A New World: Conspiracy

by John O'Brien

  Drescoll plans their route to ensure they won’t be spotted from the sniper’s perch, passing several blocks away from the building itself. He begins leaving teams of two at some of the cross streets, making sure they are well-covered before moving on. He has no doubt the shooter will flee at the approach of the Stryker and plans to set a cordon around the area to catch the person. Alive if possible, but he briefed the team not to take chances and shoot if necessary, especially if there is a security team in place. If they find themselves in a position where they would be outgunned, they are to regroup and report.

  Turning down a street on the very edge of town, dilapidated houses to one side and a tangle of fields on the other, he places another team in thick bushes. Making sure the team is well-placed, Drescoll glances down the street to clear it before moving on. His eyes widen and he feels a small jolt of adrenaline. On the side of road, two narrow tracks proceed along the street, creating a barely discernible path through the grit on the surface.

  He visually follows the path and notes they come to an end, turning off the street and into the bushes to one side. He signals the rest of them to the find and warily walks beside the path created by the tires. The narrowness of the tracks tells him that it isn’t a vehicle but either a quad or perhaps a golf cart…maybe even a dune buggy. Whatever it is, the tracks were created very recently, seeing as how the tread patterns are still well defined.

  With his weapon trained on the spot where the vehicle exited the road, and making sure the others are covering the houses on the other side, Drescoll slowly advances. He fully expects the bushes to erupt in gunfire, but the single set of tires also indicates that whoever drove here didn’t arrive with great numbers.

  The silence is almost overwhelming. A few birds call from farther back in the trees but are the only sounds - other than the steady drumming of his heartbeat in his ears. He looks toward the bushes looking for the barest tip of a rifle poking out. His heart almost leaps out of his chest at the flash of movement he catches in the corner of his eye. Looking quickly at the movement’s location, the barrel of his M-4 tracking with his eyes and his finger tightening on the trigger, he glimpses a black and gray striped cat as it disappears around the corner of one of the houses.

  He feels like he’s walking on the edge of a razor blade. His nerves are stretched taut, and his breath comes quicker with the rapid flood of adrenaline overloading his body. Drescoll takes a few deep, calming breaths in order to restore his system. Sweat from his brow drips into his eyes and he wipes a hand across to clear them. All other thoughts leave as he is now focused on a single area. The bushes ahead become his entire universe. He looks for any abnormal movement of twig or leaf, listens for a tell-tale scruff of something shifting, an outline of someone hiding in their depths.

  He nears where the tracks turn off, every muscle vibrating from tension, every sense highly-tuned. He feels the press of the folding stock against his shoulder, the warm breath across his upper lip as it is exhaled through his nose, the feel of his boot as he puts pressure down with each step, his finger resting on the trigger, ready to deliver violence at a moment’s notice.

  Approaching the spot, even the birds have gone silent as if they are intently watching the drama unfold near them and holding their own breaths, ready to take wing. Nothing happens. The tracks lead through the bushes and Drescoll follows with the others behind. Not too far into the thick brambles, he finds a quad behind one of the bushes with branches over it concealing it further. A single set of footprints lead from the four-wheeler paralleling the street. Reaching down, he feels the motor to find it cool. Whoever was here arrived at least an hour ago.

  A single set of prints is a good sign as long as this was the only vehicle. Keeping part of the team with him, Drescoll has the others take branches to sweep away evidence of their passage along the street. He then directs them to proceed up the street, erasing their tracks as they go, and take positions farther along. As they move out, he clears the tracks adjacent to the quad. He and his teammate settle into a dense thicket where they can still observe the vehicle and wait.

  “Horace, proceed,” Drescoll calls after giving the others of his team time to reach their positions.

  Two clicks in his earpiece is the only response he needs. Horace should flush the shooter this way, and he’ll be ready. It’s already taken way too long, but they did it right. Unless the shooter rode with another and parked a similar vehicle at some other location, they should have some company soon.

