The Grave Diggers
Page 8
After that, helicopter crews didn't wait for a response to retro-fit a quick-release switch. They did it themselves, giving new life to the adage 'Every solution breeds new problems’.
The problem here was that not everyone was a mechanical engineer. Some of the jury-rigged rope couplings broke under the weight and stress of a fully loaded combat soldier resulting in people falling to their deaths.
Helicopter crews were some of the tightest knit families in the military, and while they honestly felt bad for the lost soldiers, their attitude was 'better them than us'.
Fortunately, the Army approved the idea, issued a reliable quick-release system, and prevented further injuries.
With a thumbs-up signal, Lori Wesson moved to the door and sat down with her feet over the edge.
As the Unit Automatic Rifleman, she was the first on the ground. With her LM-948, she could chew up a mob of Vix without breaking a sweat.
Built off a polymer/teflon frame, the .338 caliber light machine gun dissipated heat, making it possible to fire magazine after magazine without the risk of deforming the barrel. The high-energy rounds chemically reacted on impact. Hitting an object, the slug deformed into a metal wad and instantly hardened in that shape. The slug’s combination of shape and velocity created an annihilating impact that would penetrate through multiple soft targets.
It was jaw dropping to see in action.
The crew chief reached out and pulled the rope to her, then put his hand on her shoulder while she got her grip.
She nodded she was ready and he patted her shoulder, signaling she could go. She swung out and instantly started her slide down, while the next soldier got in position.
Soon it was Tate's turn and he wasted no time in getting to the rope. The sound of the helicopter was thumping in his ears, but his time in Special Forces had taught him how to push the distraction out of the way.
He scanned the area from above for the last time, as he felt the crew chief’s hand pat his shoulder twice.
Tate leaned out and was free of the helicopter. The rotor wash beat down on him as he slid down the rope.
He felt like the jungle was reaching up for him, and as he passed the bright-green canopy, he was being swallowed into its dark, fetid belly.
His boots hit soil and the illusion passed. The others had already set up a defensive perimeter, while the last of the unit left the safety of the Black Hawk.
After a final headcount, Tate waved off the helicopter, which banked away; its thumping fading into the distance.
Everyone stayed in position and listened for any tell tale clue that the sound of the helicopter had attracted any Vix.
Slowly, the sounds of the jungle returned, and nothing more. Soon the air was alive with the noise of insects and animals.
Satisfied they hadn't attracted any Vix, Tate keyed up his mic. "Let’s head out. Wesson is on point. Single file."
They'd hardly touched down, and Tate's camo uniform was already damp with sweat.
They moved into the jungle, and were soon swallowed by the vegetation.
While several of the squad members had been in Tate's last platoon, three soldiers were new to him, including Private Cooper.
Tate had spread out the greener soldiers among the more seasoned members to keep an eye on them, and catch any mistakes before they happened.
Cooper had trained for this, but this was too real. The reality that he was on a real mission with no 'do overs' began to overwhelm him.
He'd been out in the jungle before, but everyone knew the area was secure; the worst that could happen was getting chewed out for doing something stupid. But here, now, he felt he was walking a razors edge, and was a hairs breath away from dying, or getting someone else killed. There wasn't a safety net out here.
The jungle crowded in on the team, making it impossible to see anything lurking just an arm reach away. The closeness made the air stale, heavy and thick.
The jungle growth they couldn't push through had to be hacked, and the sound of the chopping echoed like a signal announcing their presence.
A screech tore over their heads, and the team instantly stopped and crouched, except for Cooper, who froze.
His eyes were wide with fear, and his gaze darted around, looking for an unseen death about to rip him open.
Behind him, Rosse rolled his eyes and yanked Cooper down hard by his pack.
"Get down, ya moron," growled Rosse.
Cooper turned to look at who or what had grabbed him, and came nose to nose with Rosse.
"Something you wanna say?"
Cooper nervously shook his head. “No.”
Rosse ignored him, and turned his attention to scanning the area.
Cooper tried to slow his breathing when he saw his finger squeezing the trigger of his rifle; he would have sprayed the trees overhead if he hadn't forgotten to take the safety off first.
Forcing his hand to unclench his finger finally broke its grip from the trigger.
Satisfied nothing was approaching, Tate keyed up his mic. "Just a monkey," he said. "Let’s move."
The squad stood up and headed out.
At the front of the line, Sergeant Wesson was picking her way through the growth, while keeping an eye on her compass heading.
She'd tied her bandana around her neck and had it pulled up, covering her nose and mouth to keep the bugs out.
Besides finding the best path to their checkpoint, she had to watch for other dangers; a dozing snake camouflaged as a vine or tree limb, a small dab of color could be a butterfly or a deadly poison dart frog. There were trees with two-inch spikes covering their trunk; the points of the thorns would go right through the thin leather gloves many of them wore, and the tips would break off deep in the flesh, causing certain infection if it wasn’t dug out.
