The Grave Diggers

by Chris Fritschi

  "Where's it hurt?" he asked.

  "Hard to breathe," said Fulton.

  "Check his chest for..." started Rosse, but Tate already knew what to do and had slid his hand under Fulton's chest plate, pressing his fingers, probing for holes.

  "Ahhhhh, that hurts," snapped Fulton.

  "I know," said Tate. "But the good news is you don't have any serious wounds." Rosse nodded in agreement.

  "Nothing serious?" said Fulton. "I'm bleeding everywhere!"

  "Easy kid," said Rosse. "It's your arm that's bleeding. You're gonna be okay. I'm gonna get you..."

  Something came through the balcony door and clattered across the floor behind them.

  "Grenade," yelled Tate. He dove at the grenade, grabbing it then flinging it back outside.

  Just as it disappeared below the edge of the balcony, their ears were hammered by the explosion.

  "Flash-bang," shouted Tate over the ringing in his ears. "Come on," he said to Rosse.

  They grabbed Fulton by his combat vest and dragged him into the hallway.

  He patted Rosse on the shoulder to get his attention. "Give me a sitrep."

  Rosse crunched his eyebrows together, recalling what he had seen. "Six, maybe seven guys, all wearing the same stuff, loaded for war. Looked like them movies with the Special Forces guys."

  Tate quickly put together the situation and what had to happen next. "Can you handle Fulton?" he asked.

  Rosse nodded.

  "Good," said Tate. "Listen for me on the radio and be ready to move." Tate gave Rosse a reassuring smile and headed down the hallway.

  It took a moment for Cooper to realize he had been left alone in the office, and scattered at his feet were the documents he craved.

  One moment Cooper was watching his only chance to save his family disappear as Tate was stuffing the documents into a small bag, then there was an explosion and all hell broke loose.

  Tate dropped the bag and ran out of the room with Monkhouse. Some of the documents had spilled out, and Cooper knew if he was going to make his move it had to be now.

  He grabbed a handful of documents, but stopped as his mind groped where to hide them. The longer he stood there, the faster it felt like time was speeding up.

  Exposed, fear and panic immobilized him. Any moment now, Tate would catch him in the act.

  "Cooper, what the hell are you doing?" Tate stood framed in the doorway, holding a smoking machine gun, looking like an instrument of death.

  His face was streaked with sweat and blood, and Cooper knew the last thing he'd see would be a bright flash as Tate splattered him across the wall.

  "Get your shit together and help Rosse," yelled Tate. "We're pulling out of here." And then he was gone.

  A moment later, Rosse came into the room with Fulton and sat him against a wall, as Cooper, stunned, only stood and watched.

  His second of indecision had saved him. A moment later and Tate would have caught him stealing those pages. Tate would have seen him for the traitor he was and killed him on the spot.

  "The hell's wrong with you, Cooper? Ya look like ya seen a ghost." Not waiting for an answer, Rosse started working on Fulton, cutting his sleeve open to the shoulder.

  Fulton's arm was thickly sheathed in blood. It was too much for Cooper, and the room began to swim before his eyes; everything was going dark.

  Rosse's voice slapped into Cooper’s consciousness like a jagged icicle, snapping his world into focus.

  "COOPER, you dickhead! Get over here and help."

  Cooper dropped the documents and rushed over, kneeling next to Fulton, hoping he didn't vomit on him.

  Rosse tore open a packet and took out a wad of gauze. Cleaning away the blood made his arm look less like a horror movie, and revealed three bullet holes that began seeping blood again.

  He dug into his kit and pulled out a bag, tore it open and poured white powder on Fulton’s wounds. Grabbing a roll of bandage, he tossed it to Cooper.

  "Take this. Wrap it tight around the wounds on his arm, but don't cut off circulation, got it?"

  Cooper nodded, still trying to comprehend what was happening. "Today, Cooper," shouted Rosse.

  Cooper started wrapping the roll of white bandage around Fulton's arm. If he was feeling any pain, he wasn't showing it.

