by Connor Black
“I have to ask for your recognition code,” continued Monkey. We had seen his picture in the briefing, but this was a necessary step.
The man took a large swig from the canteen, coughed it up, and tried again with a smaller sip. He made an effort to smile and said, “Whistling pines.”
Monkey looked at me and nodded. Recognition code was good, subject not under duress.
I spoke into my helmet mic, “Hammer, Presley,” letting everyone know that the hostage was secure. I followed this with, “Break. Hammer Four is clearing the tunnel.”
I received two clicks in reply. This would be Sterba, letting me know he received the comm and hopefully wouldn’t shoot me. The last thirty meters were clear. I popped the hatch on the other side to see his smiling face.
“Tunnel clear. Angel, status?” I asked over the radio, ignoring Sterba for the moment.
“Road is clear. Five hostiles down.”
“Hammer copies all,” I replied. “Keep a lookout.”
Two clicks came in reply.
I returned Sterba’s smile. “Evening, Chief,” I said. “If you’re done taking a nap up here, how about coming down to find out how your LT managed to get himself shot in the ass!”
“Outstanding!” he chuckled, and leapt down.
9
Monkey was looking after both Barr and Boone.
“Glad to have you with us, Mr. Boone,” Sterba said to the hostage.
“Thank you,” Boone started. “Listen, I … ”
“Save it for when we are clear, Mr. Boone. Still need to get out of Indian country.”
He turned to Barr, “How ya doing, LT?”
“Guy was sleeping under the fucking stairs,” he replied, doing his best to hide the pain. “Flash-bang must’ve woken him up. Monkey was too fast, jumping down the hatch, but he was good and ready when I followed.”
“It was a through-and-through,” Monkey filled in. “In one side of the cheek and out the other.” He was finding it hard to suppress a smile. “Missed the major arteries, and appears to have missed the pelvis.”
“Will this make him less of an asshole now?” I asked.
“Twice as bad,” Barr replied. “Now help me up.”
Standing, he grimaced through what had to be a lot of pain. Still, he resumed command.
Time was precious. There were probably a lot of Abdullahs in the valley that heard the AK fire from the technical, and they would be curious. Priority one was getting the hostage out. Second priority was collecting as much intel as we could.
Barr belted out the assignments using the comm net and tac signs so that Angel and Slater on the helo would see we were moving to the exfil phase.
“Hammer Two, main house intel.” Dutch had remained up in the main house. Two clicks came in reply, and he would now photograph everything he could.
Barr looked at Sterba and I. “Four and Five, quick intel sweep down here, then help get Boone and I up top. LZ in seven minutes, people.” LZ was the landing zone, where we would be picked up for exfil.
As much as we wanted there to be a computer in the tunnel with an entry called “Baraki’s diary, where I will be today,” we found very little beyond some pocket litter and a well-worn Koran. I put it all in my tac vest. Sterba used a small camera to photograph the tunnel and hollowed out room. Sixty seconds was all we could afford.
“Let’s go, people,” Sterba said to the team. He then switched conversation to the helo that would pick us up, call sign Hook.
I knew the Hook flight would be two Seahawks. One would pick us up while a second armed model would orbit, providing cover.
“Hook, Hammer. LZ in five.”
“Roger, Hammer. OGA has been dropped, will meet you at the LZ.”
Slater didn’t have a call sign. By saying “OGA,” the helo pilot meant “Other Government Agency”, which we all knew meant CIA. Slater.
That was off-script. Slater was planned to stay on the helo to do an initial debrief of the hostage during the exfil.
“What the hell is Slater doing off the helo?” Barr asked.
“Can’t worry about that now, Lieutenant. We need to roll,” I replied. “Hop on.”
With Barr’s injury, climbing the ladder was not an option. He wrapped his arms around my neck, and I carried him up the stairs.
Monkey already had Boone in the house with him. It seemed the bruised agent was toughing up big time, and could move under his own power. Dutch and Sterba were at the main door, weapons up, scanning.
I released Barr to stand on his own once we were in the main room. He couldn’t hold back a groan.
“I’m not going to make it to the LZ like this,” he said.
We needed to cover about 300 meters to a clearing just south of the house for our pick up. Barr must be in bad shape.
“I’ve got you, sir,” I said.
“Thanks. Now where the hell is Slater?” Barr asked no one in particular.
Boone’s head snapped quickly towards Barr. “Slater? Caleb Slater?”
“Yeah. He’s the one that put this mission together.”
“But he’s the ... ” Boone began.
Sterba cut him off. “Hook is inbound. Mount up. Dutch, strobes,” he loudly announced.
Dutch headed out, laying IR strobes in a box around a darkened patch of relatively flat dirt to mark the landing zone. The pilots would be flying using night vision goggles. And while the infrared strobes were invisible to the naked eye, they were perfectly visible in NVGs.
“Hammer, Hook. Have your strobes,” came over the net.
Our timing was going to be good. I feel the thump in the air as the helo’s blades beat the pre-dawn air into submission.
I bent down and hoisted Barr up in a fireman’s carry. We formed a stack at the door.
