Standing at the Edge

by William Alan Webb

  “I can’t just leave it,” Green Ghost said. “It’s a miracle we found the signal in the first place. I’ve gotta find out what’s there.”

  “Son, trust me on this. Find Govind, tell him what you want, and ask him to help. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. But he won’t stake you in the sun for asking. He’s not someone you want to mess around with.”

  Green motioned them back into the Humvee. “Get in.” Relieved, both Nipple and Jack did so. But instead of continuing the drive west-southwest back to Overtime, Green Ghost turned and walked away, headed for the rocky crag. The beeping continued.

  #

  “I don’t like this at all,” Jack said, looking everywhere except at the tumbled mountain of rock. “That’s Apache writing on them rocks, and you can bet your ass it don’t say welcome. They might be watching us. It feels like when Mr. Cougar is licking his teeth while watching me.”

  “I hate to agree with this shit-smelling asshole, but I don’t like it either,” Nipple said. “It’s hot as fuck out here, and that beeping is driving me fucking crazy.”

  Green Ghost did not hear either of them. He walked the base of the ridge, inspecting the deep cuts and sharp boulders for signs of the cave, or perhaps a door. The further he walked left, the louder the beep became.

  “Someone’s been here recently.” He bent down and inspected tracks in the dirt. “A very big man, flat-soled shoes. He had several packages with him… looks like a large basket and a box of some type. He rode a horse and disappeared northeast.”

  Shading his eyes, he craned his neck and peered up. Then he approached the rocks, touched them, picked up a handle of gravel and smelled it. He lifted the rocky soil and flicked out the tip of his tongue, tasting it. He ran his hands over the stones. “Whoever he is, he’s climbed these rocks in the past few days. I can’t tell if he used a rope or not. I don’t see holes for any anchor stakes… maybe somebody up above helped him. If they didn’t, he’s Tarzan.”

  “So they could still be up there?” Nipple said.

  “Good chance, I’d say.”

  “Shit. This day just keeps getting better. You know it’s getting dark?”

  “We’ve got at least two hours of daylight left. I’m going up.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “You’re as stubborn as you are stupid,” Jack said. “You remind me of Steve Higdon; nobody can tell him anything, either.”

  Nipple threw out her hands. “And who the fuck is Steve Higdon?”

  “The Master of Shangri-La.”

  Green Ghost had found a firm foothold to begin his ascent, but stopped at Jack’s last words. “What do you know about Shangri-La?”

  “Everything, I guess. I’ve been there often enough. Them folks are great for trading with, always want scrap metal. And Steven’s not a bad guy, really. He has a genius for making something out of nothing, but he’s harder-headed than a mule.”

  “Shangri-La exists? And you know where it is?”

  “Course it exists.”

  “It’s getting dark,” Green Ghost said.

  “I just said that and you said it wasn’t!” Nipple said.

  “Back in the car. Let’s go.”

  “Where we going?”

  “Home.”

  #

  Operation Overtime

  1728 hours

  The first cigar of the day was always a treat, especially after he’d begun rationing them. Angriff had a new routine of lighting up after lunch, around 1330 hours or so, and enjoying the fresh air on his private balcony on the mountainside. Today had been too busy to enjoy one earlier and most of the day’s light had faded from the valley below by the time he lit the first one. This particular cigar was drawing well when he spotted the distant dust cloud of a small vehicle heading for the main gate, below and to his right. The gate was closed and to unfamiliar eyes the rock wall appeared unbroken, but the driver obviously knew better. As it neared, Angriff recognized it as a Humvee, and correctly guessed that Green Ghost was back.

  #

  SECTION FOUR

  Vipers

  Chapter 21

  In the weeds a viper waits

  For prey to cross its path,

  But the death its bite creates

  May lead to vengeful wrath.