  "What about his face?" asked Cooper. "Is he going to die?"

  Rosse smirked. "Nah, he ain't gonna die. His face is fine. Finish what you're doing and bring 'him into the hall." Rosse closed his medic pack and ran out of the room.

  The gunfire outside was interrupted as Cooper heard two loud pops, then someone on the radio yelled, "Tear gas!"

  Cooper quickly tied off the bandage and tried hauling Fulton to his feet.

  Fulton drunkenly tried to get up, but was mostly dead weight and too heavy for Cooper.

  Tate ran down the hallway to the turret room, where Rosse had been at the start of the attack. Careful he didn't draw attention, he peeked around the edge of the window, where he could see down onto the patio and partially into the living room.

  One of the attackers was draped over a patio chair, and he could just make out two figures at the base of the stairs, aiming their weapons at the second floor.

  Another figure stepped out onto the patio, giving Tate his first good look at their enemy.

  He wore a dark mottled uniform with integrated knees and elbow protective pads. His jump helmet was wired with a radio that connected to an assault vest fat with spare magazines.

  These guys weren't Americans, but they were special forces of some nationality.

  Tate didn't see any others, but guessed they were somewhere inside.

  The soldier opened a pouch strapped to his leg, and took out a canister. He pulled out the pin and took aim at the window above him.

  Tate snapped his HK 93 to his shoulder and hit the solider center mass. The bullets impacted with a distinctive thud that Tate instantly recognized as body armor.

  The soldier went down with a grunt, dropping the canister, which began spewing thick white gas.

  Caught in the cloud, the soldier started gagging and scrambled to his feet.

  Tate shot him again, this time aiming higher, tearing away half his neck.

  The soldier fumbled to stop the gout of blood from the fist-sized chunk missing from his neck, then fell forward, dead before he hit the ground.

  The window frame exploded as bullets ripped into the turret window, but Tate was already gone. He'd seen enough to piece together what was happening, and knew his team would be slaughtered if they didn't bug out right now.

  Turning the corner to the landing, he pointed at Monkhouse.

  "You're with me." He keyed up his radio. "Ota, tell me you got something."

  "Yes," said Ota. "Far end of the property."

  "Great," said Tate. "We're heading your way. Out." Tate came into the office, with Monkhouse close behind.

  Cooper was struggling to get Fulton up, and Tate grabbed Fulton's combat vest and easily lifted him to his feet. He turned his attention to snatching up the documents from the safe, and shoved them into his combat pack.

  After a last look to check he hadn't missed anything, he grabbed his radio. "This is Tate. We're bugging out. Wesson will cover the stairway. Rosse, join up with Cooper and get Fulton down the back hallway. Meet up with Ota at the back of the property. Once you’re outside, stay quiet. We don't want these guys to know where we are. Move like you have a purpose. Tate, out."

  Propping Fulton up, Cooper quickly left the office, leaving Tate and Monkhouse.

  Wisps of CS gas began snaking into the office, and Tate knew they were running out of time.

  Tate had been sizing up the situation, and realized if they were going to escape he'd have to delay the op for long enough for the team to break contact and call in the extraction.

  The trick was creating a distraction big enough to keep all of the hostiles busy, so they wouldn't see the team withdrawing.

  "You have any explosives
left?" asked Tate.

  Monkhouse took a black package the size of a thick book out of his pack. "I didn't think we'd need much, but this is what I got."

  The CS gas began burning at the back of their throats, as Tate directed Monkhouse to the hole in the wall where the safe had been.

  "Put it there and set the timer for one minute."

  Monkhouse held up a small box with a red button on it. "Timers? Where are we, in the stone age? Just say when." He dropped the explosive into the hole in the wall.

  Monkhouse looked a little confused as Tate took the detonator.

  "We're done here," said Tate, and ran into the hallway with Monkhouse close behind.

  The hallway was thick with the bitter, pungent taste of CS gas. Tate's eyes were streaming and he could feel his lungs burning, but his combat experience had taught him how to dig deep and push through it.