  The air within the thicket is oppressively warm. Drescoll, squatting in the bushes, feels trickles of sweat as they make their way down the middle of his back, over his brow, and from his temples down his jawline. A slow brush of his finger across his brow keeps his eyes clear – each movement exaggerated so as to not draw attention. His heart rate has calmed from the heavy, adrenaline-fueled beating of before. The only sound is the occasional buzz of flies being drawn to the moisture his body is producing. His senses are acute as he keeps a sharp eye on the houses across the street.

  The prickly heat is annoying as he waits. He expects to hear the sound of the Stryker as it approaches the building several blocks away, but he hears only the continual buzzing as flies alight on his sleeves and bare skin only to take off and land again. A flicker of movement near one of the houses catches his attention. Looking to the location, he sees the outline of a head and shoulders peeking around the corner of one of the houses. Drescoll watches as the head turns slowly from side to side, carefully checking the area.

  He feels his heart rate quicken at the sight of the other person and forces himself to be still. Triggering the ambush too early will increase the odds of the shooter escaping. Drescoll wants to alert the others via radio but there may be the chance that they are being monitored. Without warning, the figure steps out from the corner and darts across the road, heading directly for him. Feeling beads of sweat as they drip down his face, Drescoll forces patience.

  Let him come to you, he thinks, tightening the grip on his M-4.

  As the figure makes his way swiftly across the street, Drescoll sees the person is armed with a carbine and another, longer barrel of a rifle strapped across the running figure’s back. He hears the swish of branches sweeping across the person’s legs as he or she begins making their way through the dense bushes. Entering the small clearing with the quad, the shooter glances quickly around and then, sliding the M-4 style carbine in a long holster situated across the handle bars, he climbs on. Drescoll rises.

  Hearing the sound of someone nearby, the shooter reaches for his side.

  “That’s not a very good idea. You’ll be dead before it clears the holster. Slowly put your hands on top of your head,” Drescoll states, his red dot centered on the individual’s head.

  The figure complies and, still sitting on the quad, laces his fingers on top of his head. Drescoll steps through the bush to have a clearer line of sight.

  “Tie his hands behind his back,” Drescoll says, nodding at his partner.

  His colleague lets his M-4 dangle from its sling and steps forward. The shooter, with lightening quick reflexes, turns and attempts to grab the teammate. Drescoll, anticipating something of this sort, steps in and, reversing his M-4, slams the butt into the back of the shooter’s head. The man falls forward, tumbling off the vehicle, and lands facedown with one leg hanging on the seat. The shooter doesn’t move.

  With caution, Drescoll ties the man’s hands and calls the other teams, cautioning for them to keep a lookout for anyone else.

  * * * * * *

  With Drescoll’s radio call of capture, I check the surrounding buildings through my scope and, seeing nothing, we cautiously ease out of our cover. I immediately head to McCafferty. Looking closer at her wound, I see that there wouldn’t have been anything we could do for her even if we’d administered first aid right away. The round hit her in the throat and tore a large portion of it out. The only redeeming facet is that she wouldn’t have known what hit her.
Looking down at her, she seems even smaller. I feel the deep pain of grief grab my heart, and the first hot tears come. Barely hearing Drescoll call again, I have him make his way to the hospital.

  With the others looking on with saddened faces, Gonzalez and I clean Allie’s wound as best we can. Faint screams of night runners drift out of the hospital and across the area. I look up at the arrival of the Stryker and Humvees several minutes later. I begin to rise to meet Drescoll when I feel Lynn’s hand on my shoulder.

  “I’ll handle this,” she says, rising and walking across the tall grass to meet the arriving teams.

  As Lynn heads over to meet Drescoll, Horace and her team half support and half drag a man to where we are gathered around Allie. Arriving, they release him and he drops to his knees. His hands are tied behind his back and he appears groggy. As his knees hit the ground, he raises his head and stares at me expressionless.

