Warrant Officer Logan dropped to the ground, the sound of a full-on battle raging over the rise sending a rush of adrenaline through his system, preparing him for the task at hand. The sight of his sniper rifle pressed against his eye as his spotter surveyed the area below, the Peshmerga taking up covering positions around them, in case any ISIS fighters happened to stray into the immediate vicinity.
“Jesus, would you look at that!”
Logan grunted. Two members of the Delta team were pinned down to the left of his field of vision, a Black Hawk landing behind them. One Apache lay smoldering on the ground to the right, another engaging the enemy, ten technicals, and some Mad Max vehicle no longer in the fight. Mortar rounds continued to slam into the area when one found its mark, knocking a group of friendlies apparently rescuing the helicopter crew, to the ground.
“Tabarnac! Are they okay?”
Logan peered through the dust and soon saw the Delta team struggling to their feet. “We gotta find those mortar positions.”
“Got them. Four o’clock, behind those large rocks.”
Logan adjusted his aim then smiled as the two mortars came into view. “Time for some training.”
Red hauled Niner to his feet by his body armor, then helped Atlas regain his balance, the massive man still gripping the now loudly moaning Donnie. Through the dust, he could see the Black Hawk ahead of them, lead belching from the machine guns operated by the cabin crew.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!”
Another mortar round slammed into the ground behind them, followed by a horrific screeching sound as the downed Apache’s fuel ignited, unexploded ordnance erupting.
“Take cover!”
Red dove over the hood of one of the Nissans and hit the ground, the others doing the same, Atlas taking a knee behind the wheel well. The blast wave rolled over them, the enemy fire subsiding for a moment as they celebrated their victory for the second time.
Red took advantage of it. “Let’s go!”
A thunderclap echoed across the barren terrain, the distinct sound of a sniper rifle joining the mix sending a shiver down his spine. If a trained sniper was now on the battlefield, and he wasn’t on their side, they were screwed.
Another shot echoed, and none of them were hit.
Niner glanced over his shoulder. “Either he’s on our side, or he’s a terrible shot.”
Atlas grunted. “Either way, let’s get the hell out of here.”
A smile broke out on Red’s face as he rounded the massive boulder that had been covering their sixes, the Black Hawk fifty paces away.
The Canadians!
He turned, urging his men forward, toward the rescue chopper, the mortars silenced—for the moment. Jimmy and Mickey reached the chopper first, taking up covering positions, two MP5s handed to them by the crew, when Atlas cried out.
“I’m hit!”
The big man dropped, still carrying Donnie. Jimmy rushed forward and grabbed the wounded co-pilot, carrying him toward the chopper as Niner checked out Atlas. Red dropped to a knee, facing the enemy, squeezing off the last of his rounds. “Is he okay?”
“I’ll live. Get me up.”
Niner slung an arm over his shoulder, lifting Atlas to his feet, hauling the big man toward their salvation.
“RPG!”
Red wasn’t sure who yelled the warning, but his eyes widened as he saw the rocket-propelled grenade streak toward their position. He spun around, his legs pushing off against the unforgiving ground. He made eye contact with Niner as Atlas was shoved into the back of the chopper, Niner reaching out toward him, urging him forward, when the round slammed into the ground directly in front of him, a massive explosion tearing apart his world.
And ending it.
45 |
Cape Fear Valley Rehabilitation Center Fayetteville, North Carolina
Maggie Harris cried out, collapsing on the parallel bars as tears rolled down her face. Dawson’s chest ached as he watched the woman he loved struggle against her body, her atrophied tendons from weeks of being bedridden, resisting her efforts to stretch them out. She had been eager to get better, at first, though now seemed reluctant to even try.
“You can do it, Maggie, just a few more steps.”
Dawson stood silently off to the side, Deacon, one of the physiotherapists assigned to her, doing all the talking. Thanks to the generosity of James Acton and Laura Palmer, she had the best care possible. She would make a full recovery if she put in the effort. The massive stroke she had suffered several weeks ago as a result of complications from being shot in the head over a year ago in Paris, had left her in rough shape.
She was all there mentally, her memory was intact, though her body needed work.
And her heart.
She was giving up, and he didn’t know why.
“I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Just two more steps, you’re almost there.”
She shook her head emphatically. “No, I’m done!”
Dawson could bite his tongue no longer and stepped forward. “Come on, hon, you can do it.”
“I’m done!” she screamed, her face red, rage written across it. Dawson exchanged a glance with Deacon. “And don’t you two start rolling your eyes at me.” She burst into tears. “Just listen to me! I can’t even talk properly! I sound like a moron!”
Dawson’s heart broke with her pain as he stepped forward, taking her in his arms, her altered voice the thing he knew bothered her the most. The doctors kept reassuring her normal vocal control would return with practice, but for now, she hated how she sounded, it a constant reminder of the struggle ahead, and one of the key reasons she barely spoke to anyone.
She shook in his arms, hers dangling at her side as Deacon retrieved her wheelchair. “It’s okay, hon. It’s going to be a lot of hard work, but look how far you’ve come. You could barely walk last week, or talk the week before. Now look at you.”