  Wisps of gas swirled around Wesson as she doggedly held her ground. Tears and snot ran down her face as the gas relentlessly punished her senses.

  Tate patted her firmly on her shoulder. "Good job, Sergeant. It's time for you to go. Join up with Ota and withdraw out the back. Go about a klick and call in the helo."

  "Like hell, Top," said Monkhouse. "We're not leaving you."

  "Jack! Sergeant Major," said Wesson, catching herself. "No way I'm going without you."

  It had been a long time since anyone had put themselves in harm’s way for him. In that moment, he felt a bond with the two people who stood resolutely in front of him. The unexpected emotion seemed to fill him with renewed strength.

  "Go. Now. That's an order. Just don't shoot me by mistake when I catch up," he said with a grin.

  Wesson and Monkhouse nodded, then headed down the hall. Tate watched them go, then turned his focus to the stairway.

  Blinking through his runny eyes, he saw shadows moving below, near the stairs.

  A quick glance behind him showed the hallway was clear. His team was out.

  He stepped back from the stairwell. "Pull back to the office with the safe," he shouted. "We'll hold 'em off there."

  He aimed down the stairs, waiting for them to take the bait.

  A few seconds later, two dark figures appeared on the stairs.

  Tate made a mental note that, whoever they were, they understood English.

  Tate lit up the stairway as he fired two short bursts down on them, then instantly dodged away. Gunfire spouted from the ground floor, tearing up the floor and surrounding walls.

  Tate took off after his team, just as a someone threw a flash-bang up the stairway, which clattered across the second floor landing.

  The other end of the hallway opened to a wide loft, and Tate was almost there when the grenade went off. The corridor funneled the concussive blast directly at him, just as he ducked around the corner, missing the head splitting force by the skin of his teeth.

  The concussion blew out the floor to ceiling windows, spewing glass across the lawn.

  To his left, open stairs curved to the floor below, which emptied into a broad, grassy field, bordered by a high wall. Tall trees crowded the other side of the wall where manicured lawns ended and the jungle began. When the time was right, that would be his way out.

  * * *

  Wesson and Monkhouse joined up with the rest of the team, waiting on the other side of the wall.

  They looked battered and exhausted, but Wesson knew they weren't safe; not by a long shot. At best, they'd only bought themselves a few minutes. She couldn't let their fatigue take hold, or she'd never get them on their feet.

  "Everyone on me. Cooper, you're our comms now."

  Cooper was already wearing the radio pack he'd taken from Fulton when they were patching him up in the office.

  "Check your weapons and load fresh magazines."

  Rosse had Fulton's rifle and his own slung across his broad barrel chest, looking like a human pillbox. "That's what I'm talking about. I want another chance at those pricks."

  "Not today," said Wesson. "Orders are to withdraw and extract outta here."

  "What happened to Top?" asked Rosse.

  Wesson slung her gun over her shoulder. "He'll catch up. Let’s go, and remember, fast. I want everyone to stay quiet." Without another word she headed into the jungle.

  * * *

  No sooner had the flash-bang gone off, Tate heard boots pounding up the stairs.

  As they passed by the hallway, he counted off the seconds, visualizing the enemy stacking at the office door then charging inside.

  They'd know they'd been tricked the instant they saw it was empty. He flicked the cover off the detonator switch and pressed the button.

  A crack of thunder and light slammed into him, throwing him off the landing. He cart wheeled through the air, inwardly cringing at the imminent crunch of bone when he hit the imported Italian marble floor below.

  Something reached out of the smoke and dust and punched him across the body, smashing the air out of his lungs and stopping his fall.

  The smoke cleared enough for him to see he'd landed across the downstairs couch. Wheezing for air, he rolled off the back and tucked himself behind it.

  If he saw Monkhouse again, he'd never let him off the hook for nearly killing him. The smoke was thinning as Tate heard boots running across the landing above and down the stairs.

  Five shadows emerged though the smoke, silhouetted against the light from the backyard.

