Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1)

Home > Other > Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) > Page 2
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 2

by Cameron Curtis


  I sat in the front passenger seat of our Humvee, in the middle of the convoy. Hancock and Scott rode in back with three Rangers and an Afghan interpreter. One of the Rangers stood at the fifty caliber mount. “Fifteen minutes,” the driver told us.

  My TAC radio crackled. “Seven-five Savoy, this is eight-eight.”

  “Go ahead, eight-eight.”

  “Three SUVs approaching RV from the northwest.”

  “Copy, eight-eight. Any activity on the hills?”

  “Negative.” Keller hesitated. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Say enemy strength, eight-eight.”

  “Eleven. Three in lead vehicle, four in each following.”

  “Do you make Abu Massoud?”

  “Negative. Cannot confirm.”

  “Keep us informed, eight-eight.”

  Keller would be tracking the Taliban with his spotter’s scope. Lenson would have his M42 lined up, ready to fire. The figures in the valley were no more than three hundred meters from our snipers’ position. Easy pickings if anything went wrong. It was the mesa and the whaleback that worried me. With the sun rising in the east, Keller and Lenson would have a good view. Enemy soldiers standing on the mesa would be silhouetted against the sun. But—the glare would conceal snipers hidden on the forward slope.

  I had anticipated that situation. With the sun behind it, the mesa would look like a black mass to Keller and Lenson. Were a sniper to fire from the feature’s forward slope, his muzzle flash would give him away.

  That meant a sniper on the mesa would get one free shot.

  The convoy slowed as we approached the RV. On the left stood the saddle with its two hilltops. From the southern approach, the whaleback and the mesa looked like a single ridge. An illusion. There was at least a quarter mile of space between them. A row of three white SUVs sat in the middle of the valley.

  The Ranger lieutenant was riding in the lead Humvee. His voice crackled over the TAC radio. “Seven-five Savoy, this is five-one Charlie.”

  “Go ahead, five-one.”

  “We will fan into line and park with your vehicle in center. Your call to approach.”

  “Copy that, five-one.”

  The hairs stood on the back of my neck. I liked the situation less and less. Keyed my mike. “Eight-eight. Do you have eyes on Abu Massoud?”

  “Negative, seven-five. Two Hajjis dismounting center SUV. Black turbans, black face covers. Man-jams. They all fuckin’ look alike.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Negative visual.”

  Our convoy drove up the road. The saddle was on our left, the mesa on the right. The lieutenant’s Humvee peeled away and parked on the left flank, closest to the saddle. The rest of us parked in a straight line running from east to west, with my vehicle in the middle.

  The lead SUV flashed its headlights.

  Scott’s voice was high with excitement. “It’s him.”

  “Negative, Mr Scott. We’re not sure.”

  “Breed, we have to make a move.”

  “Why? You don’t want to go in there.”

  The section chief put his hand on our driver’s shoulder. “Flash your lights.”

  Hancock tensed. The SUV flashed its lights in response to ours.

  “This is my operation, Breed.” Scott’s voice was firm. “We’ll pull up thirty yards from the SUVs and get out.”

  My orders were to support the CIA. I didn’t like it, but there it was.

  “Eight-eight, this is seven-five. We’re going in.”

  “Copy that, seven-five.”

  Our driver inched forward.

  “Lock and load.” I pulled the charging handle on my M4 and released it. The bolt slammed home and chambered a round. Hancock and the Rangers did the same. The man on the big fifty cocked it and swung its long barrel to bear on the SUVs.

  “Stop here,” Scott commanded.

  Thirty yards from the SUVs. A hundred ahead of the Ranger platoon. I felt buck naked.

  Scott jumped out of the Humvee. Hancock and the interpreter followed him. I eased one boot to the ground and dismounted. Carried my M4 low-ready. “Eight-eight, this is seven-five.”

  “Go ahead, seven-five.”

  “Watch the hills.”

  With their optics focused on the men in the valley, Keller and Lenson might miss snipers. By my measure, snipers were now the greater danger.

