Chasing the Lost

by Bob Mayer

  It was a clear night, which in the military way of things was good news and bad news. Pretty much everything in the military way of things was similar. The good news was, they had clear visibility for Chase’s parachute drop in a few hours. The bad news was, there was clear visibility for any guards who might be on duty and actually observing.

  Kono was watching his GPS and also checking to the right. They were now well south of the entrance to the Savannah River and the glow of the city, which was several miles upriver, beyond Fort Pulaski and fronted by Tybee Island.

  “Air Force lose bomb here,” Kono said, shouting to be heard above the roar of the twin engines.

  “Air Force has probably lost a lot of bombs,” Gator said.

  “They lose big one here,” Kono said, pointing down with his free hand. “Some professors from university, they hire me to take them around. With Geiger counters—1958, two planes collided and nuclear bomb was dropped here in water. Never been found.”

  “Great,” Riley muttered. “Wouldn’t be surprised if the Russians aren trying to dig it up to sell the core on the black market.”

  “Bomb won’t be found,” Kono said. “Bottom here is too soft. If it here, it’s very deep.”

  “If it’s here,” Riley said, “someone will go deep enough to get it. Trust me,” he added, his mind going back to his trip to Antarctica and uncovering Eternity Base and its secret trove of nuclear warheads, lost by the US government during the Cold War. Sometimes those memories seemed very distant, as if he’d watched them on a movie screen, not actually lived them.

  Kono shrugged. “Lots of stuff in waters ‘round here. Lots of wrecks.” The lights of Tybee faded to the rear. The coast was now dark, uninhabited miles and miles of tidal flats, small islands, and meandering inlets. They were passing wildlife refuges and islands too small and inaccessible for development.

  So far.

  Kono kept checking the GPS, but he was more focused on the water and the land off to the right. Sometimes it was just a mile or so away, but then a sound would open up, and the faint, dark line was almost on the horizon.

  Riley sat with his back to his ruck, near the right side machine gun, trying to control his adrenaline. One of the hardest things on this kind of mission was to accept that the infiltration was just the beginning. He’d seen Special Ops guys sleeping, or pretending to sleep, on the way in to a parachute jump. He’d also seen regular airborne Infantry guys getting hyped-up just for a practice jump. It was one of the many differences between the regular Army and Special Operations soldiers.

  He glanced to his left. Sarah was standing next to Kono, staring ahead as if she could see something the rest of them couldn’t. Erin was on the deck, cross-legged, lost in the body armor, looking like she’d rather be somewhere else. She had a pistol in her hand, and was holding it as if it were a live snake.

  “Five minutes, Gator,” Kono called out. “Seven, Riley.” He throttled down to half-speed and engaged special mufflers, greatly reducing the sound coming from the engines.

  Riley stood up. He walked forward, around the edge of the cockpit. Gator was in the deck hole, the handles for the dual fifties in his meaty fists, barrels oriented toward the distant shore. He had night-vision goggles on, and sported a wide grin under the NVGs. He gave Riley a thumbs-up. Riley returned the gesture, then checked the line attaching him to his ruck, making sure it was clear of knots and kinks. His fins were attached to the belt around his waist.

  Gator lifted himself out of the front turret. He’d already loaded the Zodiac, so with another thumbs up to Kono, he hopped over the left side of the patrol boat into the rubber boat. When Kono gave the signal, he cut the rope and bobbed free in the wake as Kono kept course.

  Gator went to the rear of the Zodiac and sat on the left pontoon. He lowered the electric trolling motor and turned it on. The Zodiac silently began heading toward the west, and was lost in the darkness.

  Riley peered toward the west. He could see another bay coming up. Sapelo Sound.

  Riley picked up his ruck and turned, putting his back toward the bow of the boat. He shifted his attention to Kono, who was keeping a steady course south-southeast. Riley took a quick glance to the left. They were past the southern tip of St. Catherine’s Island, which Gator was going to skirt in the Zodiac to reach his overwatch position.

  “Go!” Kono yelled.

  Riley threw his ruck out to the left, then jumped, grabbing the back of his neck, interlacing his fingers and tucking his head in to his chest.

  His feet hit water, and at twenty knots, were swept under him, slamming his back into the water.

  Riley lay in the water, hearing the Fina recede, trying to catch his breath.

  Maybe he was getting too old for this shit?

  He pulled his fins out and slipped them on. Rucksack in-tow on its line, he lay on his back, crossed his arm over his chest, and checked the compass bearing on the glowing edge of the device strapped to his right wrist, making sure he was oriented correctly.

  And then he began finning.

  * * * * *

  The pilot only asked Chase for flight directions. He seemed relieved that Chase was parachuting out not too far away, and he could then come back here, and that would be that.

  If only, Chase thought as he mentally ran through the plan one more time, searching for the inevitable flaws he’d missed.

  * * * * *

  Kono could see the northeast corner of Sapelo Island ahead, and grinned.

  “What are you so happy about?” Erin asked. She had come up next to him, hands gripping the forward shield. Sarah had remained silent throughout the trip, a sphinx to his right.

