a sleeping bag, bivy sack, camping stuff, water filter, and various other items from his time in the field. Old uniforms. A broken futon. A used Harley he’d bought on a whim that he kept intending to repair when he had the time.

  Which made him wonder why he had never made the time.

  He knelt in front of a battered footlocker.

  He twirled the combination and opened it. Tactical gear from his contracting days was neatly stacked inside. Riley took out a set of black tactical fatigues. A wetsuit. Body armor that was several generations out-of-date, using hard Kevlar plates inserted in pockets. Old LBE—load-bearing equipment that predated the MOLLE gear the army currently carried. A set of early-generation night-vision goggles. Knives, a garrote, and various other items that hadn’t seen the light of day in a couple of years.

  Then he went over to a tightly-packed, waterproof bag. He unzipped it and pulled out the contents: a freefall parachute. He went outside of the storage unit and extracted the parachute. He stretched it out, then meticulously inspected it, checking both risers, every line, and every panel.

  Satisfied it was in good shape, he then repacked the chute, his hands a bit slow at first, but growing more certain with each fold of the chute, then the lines, then the risers. He put it into its pack, made sure the ripcord was good to go.

  Riley filled the old ALICE rucksack with the gear, then tied the chute off to the rack on the back of the dirt bike.

  He locked up the storage unit, then pulled out his iPhone. He dialed Parsons’s number, which Chase had given him.

  “Detective Parsons, Beaufort Sheriff’s department.”

  “Dave Riley here. You hear anything more about the Russians?”

  “Negative.”

  “All right.”

  “What do you have planned?” Parsons asked.

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  “Right.” There was a short pause. “Good luck, and good hunting.”

  The phone went dead. Riley dialed up music on his iPhone. He searched for a particular song while he put earplugs in.

  Finding what he wanted, he hit play. He put the motorcucle into gear and pulled out, heading for Haig Point and his Zodiac.

  Phil Collins voice blasted out of the earphones:

  “I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord,

  And I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life, oh Lord.”

  The music was dated, but he figured that was okay, because he was dated.

  Sometimes, older was better.

  At least, he hoped so, as he held left hand off the handlebars and stared at it, noting the slightest of tremors.

  That hadn’t been there three years ago.

  * * * * *

  Chase knocked on the door, half-expecting to be met with the muzzle of a gun, since his own experience and Riley’s tale suggested that was the usual way Rollins greeted visitors to his front door. There was a Bentley parked in the driveway, its exterior buffed and waxed to perfection. Chase figured if Rollins owned that, it explained why he was in debt.

  No gun, but Rollins looked none-too-happy as h
e swung the door open. “What now?”

  Chase wasted no time on a preamble. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  Rollins blinked in surprise, then frowned. “Which enemy are we talking about? And your face doesn’t look like you’re doing too well with your own enemies.”

  “Karralkov. I hear the Russians are giving you trouble.”

  “They’re giving everyone trouble,” Rollins said. “That’s why they’re the enemy of a lot of people. They do that to your face?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re going back?”

  “Yes. But not alone this time.”

  “Riley going with you?”

  “Yes.”

  Rollins nodded. “I don’t think he’d let people do that to his face. You got more than him?”

  “Yes.”

  “The people who just left your place? After the shot from across the Intracoastal?”

  “You see a lot for someone who doesn’t do much of anything,” Chase said, growing irritated with the non-stop questioning.

  Rollins ignored that. “What are you planning?”

  “You don’t need to worry about what we’re doing,” Chase said. “I need your plane.”

  “My plane?” Rollins shrugged. “Going to fly your troubles away? I’ve thought of it.”

  “Going to fly into trouble,” Chase said, “but your plane will be safe.”

  “I’m not gonna just give you my plane,” Rollins said. He waved a pudgy hand as Chase began to protest. “I ain’t gonna just give you my plane unless I send someone with it besides the pilot. He’ll fly you wherever you want, no questions asked. But Mikey will go with you.”

  Chase knew Mikey wasn’t going in the plane, no matter what Rollins thought, but they could deal with that later. “All right.”

  “Where’s the babe going to be?”

  “The ‘babe?’”

  “Mrs. Briggs,” Rollins said. “She’s a hot number, ain’t she? You tapping that?”

  “I am not.”

  Rollins was surprised. “Then why you helping her?”

  “Her kid has been kidnapped. We’re getting him back.”

  “Right,” Rollins said. “Knights in white armor. Good luck with that. Mikey will meet you at the airport with the pilot. What time?”

  “Eleven.”

  “You can leave now,” Rollins said, starting to close the door.

  A voice came from behind Rollins, causing him to stop the door.

  “Mister Chase, we have not had the formal pleasure. My name is Merchant Fabrou.” The distinguished man from Chase’s first encounter with his neighbor in this driveway came up behind Rollins. He tapped Rollins lightly on the shoulder. “Peter, do you mind if I have a word with Mister Chase.” It was not a question. Rollins opened the door wide and stepped out of the way. Fabrou halted in the doorway and looked over at Rollins. “And based on our last discussion, that plane is to be my property come Monday, unless matters change drastically, isn’t that so?”

  Rollins face turned redder. “Yes, sir.”

  Fabrou stepped outside and the door shut behind him. He was dressed for golf, but Chase figured guys like him were always dressed for golf or martinis or whatever the hell it is rich people did in their leisure time, which he assumed Fabrou had a lot of.

  “You were not welcomed with open arms to the island,” Fabrou said.

