THE CONTRACTOR

  “Well, call that little bitch!”

  It wasn’t more than twenty minutes after Rusty made his call that the bap, bap, bap, bap sound of four rotors cutting through the air could be heard in the distance.

  The two DSS agents pulled goggles down over their eyes as the Blackhawk lowered to the ground sending sand and dust swirling in vortices into the air. A crew member had already opened the bay door and was waving them to jump onboard.

  Rusty and Dave yanked on their strap release cords which made a zip noise as the weight of the rucks pulled on the released straps. Both swung their rucks off their backs and tossed them into the helo’s bay. This particular UH-60M had three seats, back-to-back, down the center of the bay and an exposed cockpit. The giants had to take an extra minute to adjust the seat restraints to fit over their barrel chests. Once locked in, rifle barrels facing the floor, Dave gave the crewman a thumbs up, and in turn the crewman circled his hand next to his head to signal the pilot to take off.

  The trip would be short compared to the hours they had spent walking from their SUV to the crash site. Maybe ten minutes. So much better than humpin’.

  They easily popped over the top of the hill range that Dave and Rusty had struggled to climb in the middle of the previous night. Soon Kapikoy could be seen as the helicopter swooped in low over the little town. Rusty and Dave had no idea if this was a necessary maneuver to land appropriately or if the pilots did it for entertainment. Either way, they were close enough to see some of the townsfolk look to the sky as the bird approached, and then ducked as if it were close enough to hit them.

  The pilot had found a flat, dry riverbed area a few hundred yards from where the agents had parked their SUV. This would be the landing spot.

  Unless you were used to looking for vehicles and armaments covered with a camo net, you really wouldn’t have spotted the SUV from the air. But these guys did this all day, every day and had no problem locating the truck.

  At the last second, the speeding copter raised its nose into the air and immediately slowed for a quick descent. By the time the skids hit the sand, the crewman had popped the agents’ restraint buckles and slid the bay door open. As soon as the bird settled, he threw the rucks out onto the sand and waved a flat directional hand-signal toward the large camo net near an outgrowth of scrub and rock.

  Dave and Rusty raised their carbines and jumped out onto terra firma. They didn’t look back as they jogged to their vehicle but could feel their backs being battered by the wind and sand as the UH-60 leapt back into the air.

  After removing the huge camo net, they rolled it up for storage in the back of the SUV.

  Dave patted his vest and pants pockets. “Dude, you got the keys?”

  Rusty shook his head. “Stop fucking with me, man.”

  Dave just laughed and clicked the remote starter, which immediately brought the engine to life and kicked on the A/C. Then he pressed another button and the back hatch door opened. They stuffed the net into the back of the black SUV along with their rucks. Everything was covered with a tan layer of sand and dust.

  They maneuvered into the front of the SUV, tucking their carbine barrels down next to the center console. Both sat for a moment, enjoying the whir of the A/C.

  “Ready, Buddy?”

  Dave smiled, adjusted his sunglasses, patted the stock of his rifle, and put the beast into gear.

  “Let’s go get ’em!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT - Rescue

  It may have all been a dream concocted by a slightly battered brain, but it seemed real enough. The visions in my head made me wonder if Nostradamus had hired someone to club him in the back of the noggin’ every once and a while so he could have his prophecies of the future. Because what I saw in my head had surely been a horrific vision of the future.

  There was Erik, poised high on the side of a ravine. Below him, U.S. and Israeli forces exchanged gunfire. Three small box trucks were on fire. I could see one U.S. soldier atop a HUMV fire a TOW at the last truck in the caravan; it bursts into shards of metal and flame. My internal eye focuses in on Erik, who takes aim through the scope on his .308 and squeezes off two rounds in succession, each one taking out an Israeli officer. He then hunkers down behind a boulder. Within minutes, the caravan of Iranians and Syrians are wiped out.

  The coalition of U.S./Israeli forces move to the vehicles and survey the cargo. One of their NBC officers recognizes various types of containers and instantly knows the cargo is nuclear material. He runs from behind one of the box trucks and begins to scream and signal for the troops to get back. He knows that if several containers survived the attack, there are many others that did not, and radioactive materials could be permeating the air and soil around the battlefield.