“Go!” said Sterba.
With the helo flaring over our LZ, Monkey ran out with Boone. Boone was still trying to talk over the noise of the helo as I ran behind him with Barr on my shoulders. “It was Slater that I saw ... ”
Suddenly a warm, wet spray washed across my face. And CIA officer Tom Boone collapsed, the back of his head completely gone.
10
“Sniper!” I shouted, and dove to the ground. The gear on the front of my tactical vest hammered into my chest as the weight of Barr on my shoulders compressed me into the pebble-covered earth.
I rolled him off and promptly moved on top of him to protect him from any incoming fire.
“Jesus, Chase!” he grunted as my full weight came to bear, a substantial portion of it likely on his wound.
Weapon up, I scanned the darkness, focusing on the direction the shot had come from. Nothing, and I knew I couldn’t lay cover fire since the shot seemed to have come from somewhere near Angel’s position.
Barr grunted into the radio, “Angel, we have taken fire. Shot appears to have come from near your position. Break. Hook flight, do you have a visual?”
“Hammer, Hook. No joy. Moving to Angel’s position.”
There was no response from Angel One or Two.
I rolled off Barr. Staying as low as I could, I grabbed the shoulder handle on his vest and began dragging him to a small pile of rubble at the edge of the LZ Dutch had marked.
Monkey was rolling to the same spot when a shot tore through his neck, killing him instantly.
Dutch had turned and was moving off the LZ when a round took him in the back. He went down to his knees, then flat. I saw him try to crawl, then collapse again. His vest must have taken the brunt of the shot, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet.
I wrangled Barr in behind the rubble. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
“Thermal showing two bodies at Angel’s position, Hammer,” came over the net. I shuffled to Dutch’s position, turning the situation over in my head.
No response from Angel. Two contacts on thermal, and fire coming from their position. Angel had to be down, and the sniper was either lying over one of their bodies, or hiding his heat signature
some way.
Barr came to the same conclusion. “Angel is down, Hook. Keep looking,” he commanded.
A shot pounded the ground between Dutch and I. Sharp pebbles peppered my face and helmet as I bent down. I threw Dutch over my shoulders and made for the rubble pile.
In the interest of speed, I went straight over the top.
And just as I arrived at this summit not much more than a meter tall, the sniper scored a hit. The round found its way between two plates in my tactical vest.
I struggled to make it down the other side of the rubble pile without hurting Dutch further. But my body was trying to shut down.
I collapsed, doing my best to cushion Dutch on the way down. Face down in the rubble, I remember hearing the pounding beat of the helo’s rotors before blacking out.
I came to a minute later when searing pain shot through my chest as Sterba lifted me through the cargo bay door.
He was babbling, likely trying to keep me conscious.
“Man, you were like Sir Edmund Hillary standing up on the top of that pile with Dutch!”
“Dutch … ok?” I burbled, blood dribbling out of my mouth.
“He’s fine, man. Both of you are fine. We’re gonna get you outta here.”
The last thing I remember seeing was Sterba’s big round face forcing a smile. My vision tunneled, and then the blackness won.
11
It was several days and a couple of surgeries before I was able to stay awake long enough to carry a conversation. And after we put all of the pieces together, staying unconscious might have been a better option.
We'd lost three men and the hostage we'd been sent to recover. Dutch had survived, but the impact of the bullet to his vest had done some serious damage to his back.
Barr’s ass would heal well. Unfortunately.
I wasn’t quite as lucky. The bullet that found the side door of my vest had tumbled around and done a bit of damage to some of the pink parts in there.
The doctors had agreed that with time, I would be fine. But they wanted me laid up for three to six months.
I wasn’t fine with that.
I was pissed.
The sponsor for our merry little disaster, super spook Caleb Slater, had Hook Two drop him off a couple of Ks from the landing zone. “I’m going to help them clear the LZ and exfil, see you there,” he’d apparently said. Right.
Turns out, he’d circled around and up the hill, taken out Angels One and Two, then settled in to get a line on Boone and the rest of our team.
A search and rescue crew that had come at first light had found his radio, a few boot prints, and a thermal blanket he had used to cover his heat signature. Most importantly, they found the brass from one shell he’d failed to pick up.
A nice, juicy fingerprint on the shell casing pointed directly at him.
My debriefings each day were short, and frankly a little fuzzy. Apparently, I wasn't too shy about just nodding off. Where were my manners? Morphine might be great for some things, but conversation wasn't one of them.
But I did recall a mixed cast of characters in and out of my room, from the Stennis’ intelligence officer to at least six CIA case officers.
Sometimes they’d talk to me alone, sometimes with Sterba or Barr in the room. Regardless, their faces were always grim.
And then one day, they were simply gone, and the interviews stopped.
Barr was discharged from the hospital, and Sterba had gone back out on deployment.
I was left alone to heal.
Part II
Auckland
12
The sun was just peeking over Rangitoto Island as I sat down on the edge of the old Kauri deck. A couple passed by taking their dog for an early morning walk down the beach. I raised my coffee cup as a morning toast and said hello.