  “You always state the obvious?”

  Fabrou raised a manicured finger. “No need to be rude. I overheard your conversation with Mister Rollins. I didn’t mean to pry, but I was on my way out when you showed up. I could not help but hear.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a curious situation,” Fabrou said. He headed toward the Bentley, which explained that.

  “I don’t find it curious,” Chase said. “I’m finding this power play on the island and this area pretty dangerous. And involving kids, I find that pretty despicable.”

  “True, true.” Fabrou halted at the Bentley. “Not something I approve of at all. People view power in different ways. For me”—he indicated the car—“it’s money. I believe that’s the American way. For others, it’s blood. I think the Russians have shown themselves to be adept at that since they arrived here. Others delude themselves with magical thinking and give in to their vices, believing some higher power will grant them good fortune. I lump Mister Rollins into that group with his gambling addiction and his poor business sense. He inherited the potential for a great real estate empire from his father, but he has squandered it.”

  “I understand the Russians are a problem for you, also,” Chase said.

  Fabrou shrugged. “They throw money around as if they print it, which they might actually do. Bad for the market to have someone willing to overpay.”

  “You going to help against the Russians?” Chase asked.

  “You believe power to be force,” Fabrou said. “How does that make you different from those you are going after?”

  “Force can be used for good, or it can be used for evil.”

  Fabrou shrugged. “So can money. But then one has to further define what good and evil are.”

  “You got something you want to say to me?” Chase was tired of the philosophy lesson.

  Fabrou opened the door to his car. “I certainly have nothing against you inflicting damage on the Russians. They’re trying to compete with me in the field of money, and their illegal activities give them an unfair advantage. But I have my own advantages, being native to the area, and having many more connections than they can ever buy or intimidate. Their move against SAS, though, that was unexpected. A straight money grab.”

  “You know it was them?”

  “You apparently do,” Fabrou said. “You know Mrs. Briggs. What do you know of Mister Briggs?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Correct. Do you know what his nickname here on the island is?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Half-a-fag Briggs. Rude, but I believe somewhat appropriate.”

  Chase processed that. “So is Sarah his beard?”

  “‘Sarah,’ is it?” Fabrou smiled. “I suppose. I try not to get involved in the personal entanglements of people. They usually are rather messy.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Fabrou got in the driver’s seat. He looked up at Chase. “It’s the lay of the land, son. That’s my true power. I know the lay of the land.”

  He slammed the door shut and drove off, leaving Chase standing alone in the driveway.

  * * * * *

  “Our team’s mission is to rescue Cole Briggs from Objective Claw, on this small island off of Sapelo Sound, south of Savannah.” Chase indicated the target island on the iPad display with the tip of a pen.

  Riley, Kono, Gator, Erin, and Sarah were gathered close, leaning over to see the screen. In Google satellite view, it was difficult to tell where land ended and water began, which was the natural course of things in the low country. Half of the land could be underwater during a high tide, and a lot of the tidal flats were uncovered during a low tide.

  Riley turned to Gator and Kono. “We have a visual confirmation of the objective, correct?”

  Gator nodded. “They got someone prisoner there.”

  “‘Someone?’” Riley pressed.

  “Who the fuck else would it be?” Gator said. “If we’d gotten any closer, they’d have known something was up. It was difficult, even with the scope, to make out details.”

  “As near as we can tell,” Chase said, “and from what Kono and Gator learned from their recon, the objective consists of this single long dock, extending out into this narrow channel. There are three covered slips for boats, with camouflage netting on top of them. You can see the dock and barely make the boat slips out here. We won’t know if there are boats in them until we put eyes on target from ground level. On shore, we’ve been informed there are three structures, set in the treeline, but we have no detail on them.”

  Riley cleared his th
roat. “You were in Delta. You know how hard a successful extraction mission is. I think everyone needs to understand it’s one of the hardest missions to run.”

  Chase nodded. “I trained hostage rescue, and was on two live extractions when I was in Delta.”

  Gator raised a hand. “Did the live extractions result in live hostages?”

  “They did,” Chase added, deciding talking about the clusterfuck in Colorado with the dead baby wasn’t an appropriate topic right now. “The key is getting to the package, Cole, before any alarm is raised. Which is why we’re doing it at zero-three-twenty, on the off chance they’re rotating guard shifts on the hour. My take is, there will be at least one person on security. Karralkov seems to run a pretty tight outfit, and whatever he’s doing out there, he’ll have it guarded. And if Cole is there, there’s no doubt someone will be up. So actually,” Chase continued for Sarah’s benefit, “the more security we see, the higher the odds that Cole is being held there and we’ll get him out.”

  “You’re gonna have to kill the guards,” Gator said. “Not like they’re gonna let us walk in and walk out with the package, as you call him.”

  Chase ignored that.

  Riley spoke up. “We’ve got to send in a recon element to make sure Cole is there, before we go in guns blazing.”

  Chase agreed. “I factored that in, and that will be your job. We’re going in via three different infiltration methods,” he continued. He pointed as he indicated who and how.

  “First, Staff Sergeant Gator will infiltrate at this point using Chief Riley’s Zodiac. Kono will pull the Zodiac to this position, and then you will cast off. You will use an electric trolling motor into your overwatch position on this shell reef, enforcing noise discipline. You will provide initial covering fire, if needed, with your long rifle. Upon order, you will join the assault team via the Zodiac. You’ll be in position to give Chief Riley cover by 0200.”