  Scott and the interpreter walked side by side toward the SUVs. Hancock and I followed behind them. Hancock walked on my left.

  The two turbaned figures strode toward us.

  I held up one hand. “Stop!” To the interpreter: “Tell ’em to stop.”

  The interpreter jabbered in Pashto. The two Afghans halted.

  “Abu Massoud,” I called. “Which one of you is Abu Massoud.”

  Neither of those fuckers was Abu Massoud.

  Thwack.

  Orin Scott’s head burst like a melon. Bits of wet bone and tissue splattered my face. Hancock cried out, clutched his right leg, and fell to the ground. An instant later, I heard the crack of a rifle.

  The typical sniper round travels two or three times the speed of sound. One hears the impact of the bullet before one hears the gunshot. The time difference between the sounds indicates range to the weapon that fired. The Afghans liked Dragunovs. For that weapon, a half-second differential meant a range under three hundred meters.

  I threw myself on Hancock. Hit by the round that killed Scott, he was holding his hand against his thigh.

  Thwack.

  The interpreter dropped like a rag doll.

  Another shot. Less than half a second after impact.

  A thousand meters or more, the whaleback ridge was too far away. The Afghan sniper was close.

  “Eight-eight,” I yelled, “he’s on the mesa.”

  Crack.

  The distinctive bark of Lenson’s M42.

  “Hit.” Keller’s voice.

  Lenson had neutralized the sniper. Gunfire erupted everywhere. The Rangers and the men in the SUVs were firing. The two figures that approached drew AK47s from under their robes. The driver of their SUV threw the vehicle into gear and accelerated toward us.

  I rose to one knee and raised my rifle. Fired a short, three-round burst. The first Hajji went down. I fired again, watched the second man drop.

  The ranger on the fifty caliber hosed the SUV. Heavy slugs riddled the vehicle’s hood and windshield. Killed the driver, cracked the engine block. I covered Hancock with my body.

  The SUV exploded and the concussion blew me over. For an instant, my vision blurred. A hot torrent of earth, metal, blood and human remains roared over my head and pelted our Humvee. Engines roared. The other two SUVs charged the platoon’s line.

  I crawled back to Hancock, tore a field dressing open with my teeth. His BDUs were soaked in blood, but he was conscious. The look in his eyes. Determination.

  Hancock was holding his hands so tightly over the wound I had to pry them off. Blood swelled from the black hole, but there was no arterial spray. I stuffed the battle dressing into the hole and placed his hands over the package. “Direct pressure,” I yelled into his ear. “Don’t let go.”

  There was another blast as the second SUV rammed one of the Humvees in line behind us. It was a suicide attack with truck bombs. The third SUV roared past, Taliban firing from open windows. I shouldered my rifle and returned fire. The vehicle slewed sideways. Carried by the momentum of its rush, it rolled on its side and tumbled toward the lieutenant’s Humvee. The Ranger on the fifty caliber threw his hands up to protect his face. The SUV crashed into the Rangers and exploded.

  The shooting faded and stopped.

  “Seven-five Savoy, this is eight-eight.”

  I keyed my mike. “Eight-eight, this is seven-five.”

  “Seven-five, sitrep.”

  “Casualties heavy. Call immediate medevac.”

  Keller knew Hancock had been hit. “Copy, seven-five. QRF and medevac en route.”

  Pier
cing screams. The stink of burned hair and flesh filled the air. Mixed with the stench of burning fuel and rubber. Flames and greasy smoke poured from the wreckage and plumed skyward. Rangers from the three remaining Humvees struggled to recover their dead and wounded.

  I turned to Hancock. His boyish features were twisted into a grimace. I tore the aid pack from his vest. Opened it and scrabbled for morphine. Found a syrette and made to stab him.

  “Breed, no.” Hancock gasped through gritted teeth. “I need to stay awake.”

  I hesitated. Stuffed the syrette back in his vest. Rotors thundered as the QRF and medevac helicopters approached and flared for landing. Clouds of dust swept over us. I cradled Hancock in my arms and waited for help.