  He appears only a little younger than me and is clean cut with a few days stubble showing. It only takes one look for me to know two things. This man is a professional and is the type that puts his skills to use for someone else. That means someone sent him. We need to figure out whom; but just as importantly, why. The presence of the quad indicates he had to come some distance, but that distance is also a limited one. We need to find out how far away the camp is. I’m surprised to find that he is alone; shooters usually work in teams. We could have missed his partner or partners, but I have no doubt that there are others nearby. That leaves two options – they either have an established outpost somewhere close or that their major encampment is. Regardless, there are others out there that we need to find.

  Looking down at the man, I know this guy didn’t come from any ordinary group of marauders. If he did, he would be leading them and more than likely not running missions. Yes, there is a lot that can be gleaned from a three-second look. The question running through my mind is how they tracked us and found us at the hospital – that they knew to meet us here.

  There is the possibility that we were a target of opportunity but, in my mind, the scales tip toward a planned operation judging from the skillset I am assuming the shooter has and the fact that the quad was found camouflaged. I’ll know more once I look through his gear, but if this was a planned operation, then it has much larger ramifications. This camp or outpost must be found almost as urgently as destroying the remnants of the hospital night runner lair. We may be able to do both this afternoon. If we can locate the camp/outpost, there is the chance we can capture the others. However, I won’t risk more of our teams in an all-out assault if it looks to be too difficult. More people to interrogate would be nice because, looking at the man staring defiantly at me, he won’t be talking anytime soon. He has the appearance of knowing the game. We’ll have to make the call when we see what we are dealing with. We may just have to use the Spooky and take them out.

  With the distant shriek of night runners for company, our eyes lock for a few seconds.

  “You missed,” I state.

  It pains me to say this because his miss is why Allie is lying on the ground near my feet. However, the tone with this man needs to be set. He won’t be showing any weakness and neither can we.

  Breaking eye contact with him, I look to where Lynn is talking with Drescoll. I watch with deep sorrow as Lynn delivers the news. Drescoll’s head falls and Lynn puts her arm around his shoulder. They stand that way for several moments before slowly making their way to us.

  Gonzalez is kneeling by McCafferty’s side with one hand on her shoulder, her head down and tears falling to the ground. Drescoll arrives, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and kneels down. Gonzalez meets his eyes, pats his shoulder, and rises.

  Through his sobs, Drescoll utters, “Oh, Allie…why? You were the only bright light in this world. Why did you have to leave?”

  Drescoll places his arms underneath Allie’s limp form, and gently, with great tenderness, he scoops her up. His tears splash on her vest and, turning, he carries her slowly to his Humvee.

  Watching, I feel my heart fill even more with a great sadness, grabbing hold of it and squeezing. More tears fill my eyes and spill out, marching down my cheeks. Gonzalez wipes her tears away, leaving more dirty streaks, and joins Drescoll where he is laying McCafferty’s body in the vehicle. Gonzalez helps, smoothing out Allie’s hair and, together, with gentleness and caring, they make her seem more at peace.

  I watch as Drescoll falls to his knees outside of the Humvee and takes Allie’s hand. He holds it to his face and I see his shoulders begin to shake anew. Gonzalez remains with him with her hand on his shoulder.

  I look down at our prisoner. I kept him here hoping that the scene would appeal to his humanity in some regard – that he would see what he caused and for his façade crumble, but he just looks on with the same expressionless face.

  Drescoll gingerly, and ever so gently, places Allie’s hand in her lap and turns in our direction. The incredible sadness etched across his face turns into a storm of rage when he sees our prisoner – the transformation startling. Pulling his sidearm, he marches across the waist high grass, making a beeline in our direction.

  Gonzalez catches up to Drescoll and grabs his arm. He shucks her off, but she reaches out again, more firmly this time. He turns angrily toward her and she begins talking. After a moment, he lowers his head and holsters his Beretta. He then resumes his march, coming to a halt directly before the kneeling prisoner.