Wagging its tail and smiling, the mutt came up and gave me a little sniff. I returned the greeting with a quick rub, and he was off.
I turned my attention to the sea. Just as my family had done from this very place for three generations, I soaked in its swirling combination of blues and greens, the gentle lapping of the small waves, and the fresh, salty smell.
After Afghanistan, I’d needed to heal.
And healing, I’d found over the course of my life, had to be done at home.
This home, in particular.
Everyone has a single place that causes memories to resurface. When they do, it’s like being back in your mother’s warm and protective arms, laughing at the silliest of things, without a care in the world. It’s the feeling of love and safety. The feeling of happiness.
Every childhood lesson seems to have been learned in and around this old Victorian. It sits proudly framed by Pohutukawa trees on a beautiful ribbon of beach, with a corrugated red roof set atop glistening white siding and lacy trim in every corner.
The home of my grandparents, it was that special, magical place every child should have. Where the rules were few but firm. Where lessons were learned at the side of elders who taught the old fashioned way—letting one feel the pain and disgrace of failure, yet helping put the pieces back together afterwards. Where love and laughter enveloped all our hearts.
It was here that I learned to swim, with the callused hands of my grandfather guiding me through the waves. It was here that I learned to sail, my mother teaching me how to feel the wind and the sea while I worked the tiller. It was here that I learned to work with my hands at the side of my father.
And it was here, in a quiet spot nobly guarded by rose bushes, that I had, over the years, laid them all to rest.
13
My father was a crop duster who, on a crazy impulse one hot afternoon, decided to leave the tobacco fields of Kentucky for the wheat fields of New Zealand.
He could never explain why he chose New Zealand. But we always joked that love finds a way, and something in his soul knew that the love of his life was there, waiting. My mother.
They met at Little Shoal Bay, where an older Maori man was helping a group of young Sea Scouts launch off the shallow beach. The kids, none older than twelve, were impressive. Artfully dodging one another in pickup races, they handled the boats like they were just another part of them.
My father watched the group for several minutes, and approached the shore to stand next to the man. “Incredible,” he said.
“You don’t sail?” the man asked.
“No, but I think it’s time I learn. Know where I can get some lessons?”
The man gave him a wry smile. There was a hint of a twinkle in his green eyes. “Sure do. Give me a minute.”
He walked to the shed beneath the green sea scouts building, and returned a few minutes later with a beautiful, young olive-skinned woman.
“Moana, this young man would like to learn to sail,” he said. And with another cheeky smile, he left the two on the pebbly beach.
It was love at first sight.
A year later, they were married, and the new son-in-law was brought into the family ship-building business. Soon after, while delivering a 57-foot sloop from Auckland to America, a bundle of joy decided to arrive a few weeks early.
Me.
Being delivered in International waters proved to be a bit of an issue for the U.S. Immigration Service and Immigration New Zealand. In the end, I was quite uniquely declared a citizen-by-birth of both countries.
We lived in New Zealand for most of my younger years. But as the family business grew, so did our journeys away from New Zealand. Deliveries, refittings, and all manners of support for super yachts around the world meant months, and even years, abroad. There were summers in Valencia, Antibes, and Sardinia; winters in Dubai and Sydney, and many trips to San Francisco. I was home-schooled—or “boat” schooled as we used to joke—in a very non-traditional way.
Math was taught in the cockpit of small planes and helicopters by my father, or at the chart table by my mother. History was taught standing on the ramparts of forts around the world. And language came through the
refined diction of the elites who purchased our yachts and the guttural grunts of port workers across the globe.
But through all of the travels, a delivery in Naples is the one that always stands out. It was there that I met an American Naval officer thirty years my senior.
14
Dozens of small-boat races surround every major yachting event. While my parents worked with captains, owners, and crew on the final fittings before the big events, I spent my time at the tillers of Lasers, 470s, and Finns.
The races were always filled with a strange combination of nomadic sailing kids like myself, locals, and skilled professionals taking time off the big racing yachts to hone their skills.
The three couldn’t be more different, but they came together for what I’ve always felt is the grittiest, fastest, and friendliest form of competition: the single-handed race. It leveled the playing field for everyone, forcing the competition to be solely based on skill and tactics.
It was a race in Naples one summer that truly set the course of my adult life. I, of course, didn’t know it at the time. It often takes distance and perspective for those seminal moments to stand out. All I knew was that it was the final race of the series: myself against an American Navy Captain that everyone had been chatting about all week.
I was having a great series, and was excited and confident I could win this little regatta. But this American officer was an unknown. He wasn’t a regular on the single-handed scene. I eavesdropped on some of the dockside gossip to learn what I could, and suddenly the day was proving to be very interesting.
Apparently, this Captain—Doug Christie was his name—wanted to take advantage of the coincidence of his ship’s stop in Naples and our little regatta to get his hands back on the lines and tiller of a Finn. But what really piqued my interest was the fact that this Captain once won an Olympic gold medal in the Finn class. The last time an American had won it.