  That was five years ago. Far from the civilization of a Starbucks coffee shop. To say Keller and Lenson saved my life that day would be true, but melodramatic. We saved each other’s lives over and over during endless deployments. We became brothers. Somehow, we all made it home. For Keller to be murdered on his own land was the ultimate obscenity.

  “Breed.”

  Mark Lenson strides toward me. Fit, broad-shouldered. A black patch covers his right eye. The IED that exploded in his face nearly blinded him. His broad features are marked with tiny scars. With his western shirt, Levi’s and cowboy boots, the patch makes him look like a hard-case wrangler.

  I get to my feet and we shake hands. Lenson picks up my garment bag, and I sling my duffel over my shoulder. “Car’s this way,” he says.

  We walk together to the parking lot. A hundred degrees outside and the heat hits me like a sledgehammer.

  Far West Texas.

  An old line comes to mind.

  “There’s no God west of the Pecos.”

  I shiver in the heat.

  3

  Salem, 1430 Hrs Friday

  “Mary doesn’t know how Keller died,” Lenson tells me.

  From the airport, Lenson drives to Washington Park, then dog-legs onto Alameda. The traffic moves freely, and Lenson does not hurry. He wants to use the drive to catch up before I meet Keller’s family. Living in El Paso, he and Hancock have much more contact with the Kellers than I do.

  “How can she not know?”

  Air-conditioning at full blast, we drive south on Alameda Avenue, Texas 20. It runs parallel to I-10, the major east-west interstate. Because of El Paso’s unusual position, both highways run southeast to northwest.

  “We didn’t tell her he’d been… disarticulated.” Lenson looks miserable. “The sheriff wanted to keep the details out of the press. It’s enough for her to know he was shot.”

  “What about the funeral?”

  “Open casket. Dress blues. He looks good. The mortician told me it wasn’t difficult.”

  The word mortician makes me cringe. We all think the same. It won’t happen to me.

  “Who do they think did it?” I ask.

  “Sheriff thinks illegals, crossing his land.”

  Illegals don’t want trouble. For the most part, they are people attracted to higher wages on the American side of the border. “What about their guides. Coyotes.”

  “I don’t think so,” Lenson says. “Keller must have stumbled onto a drug deal.”

  I stare at the Franklin mountains on Lenson’s side of the vehicle. The range bisects the city. The heights are close enough for students to climb and watch the Sun Bowl.

  Soon, we will be in Salem County.

  “How’s Mary taking it?”

  “Hard, but she’s a soldier’s wife.”

  From the air, El Paso looks like a human colony on a distant planet. The city is a vast collection of dwellings planted in the middle of the desert. While dominated by mountains and foothills, the terrain on which we drive is flat.

  This part of greater El Paso is a built-up area. Walmarts, gas stations, low office buildings, strip malls. The land between the Franklins and the Rio Grande has been desecrated by developers. To me, the city feels claustrophobic. I can’t wait to reach open spaces further south and east.

  I block the clutter from my mind. Think of the day Keller told me he planned to leave the army.

  Three days after the debacle that cost Orrin Scott his life, we shipped Hancock home. The medics stabilized him at the field hospital in KAF. Flew him to Germany for orthopedic surgery. First, the doctors told us the good news—they could save his leg. Then they told us the bad news—Hancock would walk with a limp the rest of his life. They kept him in service long enough to get a medical discharge. The discharge entitled him to a pension and medical benefits.

  Keller and I sat in the barracks, packing Hancock’s personal effects. I had to backfill his slot. The squadron was in the thick of the fighting. Hancock’s replacement would arrive in twenty-four hours, and we had to free up his bunk.

  “Breed, this is my last deployment.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Say that again.”

  “I won’t re-up.” Keller looked me in the eye. “I’m going home to Mary.”

  “Dude, what are you—five years short of twenty? Think about it.”

  “I have. Dad left me the ranch, and Mary can’t handle it on her own. Not with Donnie three years old.” Keller paused. “I want to watch Donnie grow up. I want him to know his Dad.”

  “Is Mary pushing you?”

  “No, Mary supports me. One hundred percent. This is about me owning up to my responsibilities.”