  He pointed at the land coming up on the south side of Sapelo Sound. “Actually, people think that one island out there. It really be two. Sapelo be main one. That island there be known as Blackbeard Island National Wildlife Refuge. I take that as good sign. Russians pick wrong area to make their base. We show them what real pirates are like.”

  Sarah finally spoke. “How come you and Gator have all this?” She indicated the dual fifty up front, then the machine guns on either side. “All these weapons are illegal, aren’t they?”

  “You complaining, lady?” Kono asked. As they passed parallel to the northern end of the island, Kono turned off the mufflers and began throttling up, knowing they were out of sight and sound of the objective, and time was of the essence now.

  “I’m not complaining,” Sarah said. “Just curious.”

  “Curious not a good thing here and now,” Kono said.

  “Are you really doing this for Chase?” Sarah asked. “Or do you and Gator have your own agenda? I’ve watched you two and the way you look at each other when things are said, and the way you two whisper to each other.”

  “Chase my friend.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Sarah said. She looked past Kono at Erin. “Cole is my son. I need to know what’s going on.”

  “You a suspicious lady,” Kono said.

  “My son’s been kidnapped and his finger cut off. He’ll be killed in less than twelve hours unless we rescue him. I have reasons to be more than a bit paranoid.”

  Erin nudged Kono. “Tell her about Maria.”

  Kono’s hand jerked the wheel slightly, and everyone swayed. “Not the time.” A muscle on the side of his face vibrated.

  Erin looked around Kono. “His sister died of a drug overdose in Savannah. She was engaged to Gator.”

  Kono pushed forward on the throttle, pushing the Fina to its limit. The roar of the engine was almost deafening. Sapelo Island was racing by on the right side, a mile away.

  “Russian drugs?” Sarah asked, and Kono spared her a surprised glance.

  Sarah reached out and put a hand on Kono’s shoulder, more accurately the body armor covering his shoulder. “I’m sorry about your sister. And I want vengeance too, just for Cole’s finger right now, but I’d like to, I need to, get the rest of him back. Alive. Please.”

  Kono pulled back
on the throttle as he edged the wheel over hard right, and they were heading toward the beach.

  “What are you doing?” Sarah gripped onto the metal edge of the cockpit, just behind the armored glass.

  Kono’s hands were working the throttle and wheel. The Fina slowed further. A line of surf was directly ahead.

  * * * * *

  “Fin harder,” Riley muttered to himself, then sputtered as a wave broke over his face and he spit out salt water. He remembered the instructors of the Royal Danish Navy Fromandkorpset yelling that at him and his teammates as they went through the Danes’s combat swim school. It had been a brutal three weeks of training, notable both for its physical demands and the complete lack of hazing. The instructors had shouted it as encouragement, not disparagement. They let the freezing water and the long distances do the work on the attendees, challenging them to their limits.

  Riley checked his compass heading, adjusting his finning slightly to get back on course, then did a quick head-up, out of the water, and looked over his shoulder.

  The objective looked a discouragingly long distance away.

  “Fin harder,” Riley repeated with a bit of anxiety, knowing the entire op rested on him getting to the objective in time to do the recon.

  * * * * *

  Chase walked back and forth in the hangar, checking his watch too many times.

  The small earplug from the radio Kono had given him had yet to make a sound, and he was tempted to break static just to make sure the damn thing worked.

  Except he knew it worked because they’d done a com check before splitting up.

  Chase forced himself to sit down, back against the wall of the hangar. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.

  He was going to need the adrenaline later. No need wasting it now.

  * * * * *

  Gator’s hand was literally shaking on the throttle of the trolling motor. The Zodiac was moving at an excruciating crawl through the water. He kept close to shore, just far enough out not to drive the small prop into the sand.

  He glanced down at the plastic case containing the Barrett fifty cal, and that was enough to calm him for the moment.

  Anticipation.

  * * * * *

  Kono pulled the throttle almost to neutral and threw the wheel hard right once more, pivoting the Fina to the north. Surf washed onto the beach to their immediate right and directly ahead. But it was a point of land on the right, and a narrow strip of water beckoned behind it.

  “Told you,” Kono said. “Two islands.” He glanced at the clock. “Tide just right to make it through, me think.”

  “You ‘think?’” Sarah repeated.

  “We make it,” Kono said. “God wouldna want it any other way.”

  * * * * *

  Gator grounded the Zodiac on the thin spit of land that couldn’t quite earn the title of “island.” It was a shell-encrusted, treeless strip of land, exposed at low tide, and almost completely underwater at high. The shells were the remains of the meals of generations of birds. Gator pulled the Zodiac behind him, hearing the shells crunch, but trusting that the thick rubber would hold. He pulled it over the two-foot-high ridge that was the backbone of the finger of dry area, and then down the other side. He shoved an anchor into the shells and sand, making sure the boat was secure.

  He broke out his night-vision goggles and peered to the south. He immediately picked up the glow of several lights at the objective over a mile away. They had to be running off of a generator, so it meant somebody was home. Gator had half-feared the objective would be deserted.

  Then he unpacked the Barrett.

  * * * * *

  The stream narrowed until reeds were brushing against both sides of the Fina. Kono kept the boat moving, hands on the throttle and wheel. Sarah was still on his right, Erin on his left. Mikey had yet to show his face.