  Old Mayan maxim

  Operation Comeback

  1733 hours, April 14

  Tom Steeple woke at the knock on his office door. Sitting up in his swivel chair, he almost knocked the half-empty cup of cold coffee onto his keyboard. “Come in,” he called after clearing his throat.

  Claw stepped through and closed the door after him. “Sorry to bother you, General, but we’ve got another Indian prowling around the front gate.”

  “Is Scope back yet?”

  “Not yet. I wasn’t worried until I saw this new guy. I’d like your permission to go after him, find out if he’s seen her, before it gets fully dark.”

  “No long chases. If he gets away, he gets away. I can’t afford to lose you.”

  “Understood.”

  Steeple watched him leave and then downed the coffee. He grimaced at the cold, bitter taste.

  #

  Although far smaller in scale than Operation Overtime, Operation Comeback still had two secret exits, one on the mountain’s northern slope and the other on the south. Claw chose the one on the north, away from the Indian’s spying eyes. It took half an hour for him to circle to the southern side, around the mountain’s slope, but at no time did he come within sight of the Indian’s vantage point. He knew where the snooper was, but not vice versa.

  A narrow crack between two boulders gave him a look at where he guessed the intruder to be, and sure enough, he spotted the telltale brown of tanned leather. The Indian hid under deep cover and Claw couldn’t make out more than a glimpse of any part of his body. But that didn’t matter; he was right where Claw expected him to be, and now he was trapped.

  At a range of thirty feet, even in the dim dusk light, he could see the man from knees to shoulders through a break in the rocks. The former leader of Zombie Squad Two took aim at the man’s back, sighting on the base of the spine. “Turn around slowly and make sure I can see your hands!”

  Nothing happened for three seconds.

  “You get one more chance and then I fire!”

  Another second passed. The figure began to turn. Then Claw felt something sharp under his left ear.

  “Please drop your weapon,” said a deep voice from behind.

  #

  Claw was tied, gagged, and blindfolded within seconds. He cursed himself for being sloppy enough to get caught. Although he weighed close to one hundred eighty pounds, he felt himself being carried down the rocky slope by one man, placed back on his feet, and marched thirty-seven paces. Neither of his captors made a sound, not even a grunt, which told the veteran warrior they were a well-coordinated team.

  “There is a horse in front of you,” the same voice said, louder this time. “We are loosening the ropes on your hands so you can climb up, but if you try to escape, you will be tied to the saddle, and next time we will throw you over the saddle on your stomach. We have a long ride ahead of us and you would not enjoy that experience. The choice is yours.”

  “I’ve got a sensitive stomach,” Claw said. “I’ll play nice.”

  “Good.”

  Once he had climbed into the saddle, he gently tested his bonds. Sure enough, his hands were loose enough to hold the reins but a second rope fixed them to the saddle.

  “Close your eyes,” the voice said. “I’m going to remove your blindfold.”

  Claw felt the cloth fall away and cracked his eyelids, careful to allow his eyes time to adjust to the full sunlight. When he could open them fully, he found himself flanked by two riders. Both were American Indians dressed in loose white shirts and leather pants, wearing stout boots made of a different animal hide. Claw guessed it was goat. Long black hair was held back with simple leather cords.

  “I am Govind,�
� said the rider to Claw’s right. “This is my brother Gosheven. You have a full canteen there, and the pouch on the other side has bread and jerky. We will stop to rest and water the horses and you may then relieve yourself. Do not be fooled by the coming darkness. If you attempt to escape, or to overpower either one of us, I cannot guarantee your safety once we have you back under control. We lost our younger brother to the one you sent after him, and while I am an even-tempered chief of my tribe, the vengeance of a brother burns hot in my heart.”

  Claw knew better than to say anything, but he couldn’t help himself. “What happened to Scope?”

  “Is that the woman who shot our brother?” Gosheven said, trembling with suppressed rage.

  Claw nodded.

  “I killer her,” Govind said. “And I wish that I could do it again for what she did to Gopan. If I believed that killing you would bring him back, you would already be dead.”