  As the troops retreat, Erik moves from his hiding place and radios one of the Special Forces operatives. He is coming in. Don’t shoot.

  The NBC officer hastily dons his rad suit and takes his Geiger with him as he rushes back toward the scene of carnage. Within twenty yards, the radioactivity in the air starts the detection device clicking away like a typewriter. As he signals to the platoon behind him that the area is hot, they break into a well-rehearsed decon dance.

  Somewhere in the distance, the blades of a Blackhawk can be heard battering the air.

  Fade to black.

  In a moment of reality, I could sense my boots be dragged over cement before I was lofted into the air and my body was slammed down on hard metal.

  Blackness again.

  Scene two of my concussion-based fantasy begins.

  Tehran is in flames. Air strikes have taken out the nuclear facilities at Natanz and Bushehr. Troops have poured in from Turkey, Azerbaijan, Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan. All-out destabilization is in effect. Of course, all of this carnage is just a distraction: real lives and real blood are being used to keep our eyes off the ball. Iraq is completely losing their shit. This might be the third Gulf War.

  The smell of dry canvas began to permeate my senses, and my body was being battered by some rough road. Consciousness was returning. I wasn’t tied. What’s up with that? As my eyelids slowly parted, I could tell I was in the back of a Duece. Going where? I had just sat up when the truck jammed on it breaks, and I slid forward, ungracefully slamming into the front of the truck bed. Well, that will wake you the fuck up. Didn’t even have a second to get up before AKs were pointed at my chest. I was being screamed at, which I took to mean Get the hell out of our truck.

  “Okay, OKAY!”

  Sliding to the rear of the truck bed, I was grabbed by my shirt and tossed out into the sand. There was all kind of shit going through my head about what to do at that moment. Were they going to ask me to kneel and then plug me in the back of the head with a 7.62 round? Were they going to cut off my head? That has to be a shitty experience. But there was no indication that an execution was about to occur, as my captors simply turned, got back into the truck, and drove away.

  After the dust settled, I surveyed the scene. Damn—this looks familiar. Flat sand, rocky outcrops, mountains in the far distance, sun blazing down. Looks like the fates are still in agreement that I die out here in the desert, I thought; after all, I was supposed to die after our luxury jet death spiral. Well, the fates and I appeared to be in violent disagreement!

  With absolutely no idea of where I was, I thought to myself: How far could they have driven before tossing me out? I looked at the sun to get my bearings. Perhaps mid-morning? Where to go? East or West? Where had Erik gone? Based on his tale of conspiracy and double agentry, I figure Iran. I wonder if I am in Iran. Maybe Turkey? No way to tell at the moment.

  Now, there are only a couple ways into Iran from Turkey: the northern route through Barzagan to Marand and Tabriz, the middle route through Qotur to Khoy, and the Southern route through Serow to Urmia. We had previously been working outside of Khoy, and that was probably where Erik had his minions. We had originally been flying to Van, but then had gone way past that into Iranian airspace, so again—he was
most likely headed to Khoy. East I would go. I was screwed either way, so I thought to myself, Just decide and drive on!

  The sun was beating me like a boy beats his first boner. Relentlessly. But still I walked East. My mouth was as dry as a popcorn fart. But still I walked East. I have no idea how far I walked.

  I never thought I would actually see a true mirage. I had seen how the sun plays off the sand and can create a silvery glimmer that momentarily looks like a lake, but I had never seen the full pond surrounded by palm trees, the water sparkling and cold, calling to you as you dehydrated into mummiform. But there the fuck it was. It just sat in a dip in the sand-and-rock landscape, looking like a classic Hollywood mirage from the movies. I shook my head a couple times to try to dispel the vision. But it persisted. I was nowhere near close enough to the mountains for there to be a stream-fed pond sitting right in front of me. Surprisingly, there was more to this glorious mirage—a person. A person sitting on the shore in the shade, scooping water into his mouth. Okay, buddy—get out of my head. You will not raise my hopes. You will not trick my mind. You will not set up a trap of disappointment and then drain my strength and spirit.