  Then, suddenly, the water widened and they came out into the sound, southwest of the objective. Kono flipped some switches, and the boat was completely blacked-out.

  Mufflers on, Kono pointed the Fina straight ahead, and they began to ease their way across the water.

  * * * * *

  Riley rolled over. The small inlet he’d picked as his ingress route was two hundred meters ahead and to the right. The Russian dock was ahead and to the left. He could see the glow of several lights, and heard the distant rumble of a generator providing the electricity. A single red light glowed on the end of the dock. His navigating had been just about spot-on. He flipped back and finned harder, feeling the burn in his thighs and lower abdomen.

  When his heels hit sand, he finally halted. He sat and pulled the fins off. He then crawled forward, following the water through the marsh. He could see trees ahead. The water grew shallower, now about two feet deep. A hummock of dry ground beckoned. He crawled onto it and pulled his ruck up. He unsealed the waterproof bag and pulled out his body armor, and slipped it over the wetsuit. Then he put on his load-bearing equipment, which carried his extra ammunition, knife, and pistol. He grabbed the HK416 assault rifle and made sure it was ready for action, slipping the sling over his shoulder.

  Last, he pulled out a set of night-vision goggles and slid them down over his eyes, turning them on. The night gave way to bright green, the few lights from the Russian camp glowing like searchlights.

  Riley keyed the PRC-152. “Infil complete. Moving into observation position.”

  There were no acknowledgements, nor should there be any.

  Riley moved forward at a fast crouch, weapon at the ready, keeping his feet under the surface of the water to avoid splashing. He was about a hundred yards from firmer ground and the treeline when he froze.

  A scream of pure agony ripped across the low-country from the Russian camp.

  Chapter Nine

  It was early, but Chase would rather circle uselessly overhead than sit here.

  He put the parachute on his back and rigged himself, not as easy as it appeared. Without someone else to jumpmaster inspect his work, he had to make sure he did everything perfectly. He snapped the leg straps, then squatted to tighten them down. He checked his gear as best he could.

  He realized he honestly couldn’t remember his last jump.

  The twin-engine plane roared down the runway and then up into the night sky. The lights of Hilton Head twinkled below as the pilot gained altitude. They were going up to ten thousand feet, the limit the pilot agreed to, since the plane wasn’t going to be pressurized.

  High enough to just be a distant buzz in the sky overhead to those below, but not an immediate threat.

  The earpiece crackled with Riley’s confirmation that he had made landfall and was moving forward.

  Chase went forward and leaned over. “How much longer?”

  “Three minutes until altitude.”

  * * * * *

  Kono now had the Fina less than a mile from the dim glow that indicated the Russian camp. The engines were idling.

  He tapped Erin. “When we go, I move in fast, right to the edge of their dock, where that red light be. I hit reverse, then idle. As soon as I do, I move forward and take the gun. You use engines to hold us in position. Good with that?”

  Erin nodded. “I’m good with it.”

  “Won’t be long now,” Kono said.

  * * * * *

  Gator peered through the scope mounted on top of the Barrett. The magnification zoomed the Russian compound close enough to make out details.

  “What the fuck?” Gator muttered as he tried to figure out what he was seeing.

  * * * * *

  Riley held off calling in the cavalry because he was still the scout and all he had was a scream; Custer could have used some scouts. The generator was making a lot of noise, so he felt confident he could move faster, going into an all-out sprint, as best one could sprint in two feet of water with a sandy bottom, up the inlet until he reached a position about seventy-five yards from the compound. He threw himself onto the edge of the inlet and peered at the compoun
d through his night-vision goggles.

  It took a few seconds for him to sort out exactly what he was observing.

  Yes, there were three huts set back in the treeline. But in front of them was a group of men, five, gathered around two poles set vertically in the ground, with a fire in a pit between the poles. And tied to the two poles were two men, stripped down to their underwear.

  One of the men screamed, a twin to the earlier one, as a Russian pressed a piece of rebar he’d pulled out of the fire against the man’s bare chest.

  Riley felt a moment of relief, knowing it wasn’t Cole he’d heard.

  He scanned, taking in the details. There were no lights in the huts, which he hoped meant there were only five Russians, the ones gathered around the two prisoners. If Cole was here, he was probably being held in one of the huts, but Riley was too far away to see if any were locked from the outside.

  The Russians were, of course, armed, two with AK-74s slung over shoulders. The others had holsters on their hips, including the torturer. Riley checked the dock. There was a waist-high wall near the end and as he focused, Riley saw the snout of a heavy gun poking out of it toward the water. The wall was just one side of a bunker. He had to assume someone was inside the bunker, manning the gun.

  So they didn’t exactly want visitors.

  He could see into the camouflaged boathouses, and two were empty. The third held a cabin cruiser, about a thirty-footer, best as he could estimate.

  Another scream.

  Riley shifted back to the torturing. He pulled off the night-vision goggles; between the security lights, the fire, and the stars overhead, he had decent visibility. The main reason he’d used them was to make sure there were no infrared lights or warning sensors. He pulled out a set of binoculars.