  #

  Chapter 22

  Monsters, monsters in the night,

  Eyes glow bright with evil light;

  Come what may, come what might,

  Torture me with dark delight.

  Sergio Velazquez, Dreams

  Forward Operating Base Junkyard

  0523 hours, April 15

  Lara Snowtiger hated standing watch. As the best sniper in the 7th Cavalry, she could stay alert for days and pee into a diaper and ignore hunger pangs while waiting for the right shot. Somewhere within her were the instincts of the ambush predator that allowed her to lie in wait for as long as necessary to secure her prey. But standing watch was not like that.

  FOB Junkyard sat perched on the flat top of a mountain 167 klicks north-northeast of Overtime Prime. The garrison lived in four Green Cocoons that required V-22 Osprey transport helicopters to place in the small cleared area. These self-contained, solar-powered shelters were small but sturdy semi-permanent quarters ideally suited for an FOB.

  Snowtiger wouldn’t have minded as much if she could have been alone. Solitude was a comfortable world for her. But being stuck on a ridge with seven people she didn’t know, living in clean but cramped quarters, with nothing to do except scan the countryside for anomalies, was definitely not her preferred duty assignment.

  She hated confined spaces. She had conditioned herself to living in them, but she never rested as well as she did in a tent, or a sleeping bag, or lying in cool clover under a full moon on a summer night; her Choctaw grandmother had taught her that the scent of plush grass made sleep sweeter.

  All she could think about was the dead female sniper. Had she done the right thing? In the absence of facts, her mind filled in the unknown details. They had probably been much alike, and she was likely on a mission that Snowtiger herself might have been assigned. Maybe she was only following orders, like Snowtiger had done every time she pulled the trigger and killed someone. Sometimes she knew the background of her targets and sometimes not.

  It was past 0300 hours when the high clouds cleared and allowed the sea of stars to illuminate the Sonoran Desert like the image of a ghostly underworld. She had established a routine. Every five minutes she would make a detailed 360-degree sweep of the surrounding mountains, hills and desert. Then she’d spend five minutes enjoying the celestial glory above.

  When using her personal pair of astronomical binoculars with I3 tubes and auto-gating, the details of the moonlit desert came clean and clear, and once, when scanning a nearby hill, she’d spotted a cougar stalking something. For a brief moment it had seemed as if she watched the spirit of an Apache warrior who could not rest, perpetually hunting those who’d wiped out his people, a ghost of days long past. After that, she’d asked for the midnight to 0600 watch because that was her favorite time of day.

  She wondered if the dead woman’s spirit would haunt her. Snowtiger hadn’t actually killed her, but she had certainly contributed to the woman’s death, and ghosts could be vindictive. But what really scared her was their proximity to Navajo country.

  Growing up, her grandmother had told her secret tales the Navajo never shared with outsiders, tales of what they named yee naaldlooshii. As a young girl, her widowed mother had dated a Navajo man, who had taken them all to Arizona for a visit. While there, her grandmother had earned his parents’ trust and they’d told her details unknown outside the tribe about the mysterious creatures most people knew as skinwalkers. The Navajo swore they existed and so, as she scanned the desert again, spotting a small herd of gazelles, Snowtiger prayed for protection against the dreaded monsters. Death she didn’t fear, but the non-death horror of a skinwalker terrified her.

  During her next sweep, in the silver-white light of the gibbous moon, she spotted figures riding in the desert. She immediately feared the Navajo horrors were coming for her, but then her conscious mind wiped away her dreams and she focused on reality.

  Using her night vision scope, she picked out three men on horseback. Two were Apaches — their flowing hair left no doubt — but the third man, who rode between the two Indians, wasn’t. He appeared to be wearing an Army uniform.

  In four strides, she was at the first EcoSphere. She opened the door and stuck her head inside. Both inhabitants stirred.

  “Captain Anthony, wake up, sir. Company’s coming.”