  “You are on borrowed time. You get to live for now but, know this, at some point, I will hurt you. I will hurt you bad!” Drescoll states.

  The man, staring defiantly at Drescoll, utters his first words. “We all die sometime, mate.” The accent is unmistakable.

  “Who said anything about dying?” Drescoll says with soft menace.

  Drescoll stalks back to the Humvee, stands next to it, and strokes Allie’s hair.

  Payment Comes Due

  Climbing into the helicopter a short time later with Lynn in the left seat, I call back to the compound and give them a brief synopsis that includes Lynn’s rescue, the loss of McCafferty, and the subsequent capture of her killer. As the rotors spin up overhead, I look over at Lynn and give her a smile. I’m thrilled beyond measure that she is safe and back with us. I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost her. I feel like everything is hanging on edge as it is. To say the last few months have been stressful would be the understatement of the century. I know the others feel it as well and it’s only a matter of time before that spills into our group.

  During the short hop back to Cabela’s, I talk with Frank and Bannerman about emptying one of the smaller shipping containers and having it brought into the loading dock. Setting down in the parking lot, I see a multitude gathering already. Shutting down, Lynn steps out to be greeted by a host of people; some shaking her hand, some clapping her on the shoulder, while others wrap her in quick hugs, welcoming her back.

  I continue sitting in the right seat watching the others greet her with warm smiles. Frank and Bannerman give her the biggest of hugs and then step to the side, apparently waiting for me. I give them a head nod and remain in my seat. I’m joyous to have Lynn back and can feel the uplift in energy from our group of survivors. However, I also feel drained. It’s normal to have a post-adrenaline letdown, but I feel like I have no energy left at all. I’m tired and don’t want to move from the seat…and not sure I could even if I wanted.

  Before long, the Stryker and Humvees of the other teams crest the hill. Heads turn toward the arriving teams and slump in sadness. Yes, Lynn’s arrival is bittersweet. The vehicles arrive and park. I climb wearily from the cockpit and stand with the door open. Lynn shakes a few more hands, then gathers the remaining teams and arranges them in two rows leading away from Drescoll’s Humvee. Drescoll himself exits and walks slowly around the vehicle.

  “Atten-hut!” Lynn calls. The team members in the lines snap to attention.

  Drescoll doesn’t appear to notice his surroundings as he pick
s up Allie’s body and walks with her between the two lines of teams toward the building.

  “Present…arms!” Lynn calls out.

  The soldiers present in the lines snap sharp salutes as Drescoll carries the limp body of McCafferty in his arms. I join the salutes as does Bannerman and Frank. There are many salutes in the crowd that have gathered to welcome Lynn back – these from the soldiers we picked up during our sorties to other bases. There are very few dry eyes within the entire group as Drescoll carries one of our own into Cabela’s.

  Looking to the side, I see our prisoner kneeling on the warm pavement with a contingent of armed guards surrounding him. With a heavy sigh and even heavier heart, I nod toward Frank. He gathers Bannerman and they make their way to me. Catching Robert’s and Bri’s eyes, I motion them to me as well. Lynn dismisses the teams and joins us. A shadow falls over us, mirroring our mood, as the high clouds that had been pushing inland finally cover the sun.

  “We’ve been clearing a small shipping container as you requested. There’s enough space just inside the loading area for it and we should have it placed within the hour,” Bannerman says.

  “Good. Have the doors face inward. I want it rigged with sturdy overhead rings with some bolted to the floor under them. Place hooks in the rear to secure chains and arrange the chains so we can attach manacles. I want our prisoner secured with short leg chains to the floor and wrists to chains leading through the upper rings. Lengthen them so he can kneel, but no farther. Place guards outside the container day and night. He is to have no sleep and be woken every hour with a bucket of cold water. If we can have recordings of loud, obnoxious sounds played constantly within the container, that would be nice. Crying babies work best,” I state.