She had to see everything all at once, and was one of Tate's best people. Wesson was always strictly professional with Tate, and avoided parties when the group needed to get drunk and blow off steam.
She avoided giving anyone a reason to suspect Tate gave her special treatment, or worse, that they were involved; that wouldn't happen in her own team. Everyone in the squad either respected her as an equal, or feared her.
A few months after she started as Tate's operations assistant, she was having a beer with friends. At another table was a corporal, who had been competing with her for the posting. Still feeling bitter about it, the corporal had told his buddies that Wesson was screwing her way up the ladder, making sure the rest of the room heard him.
By the time the MPs arrived, she had beaten the corporal and his two friends to the floor. Witnesses in the bar said it was self-defense, and the corporal said he must have been too drunk to remember what happened.
The charges against Wesson were dropped. The corporal spent two more weeks in a cast, and the rest of his time at the base, avoiding Wesson like the plague.
The wind began to pick up, and brought dull, grey clouds that stretched across the sky. The horizon was dark grey, with heavy storm clouds coming their way.
Lightning flashed within the belly of the gloom, but the storm was too far off to hear thunder.
It felt like they'd been swimming in jungle for hours, when the tangle of green abruptly eased as the unit entered into sparser, younger growth.
To Tate, this signified they were very close to their checkpoint; any base would clear a wide perimeter outside its walls of anything offering concealment to the enemy.
This foliage looked about right for a couple years growth.
A moment later, the radio crackled in his ear. "Top," said Wesson. "We've made check point Phoenix."
CHAPTER SEVEN
DOGPILE
The team's approach brought them to the side of the abandoned DEA base. The compound was surrounded by double rows of chain-link fence, providing a patrol path between them. Each high fence was topped with razor wire. Observation towers stood in the four corners of the base, giving a clear view to the surrounding area.
Tate keyed up his mic. "Take up defensive positions. No noise."
Tate pulled the reconnaissance images from his combat vest pocket. He saw the main gate was to their left, a short distance away.
"Wesson and Ota," he said. "You two head left, and recon the main gate."
Each confirmed and quietly moved out.
Wesson was good as a tracker, but Kasey Ota was the best scout she'd ever seen.
People joked he could walk over potato chips without a sound. His blond hair, deep blue eyes and square features made him the poster-boy for a viking recruitment ad. He was friendly and enjoyed being around others, but hardly ever talked. While others were happy to share stories of their past, Ota was content to listen, and waved off questions about his past with a smile.
His past was a big unknown, except that somewhere along the line he became a devout follower of Zen philosophy. He didn't wear it on his sleeve, he lived it, and it unnerved the hell out of people who didn't know him, because no matter how dangerous or frenzied things got, he was as calm as a napping cat. It gave the false impression that he couldn't be relied on if things went bad, that he didn't take things seriously, or couldn't be counted on, but it was just the opposite; as the team's sniper, it gave him a deadly edge.
All the normal stress and anxiety other shooters had to deal with didn't exist in Ota's mind.
Ota and Wesson made their way around the corner of the perimeter fence, and after a few yards saw the front gate.
They checked the guardhouse and surrounding area of the camp through their binoculars, but saw no movement.
There was less jungle growth here, and it gave them a clear line of sight into the camp.
The gate was closed, and there didn't appear to be any signs of damage to any of the buildings. To their left, the camp bordered a river, but buildings and rows of large steel shipping containers blocked their view of the area.
"Top," said Wesson, keying her mic. "We're at the front gate. It's closed, but unlocked. No signs of movement."
"Copy that," replied Tate. "We're moving to your location."
Wesson and Ota scanned the area from the low brush as they waited for the rest of the team to join them.
Once there, Tate scanned the front gate and complex, but saw the same as Wesson and Ota; nothing.
He took out a satellite image of the base, and called the team together before their next move.
"Intel says there's no mines or traps in the area between the fences," said Tate, as he traced the perimeter of the base on the map with his finger. "The DEA report says they did an orderly bug-out and closed up shop behind them. It's likely local military stationed a small force here to secure the base for later use."
The Sergeant Major gave the base a quick glance, then returned to his satellite map. "There's no signs of the kinds of damage you'd normally see when Vix crash a party, so we may not have any contact, but don't get sloppy. If you see a closed door, leave it closed. We go through the gate and head to the boat dock. Monk, there's a boat house at the dock which should have what you need to get a boat up and running."
Monkhouse looked up from the map. "A boat engine sitting unused in the jungle heat and humidity for a couple of years? Should start right up," he said with a smile.
A brilliant flash of lightning snapped across the sky above their heads, followed by a crack of thunder that thudded in their chests.
"See?" said Monkhouse. "It just keeps getting better and better."
They could hear the beating of falling rain on the jungle a moment before it reached them. Warm water showered down, drenching them instantly.
"Once there," said Tate, "everyone else will set up a perimeter around the dock. Ota, see if you can't find your way up one of those watch towers and give us over watch."
Ota nodded, but said nothing.