  I continued to trudge forward, nevertheless.

  The mirage didn’t change. In fact, it got worse. I knew that man. I must be fuckered up for sure. Were there Valkyries on the way? I was pretty sure that I was seriously dehydrated, and this was the end—until the face of that probably-hallucinated man matched the magical hand gesture he made in my general direction. It was Merlin! I was as confused as a baby at a topless bar.

  “Ho-lee-shit!”

  Man-hug time.

  Then, splash the head with water and rehydrate with certainly added dysentery. Priorities, I guess.

  Somewhat refreshed, I smiled at Jim. “So how the hell did you get here?”

  “I assume the same way you did, buddy—only you missed out on the electric fryer.”

  We laughed and laughed. Not so funny.

  “I was dumped into a truck, then dumped on my ass in the middle of nowhere. Walked a couple hours before I found this,” Jim explained.

  I drank some more diarrhea soda, then sat back on the shore of the actual oasis and looked up at the trees. It was fantastic.

  “There is no way we are gonna be alone for long here. I know this place has to be well known to the locals, so we better hit the dust pretty soon,” I told Jim.

  “Aaannd where do you plan on taking us?” Jim sneered.

  I explained to him my theory on Erik’s direction based on his past movements, interactions, and what he relayed to us back in that cute little torture chamber. Jim just looked at me, silent.

  After a minute he asked, “Ummm, why are we headed anywhere near Erik? Like, your wife is out there somewhere thinking you are dead. I am also thinking someone might want to know about their little double-agent problem.”

  Good point on the wife. I had been a little self-focused for a bit. But I just felt she would be okay. Erik really liked her, and he said he had left her in a safe place where she would be found—albeit under less-than-optimal conditions, with the whole “spy” story Erik had told the Turkish officials. Nevertheless, she at the very least would be captured and put in jail, the US government notified, blah-ditty-blah. In other words—temporarily safe.

  “Fuck her—she’s fine!”

  I just love watching the reaction on Merlin’s face when I throw shit like that at him. He most definitely was imagining Melissa kicking my ass.

  “All-righty, then,” was all that came out of his mouth. “Lead the way.”

  So I did, basically having no idea where we were going. But I was hoping that if I traveled slightly northeast, I would run into the SKGKY (don’t even ask me to say it—some super long Turkish name for the D300 highway to Qotur).

  It was a bit of a hump, to say the least, and we were basically dying of thirst—but sure as shit, my internal compass was right on, and we did run into the D300.

  Walking the road was so much easier on the calves than walking through sand and rocks. I knew we would pass as locals walking the road toward the border with hundreds of others who passed through the Kapikoy gates daily. Our clothes were dusty and disheveled. Both of us had two-day beards. We had no military or security equipment whatsoever. There was a chance our sunglasses may give us away, but Jim’s were bent and looked like cheap knockoffs. We weren’t just going to be able to walk through the gate, however. We would need to find a way around.

  I could see the Iranian lookout tower perched high on a hillside overlooking the Kapikoy checkpoint. We weren’t getting any closer than this. However, even with the steep hills and wadis, there was almost no vegetation which could provide cover if we strayed off the road. There were also beat-up Nissans filled with over-zealous Iranian border guards who patrolled the well-known paths that locals used to get around the border gate. We needed a plan.

  When you work in my line of work long enough, your senses take on strange traits. Your peripheral vision becomes heightened, and you trust it. You begin to recognize people, places, and things by smell. Certain noises start to bring up a primal response and almost Pavlovian reaction. And the sound of the revving engine of what I was pretty sure was a large SUV immediately made me grab Merlin’s arm and pull him off the road down into a gully, where a small culvert of corrugated metal allowed a stream to flow under the D.