  "They're gone," growled one of them. "The only way out is through the yard. We'll search the house in case they dropped it. You three find them and take them out."

  One of the men hesitated. "Dex, our orders were no deadly force.”

  "Now you got new orders," said Dex, as he racked the slide on his gun. "Am I clear? Good. I'll send you back-up to help search. Move out."

  From what he just heard, Tate guessed there was another squad positioned at the dock as a reserve force.

  Three of the shadows headed into the yard.

  Tate knew they'd quickly find the breach in the wall his team had used. The other two went back upstairs.

  His first move was to stop the leader from calling in reinforcements. A stabbing pain shot through his side as Tate pulled himself off the floor; he was sure at least two ribs were broken. It would slow him down, but it wouldn't stop him.

  Fighting the pain, Tate climbed the stairs after the two remaining men. He'd just started down the hallway when he heard the crackle of a radio.

  He recognized the voice of their leader from downstairs.

  "Five men," said Dex. "You need to move fast, so only water and weapons."

  Damn it! Too fat, too slow, thought Tate; he couldn't hold off that many men. He had to get out... right after taking off the head of the snake.

  He slid up to the corner of the hallway and called out, "Dex, we got 'em."

  Surprise was written across Dex's face as Tate came around the corner with is rifle up, instantly putting two rounds into his head.

  The second man's reactions couldn't save his life. In the same breath Tate killed Dex, he blew out the back of the other man’s head with two quick shots.

  Before the dead body hit the floor, Tate was on the back stairs, heading for the breach in the wall.

  * * *

  The adrenalin of the firefight had long burned off, and the team were working hard to keep pace with Wesson.

  Luckily, they'd found a game trail, making the going easier. Beneath the ever-present canopy, the jungle floor rose and fell in a series of low rolling hills, dotted with a light undergrowth of ferns and palms, but as they moved deeper inland the jungle thickened.

  Tendrils of vines spider-webbed between trees, and tall ferns masked roots that tangled and tripped the careless.

  Wesson changed directions a few times to throw off any pursuers, and a moment before had Monkhouse set a booby-trap for added punishment; her gut told her the enemy wasn't far away.

  Before she'd completed that thought, the booby-trap exploded. They're right be
hind us!

  "Everyone take cover!"

  The team scattered for the nearest fallen tree or rock, and the jungle came alive as heavy gunfire sprayed into their position.

  Bullets chewed off chunks of wood and chipped stone as Wesson and her team squeezed themselves into the dirt.

  Wesson had landed in a shallow depression behind a rotted log. She had to do something to interrupt the enemy’s fire long enough so they could shoot back.

  She propped her gun on the log, while staying out of sight and blind fired at her best guess of where they were.

  Instantly her log was hammered with incoming rounds.

  "Rosse, grenade!"

  Rosse was in cover behind a dirt mound when he heard Wesson call him. He rolled onto his back and unslung his HK 556L. He tugged open the pocket on his combat vest, and grenade shells spilled out over his chest onto the ground.

  Bullets ripped the air inches above him as others smacked into the mound, spraying dirt into his eyes and mouth.

  "Son of a... shit!" Rosse groped the dirt near his side as he blinked the soil out of his eyes.

  Confusion filled him as he saw a blurry figure appear above him.

  His vision cleared and he froze in terror as he saw a Vix standing over him. Its clothing was black with grime and hung in shredded rags. Most of its shirt was gone, exposing sickly, wet skin peeled back from a huge hole in its side.

  Rosse could see a swarm of shiny black beetles crawling under moldy green ribs, and fought against the vomit surging from his gut.

  Inexplicably, the jungle went eerily quiet as the shooting abruptly ended. An instant later, a scream tore the air.

  * * *

  Tate grimaced against the scything pain of his broken ribs, as he followed the tracks of the three men hunting his team.

  Heat, sweat, and thirst were pushed from this thoughts. His only goal was to catch these men. The trail led him out of the shadows of the canopy and onto a wide, rocky flat.