"Okay," said Tate. "Wesson, you're with me. Everyone else, form up behind us, single file. From here on everyone observe radio SOP and keep chatter to a minimum."
The rest of the squad acknowledged, and prepared to move. Tate and Wesson went first, followed by Ota and the remaining team members.
Rain quickly turned the ground into mud, which sucked at their boots, but the road leading to the front gate was hard packed dirt and made the going easier.
Wesson did a quick check, and confirmed there was nobody in the guard booth next to the front gate.
The gate was latched, but not locked. It sat on a track that allowed it to roll to the side.
Tate scanned what he could see of the compound for movement or any signs of danger. The interior of the base sat on packed soil, and except for isolated patches of weeds there was little opportunity for jungle growth to take over.
"Rosse and Fulton," said Tate, pointing to the two men. "Open the gate, and do a quick recon. The rest of the team will keep watch."
At the gate, Rosse looked at the compound, seeing nothing more than he did before.
"Two years in the Army, and all I get to open is a damn gate," said Rosse, as he spit out his gum.
"I hear ya," said Fulton. Picked fresh from the load of recruits from boot camp, Specialist Jeff Fulton was one of the new guys to the squad.
Tate saw potential in him, and had chosen him for the team; putting him in with more seasoned soldiers would speed up his training. Paring him up with Rosse would toughen him up. The veterans in the team didn't like 'baby sitting', and wouldn't cut new guys much slack, but if noobs kept their mouth shut and eyes open, they could learn a lot from the guys with field experience.
Rosse looked at Fulton like he'd just shot out of a cow’s ass. "What do you mean, you hear me?"
"You know," said Fulton, realizing he'd just said the wrong thing. "Like, I know what you mean."
"How would a green scrub know what I mean, Specialist?" asked Rosse, looking at Fulton like he had just spat on Rosse’s mother.
"No, Sergeant. I mean, I understand...," said Fulton. "Uh... no. I don't know what you mean."
"You're damn right you don't know," said Rosse. "And you keep on not knowing until I say otherwise. Now open that gate, and don't talk to me unless you got something to say that don't sound like a donkey farting."
Fulton pulled on the gate, which only moved a few inches, then stopped. He pulled harder, but it didn't move.
Rosse gave him a withering stare, and Fulton quickly went to work, yanking on the gate until it started to move with a rusty squeal.
He pulled the gate open a few feet, painfully aware of all the noise he was making, but hoped it would be masked by the heavy downpour.
Rosse brushed past him, muttering, "Stupid kids, acting like they know jack all." He did a quick scan of the compound for movement, but saw nothing and moved deeper into the camp.
There were three, steel cargo containers to the left of the main dirt road that lead further into the camp. To his right, there was a building with a couple of large roll up doors, probably a garage.
Rosse pointed to Fulton, and then to a couple of buildings ahead to the right.
Even though he was drenched from the rain, Fulton looked like he was sweating bullets, not sure if he was more afraid of Rosse or the Vix, but Rosse was there and the Vix weren’t, so he moved up to scout the buildings.
He checked the doors, finding them locked, and then looked in the windows. He signaled back to Rosse that there was nothing.
They continued through the rest of the camp, not finding any signs of recent activity or Vix.
"Yeah, boss," Reported Rosse, over his radio to Tate. "I got nothing here. Come on in."
The team joined up with Rosse and Fulton in the center of the compound.
Tate took out his map and orientated the team to their surroundings.
"The west perimeter fence parallels the river. That fence has a gate that opens up to a dock wher
e our two patrol boats are supposed to be tied up. I don't expect any Vix activity, but I want Ota and Twigg to stand watch at the dock entrance. Monkhouse, you'll check out the condition of the boats. Everyone else can find a place out of the rain until we're ready to go."
Tate put the map away and looked around his squad. "Questions?"
Nobody answered, and Tate headed for the dock gate, with the squad following.
A few minutes later, the squad came around the corner of a building and saw the dock gate.
Like the front gate, this one wasn't locked, or secured either. Tate thought it was strange that the compound hadn't been locked up, or ransacked. It was possible that scavengers had never found this place, but with it being on a river it seemed likely that somebody would have noticed the place.
He didn't have an answer, and turned his attention to the here and now.
Their intel was holding solid. Nobody else seemed to notice, but to Tate it was a small miracle.
Back when he was part of the 471st intel, it was critical to their missions. The world wasn’t static; it kept on changing and it was a given that the intel they got was outdated before it landed on their briefing desk.
After joining Mortuary Affairs, his squad never needed anything more than just a drop point and a direction.
'Walk around and shoot anything that's not human' was the typical directive.
Tate had to smile, because just as the intel described, there were two boats tied up at the dock. Both were rigid-hull fast boats, with twin diesel turbocharged motors. An inflatable collar of tough Kevlar and polyvinyl ringed the hull, giving the boat greater buoyancy and allowing it to stay afloat, even if the boat took on water.