  Keller took out his wallet. Showed me a wrinkled photograph of Mary and three-year-old Donnie. I’d seen it before. Wondered if I would ever have a family of my own.

  “We’re good,” Keller said grimly, “but it’s always better to be lucky than good. That goat-screw cost Hancock his leg. Bad luck. The round that killed Scott had no business drilling Hancock, but it did.”

  “Are you blaming me for that?”

  “Of course not. That’s the point. We can cover all the bases, do everything right. Dumb luck can kill you. I’m going home before mine runs out.”

  Keller went home. On leave, we visited him. Ranching was hard work, but Deltas always took the hard jobs. His Dad left him three thousand acres. Too small to be economical. He borrowed money, bought more. Hired two ranch hands to help him manage the livestock. They nurtured the grass, beat back the shrubs.

  He’d grown up on the ranch. Told me how difficult it was for his Dad to make a go of the business. The only income they had was from the livestock they sold each season. When he took over, Keller supplemented the income by selling grazing rights. It was a hand-to-mouth existence.

  The mountains recede as we drive further south and east. We pass Fabens, then Tornillo. A secondary border crossing to relieve congestion at the Bridge of the Americas.

  “He had two men working for him,” I say. “Did they see anything?”

  “No. This time of year, they live away from the ranch.”

  The impossibility of the situation hollows my stomach. “What will Mary do? She can’t manage the ranch on her own.”

  “I don’t think she’s thought that far. She’ll probably have to sell.”

  “And do what? Her parents are gone. So are Keller’s.”

  Lenson says nothing.

  I feel restless with frustration. Mary is still in shock. In time she will face insurmountable difficulty.

  Mary wanted to be a nurse. When she and Keller got married, she continued with her studies. When Donnie was born, she dropped out and never went back. Mary has no qualifications. Soon, this problem will have to be faced.

  Keller was our brother.

  Mary and Donnie have become our responsibility.

  4

  Salem, 1500 Hrs Friday

  I wonder what it’s like to lose one’s depth perception. Half of one’s peripheral vision. We are visual animals. Our jobs place a premium on visual acuity.

  “How’s your eye,” I ask.

  Lenson shrugs. “Time heals. I’m ready to deploy, but they won’t take me back.”

  The further south one
drives from El Paso, the more arid and barren the landscape. The Franklins are behind us. Now all we see is flat land and miles of foothills.

  “You’ve been out two years.”

  “Yeah. I did one deployment after my first rehab. My eye started to deteriorate again, so they sent me home.”

  “To William Beaumont?”

  William Beaumont Medical Center is the military hospital in El Paso. After being shot, Hancock had been sent there.

  “Yes. To stop the deterioration, I had more surgery. The doctors said there was a danger the procedure would blind me. But if I didn’t risk it, I’d go blind anyway. It would just take longer. So I told them to go ahead. The surgery worked, my eye is fine. I applied for a second waiver, but the army said no.”

  “I always wondered. If I were with you in Helmand, I might have kept you from being blown up.”

  After Hancock was hit and Keller left, Lenson and I were assigned to different squadrons. We knew teams weren’t forever, but it wasn’t the same.

  “Don’t let it eat you,” Lenson says. “You might have been blown up too.”

  “Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

  After years of working together, each of us knew how the others moved. Our four-man team became a single animal. Each man covered gaps that rendered the others vulnerable. No matter how proficient, it took time for replacements to learn the idiosyncrasies of a team.

  “The guy who tripped the mine was twelve feet in front of me,” Lenson muses. “I don’t know what triggered it. I play it over again and again in my mind. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. I saw his arms and legs fly off—then everything else disappeared. I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Flat on my back, couldn’t see. The first thing I did was check my legs and balls were still there.”

  “Shrapnel didn’t hit your legs.”

  “No, the mine was buried and exploded upward. The angles worked so everything hit me from the chest up. My armor and rifle took most of the shrapnel. There were pieces in my arms, hands and face. Screws and wires, all the crap they packed into the IED. Rocks and dirt, the stuff they covered it with.”

 

‹ Prev