  #

  As dawn lightened the eastern sky, the shadow of a prairie falcon raced over the rocky face of the ridge. Snowtiger watched the three riders guide their horses up the long slope to FOB Junkyard. She recognized Govind as he looked up to watch the falcon’s flight. All eight of the garrison met them with rifles, including Captain Anthony. Once onto level ground, they stopped.

  “You again,” Anthony said. He directed his flashlight into each of the riders’ faces without regard for their night vision. “What was your name?”

  “Govind,” Snowtiger said.

  Anthony gave her a stern glance. “The man can speak for himself, Stud.”

  She felt her face go warm. “Aye, sir.”

  Govind’s face showed that he sensed the tension between captain and sergeant.

  “I’ve been officially told that you’re our friend, so why are you here again, Govind? Who are these men? One of them appears to be another U.S. soldier. Explain yourself.”

  Once again Govind frowned at being spoken to in such a manner. Instead of responding to the captain, he spoke to Snowtiger. “This man came from the place Gopan mentioned to you before he died. Łichíí itsá, Red Eagle…”

  “Hey!” Anthony said. “I’m in charge here. Speak to me!”

  “I speak to those who show me respect and therefore deserve it in return.” For the first time, Govind scowled at the American officer. The flashlight’s glare cast deep shadows in his face and gave him the appearance of an angry wolf. “Red Eagle is our name for a mountain to the north and east of here, in what many call the Painted Desert. We set a trap and this man fell into it. I brought him to you in good faith and trust.” He paused a moment and gave Anthony another frown. “He claims to be in your army. If you do not want him, then I will deal with him.”

  #

  Chapter 23

  For me, soldiers are all equal.

  Erwin Rommel

  Operation Overtime

  0559 hours, April 15

  Green Ghost, Nipple, and Glide were in the third level mess hall, eating breakfast, when his earbud emitted a low tone, alerting him to an incoming message. Putting down his fork, he finished chewing a mouthful of eggs and washed it down with lukewarm coffee. Then he pressed the small button at his sternum.

  “Go,” he said. The microphone under his throat picked up every nuance of his voice.

  It was a private in the communications center. “FOB Junkyard just radioed they have a prisoner who claims to be in the American Army. They’re requesting a helicopter to transport him back to Prime. I was told to inform you of this development, sir.”

  “Told by who?”

  “Colonel Kordibowski.”

  “Why tell me? Who is this prisoner?�
�

  “No such info in the transmission, sir. Captain Anthony is CO at Junkyard and he said the man had no dogtags and only gave the name Claw.”

  #

  “This is damned fine work, son,” Angriff said. “Rip says this Idaho Jack person is a gold mine of information.”

  Green Ghost’s eyes narrowed, as if he sought a hidden meaning in the words. Standing with arms folded in the doorway of the Crystal Palace, he gave a curt nod, which was his way of acknowledging thanks.

  “Come in and sit down. Tell me about it.”

  Sergeant Schiller had stood next to Angriff’s desk but at those words he stepped back out of the way.

  Green Ghost didn’t move. “There’s something else.”

  Angriff sighed and leaned back. “There always is.”

  “FOB Junkyard requests helicopter transport and an armed guard for an American prisoner brought in by one of the Apaches.”

  “An American? What do we know about this prisoner?”

  “All they said was he’s American and his name is Claw.”

  Angriff met Green Ghost’s eyes. “Claw? Are you sure they said Claw?”

  “Positive.”

  “Gotta be from Comeback. It can’t be anything else, unless he’s an old man.”

  “They didn’t say anything about his age, Saint.”

  “Get him back here ASAP. They’ve still got a dead body awaiting transport, so bring that, too,” Angriff said. “And anybody due for rotation. Give it first priority.”

  “Security protocols?” Schiller asked.

  Green Ghost answered that, since security was his department. “Have an armed guard standing by; otherwise, don’t worry about it. Half the base probably knows about it by now anyway.”