She pushed away from him and dropped into her chair. “Take me to my room. I want to be alone.”
“Okay.” Dawson reached for the chair when she shook her head.
“No, Deacon, you take me. I need to be alone.”
Dawson’s chest tightened even more, the hurt something he had never experienced before. “Okay, I’ll come by later.”
“Whatever.”
Deacon looked at him and mouthed, “Wait here.” Dawson nodded and watched silently as the love of his life, a shell of her former self, was wheeled out of the room. He dropped into a chair and rested his elbows on his knees, his head sagging. He closed his eyes, eyes burning with the desire to give into the frustration and the hurt, though that would mean the stroke had won, and he refused to let that happen.
Maggie was frustrated, her life flipped upside down. Just as she thought she had put the shooting in Paris behind her, it had all come back, reversing over a year of progress in an instant. Yet she was lucky to be alive, though he was certain she didn’t feel lucky at the moment.
Deacon returned and Dawson sat up in the chair, his head resting against the wall.
“You okay?” asked Deacon, taking a chair and pulling it around so he could face him.
Dawson shrugged. “I’m not the patient.”
“True, but you’re both going through this. It’s a team effort.”
Dawson sighed. “Yeah, I know. It’s just frustrating to see her like that. I know when I went through physio for my leg wound that I was a bastard to be around sometimes, but I was lucky—I didn’t have anyone to hurt, you know. I was single then.”
“And if you think back on that time, did you like going through it alone, or would you have preferred to have someone with you?”
Dawson shrugged again. “A little of Column A, a little of Column B, I guess.” He lifted his head off the wall. “And I wasn’t really alone. The guys from the Unit were with me lots of the time, but it’s different, you know? Those are my brothers, this is my fiancée.” He sighed heavily. “It’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because this is all my fault.” His voice cracked, it the first time he had said it aloud.
Deacon reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “How the hell do you figure that?”
Dawson leaned back again, breaking the contact, not deserving any sympathy today. “If she hadn’t been in Paris with me, she would never have been shot in the first place.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, BD, that’s ridiculous! By that logic, if you were never born, she would never have met you, so she’d be perfectly fine now. Or, she could have met someone else who beat the living shit out of her every day and night, or she might have been hit by a bus instead of out on a date with you.” Deacon folded his arms. “That kind of thinking is bullshit, and you know it.”
Dawson stared at the man, a slight smile emerging. “You’ve got a wonderful bedside manner.”
Deacon grunted. “Yeah, well like you said, you’re not the patient.”
“Uh huh.” He leaned toward Deacon. “Bottom line it for me. Is she going to be okay?”
Deacon nodded. “Yes.”
Dawson frowned, the tone sounding hedged. “I’m sensing a ‘but’.”
“You have to have a positive attitude about this, and right now, her attitude is extremely negative. She’s making progress, tremendous at first, but now she’s discouraged and she’s stalling. We need to figure out how to turn her around, emotionally.” He unfolded his arms, leaning forward. “You know her better than anyone. Any ideas?”
Dawson shrugged. “I don’t know. Isn’t it normal for someone in her position to feel this way? She just went through a lot of recovery, not as bad as this, but she nearly died. It put her life on hold for over a year.”
“Did it? I thought you two were getting married.”
Dawson’s phone vibrated and he fished it out of his pocket. He frowned at the coded number on the display. “Hold that thought.” He tapped the screen. “Go ahead.”
“Mr. White, you’re needed.”
He sighed.
“Urgently.”
His eyebrows rose.
That’s different.
“Okay, I’m on my way.” He ended the call and rose, Deacon rising with him. “Sorry, buddy, but I’ve gotta go.”
“I thought you were off duty?”
“So did I.”
Wings rushed into the room, out of breath, surprising them both. Goosebumps rushed across Dawson’s body as he saw the horrified look on his comrade’s face.
“Did you hear?”
Dawson wagged his phone in the air. “I just got called in. What’s it about?”
“Red’s dead!”
46 |
Qayyarah Air Base, Iraq
“We have to go back and recover the body,” said Niner, pacing in front of the window, his heart slamming hard, his body still pumping adrenaline. “You know what those people are like. They’ll parade him around like he’s a trophy, like they did in Mogadishu.”
Spock shook his head, now in command with Dawson out of the rotation, Red dead, and Atlas wounded. “I’ve already spoken to the Colonel. The area is too hot, and you know they’ve already taken the body by now.”
“If there was any body to take.”
Niner spun toward Jimmy and glared at him.
“Sorry, buddy, I’m just saying, it looked like it hit right in front of him.” Jimmy lowered his voice. “There might not be much left.”
Niner cursed, looking around for something to take out his frustrations on, and spotted a wire trashcan. He booted it across the room. It didn’t make him feel any better. He turned to Spock. “Does Shirley know?”
Spock shook his head. “Doubt it. Not yet, anyway.”
“BD?”
“Probably. Wings was looking for him to tell him the news. BD and the Colonel will probably do the notification soon.”
Niner lifted his foot to kick the table all their drinks were sitting on, then thought better of it. He dropped into a chair, letting out a heavy sigh. “Twenty more feet, hell, twenty more seconds, and he’d be alive, right here, right now. This ain’t right!”
“It never is,” agreed Spock.
“Christ, the guy’s got a kid.”
The mention of Bryson cast a renewed pall across the room. The door swung open and Atlas stepped inside, sporting a set of metal crutches. Everyone leaped to their feet, his arrival the first good news they had had all day. Spock offered him his chair. “Glad to see you’re okay.”
Atlas nodded, easing gingerly into the most comfortable seat in the room. He winced. “Shot me in the damned ass. Can you believe that?”
Niner gave him a look. “Have you seen the size of that thing? I’m amazed it took this long.”
Atlas jabbed the air with one of his crutches. “Watch yourself, little man. It was just a graze. Soon I’ll be healed, then I’m not gonna need these things anymore. Keep it up, and I’ll shove them where the sun don’t shine.”
Niner grinned. “Promise?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Confusion, buddy, confusion.”
Atlas turned serious. “Any word on a recovery op?”
Spock frowned, shaking his head as everyone returned to their seats. “LZ is too hot.”
Atlas cursed, staring out the window at the large airfield. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Niner’s chest tightened and he leaped to his feet, yanking open the door.
“Where are you going?” asked Jimmy.
Niner grunted, not trusting himself to say any words, instead closing the door and heading somewhere, anywhere, for a few minutes to decompress, for a few minutes to mourn.
In private.
47 |
The Unit Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Dawson swiped his pass and yanked open the door to the operations center, charging inside, Wings on his heels. Information was sketchy, Wings knowing nothing beyond something having gone wrong on the op and that Red was dead. “What the hell happened?”
Colonel Clancy turned toward him, extending an arm. He gripped Dawson’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Major, but we lost Red during an op in Syria.”
“Are we sure he’s dead?”
Clancy nodded gently. “Yes. An RPG exploded in front of him. The pilot of the Black Hawk reported that he thought it was a direct hit.”
Dawson’s mind drew a vivid mental image he tried to shake. “Jesus.” He stared at the displays. “The rest of the team?”
“They’re fine. Atlas has a minor wound, but he’ll be okay. One Apache was shot down but the crew survived, though the co-pilot is in rough shape.”
“Will he be okay?”
“He’s in surgery. We won’t know for a few hours.”
“What happened?”
“It was a Charlie-Foxtrot almost from the beginning. The enemy had Stingers. If they hadn’t, the chopper never would have been shot down, the team wouldn’t have been forced to save them, and they would have evac’d before that RPG was ever fired.” Clancy sighed. “You know how it is.”
Dawson frowned, knowing exactly what Clancy was talking about. One event led to another then another. Somebody sells a weapons system to a government that has no business having it, rebels get their hands on that system, then use it against their enemy, often the very people who sold the system in the first place.
Then soldiers die.
“We got lucky, Sergeant Major. It could have been a lot worse.”
Dawson grunted, not sure he agreed with the assessment. “The body?”
“UAV shows that ISIS extremists took it. We’re expecting footage shortly on the Internet bragging about killing one of ours. We’ll try to block it, of course, but you know that’s going to be impossible.”
Dawson dropped into a chair. In the few minutes it had taken to get here, he had run the full gamut of emotions, and just before walking through the door, had reached the point where he was sure there was some sort of mistake, that he’d step into this very room and Cla
ncy would tell him it was all okay.
It was wishful thinking, thinking he had each time one of their own was killed. He had lost men before under his command, though this wasn’t his command. It was Red’s.
And his best friend’s death was his fault.
If he hadn’t pulled himself from the rotation, he’d have been in command, and Red wouldn’t have even been on the mission.
He sighed, looking up at Clancy. “I should have been there.”
Clancy’s expression gave him a sense the man knew where this was heading. “Bullshit. Your place is with your fiancée.” His tone softened. “How’s she doing?”
Dawson’s malaise deepened. “Not good. She’s losing hope and it’s stalling her recovery.”
Clancy sighed, taking a seat beside Dawson. “And this isn’t going to help.” He jabbed a finger at the air between them. “Under no circumstances can you let her know you think this is your fault. She’ll blame herself, and she’ll never recover.”
Dawson’s head drooped, his shoulders sagging as Clancy was right.
Yet another thing to hide.
It was tiring, always showing the brave face, to hide his worry, his sorrow. He blamed himself for her situation because of Paris, and now he blamed himself because of Red. He couldn’t share any of his feelings with the woman he loved, and the one other person who he could talk to about these things was now dead.
He was alone.
He rose. “We need to tell Shirley, now.”
Clancy agreed. “The chaplain is on his way. Get your dress uniform on, I’ll do the same.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dawson checked his watch and frowned. “Bryson gets home from school in less than an hour, I think.”
Clancy sighed. “I was hoping to do this without him there, but I guess there’s no avoiding that. We should bring one of the spouses.”
Wings stepped forward. “I’ll call my wife.”
Clancy nodded. “Good. We’ll meet in an hour.”
48 |
Forgotten Page 10