  Someone trying to run the border gate was going to create a world of shit that we did not want to be part of. The speed of the SUV made me pretty sure there was about to be an incident. However, if that was the case, it would certainly create the kind of distraction that might allow us to make a run for the hill’s unseen. If the large black Suburban that was quickly approaching our location wasn’t running the gate, it might be trying to run down people on the road, or be full of high explosives with a suicide driver ready to detonate right in front of the yellow buildings and security trailers.

  Un-fucking-fortunately for us, it did none of those things and instead skidded to a stop right above us, showering dust and pebbles down on our heads. We were unarmed, dehydrated, and in shit shape. Just another day in paradise.

  Fight mode!

  Both Merlin and I jumped to our feet, hands splayed in front of us in defensive posture, ready to take bullets or take lives—whatever the gods had in store for us that day.

  The doors of the dusty black suburban didn’t open. It just sat there with the engine running. Locals simply walked around it, really paying it no mind—they saw crazy shit all the time. Then the blacked-out passenger-side window began to roll down. This was it. Hot lead coming our way. Adrenalin pumped!

  “You couple of stray dogs need a ride?” A smiling face the size of a cinderblock with a crew-cut and Oakleys turned toward us from the SUV.

  Son of a bitch—it was Big Dave!

  “Jeezuz-tap-dancing-Christ!” I really couldn’t have been any happier at that moment. When you are that exhausted, thinking you’re gonna die, nearing a border you have no idea how you are going to cross…and your buddies with a lot of guns show up? Well, that’s about fucking heaven. Your brain has to do a flip turn to understand why your buddies showed up here and now, but you just go with it. Live in the moment.

  Merlin and I scrambled up the bank, heard Rusty unlock the back doors, and jumped into the air-conditioned vehicle like fat boys into a pool full of pies.

  “’Sup guys? Have a nice walk?” Rusty grinned in the rear-view mirror.

  “How the hell did you find us?” I asked, buckling in.

  “DSS, Bitches! We know shit!” Big Dave said in his best ghetto voice, snapping the fingers of his right hand in the air. He was the least ghetto guy I knew. More like a giant German strong man—which, of course, he was.

  Tucked and tied, I had to ask: “So… any idea what in the Samuel L. Fuck is going on? You know what happened, right?”

  Racking a round, then handing me a Beretta, Dave just shook his head. “Nobody heard nuthin about nuthin
.”

  “So how are you…here? Now?” Jim cocked his head to see Dave.

  “Rusty,” Dave said, giving the driver a slap on the arm, “you wanna do the honors?”

  Staring straight forward, not really looking in the rear-view or side mirrors, Rusty pulled away from the side of the road, tossing gravel into the air behind the SUV. Zero idea if we ran anyone over or not. Didn’t hear any screaming, so I’m guessing we were good to go.

  “Nah, I’m gonna have to deal with the barriers and the gate goons, so let me just focus on that. You give them the bedtime tale.”

  Now, Big Dave wasn’t a Neanderthal, though I am sure his ancestors had been. He was articulate, well-read, an avid outdoorsman, was once married to a full-blooded Canadian Indian woman whose family lived like a thousand miles from anywhere, and was a championship shooter as well as someone who studied the martial arts so that he “wouldn’t hurt someone.” His story, however, was given in sound bites. I am guessing because details were either cloudy, or not cloudy at all, but he—being a member of the Diplomatic Security Services—had decided to redact his tale.

  “Okay, where to start…” he began. “Apparently, bitches drive, and Contractors fly. But what-the-fuck-ever. Ten hours in, we get a squawk about a jet in Iranian airspace. Then it’s down. No friggin’ idea if it was you guys but had a pretty friggin’ good idea it was you guys. Then a missing Ambassador on the news. We’re thinking, well, there the hell goes that mission. Certainly no survivors if shot down by the IRIAF. We decide to hang in Van, waiting for some word. No word. We go all the way back to Istanbul. We drink—a lot. You guys had a lot of glasses raised to you in a very short period of time. Next, we get a visit from some metrosexual dude named Sven. He tries to convince us that the CIA is looking for you and buys us more drinks. Smashed, we decide that somehow you guys are superheroes and so are we, and we are going to go find you. And DSS is all up our ass, and we will never work again, and international incident, blah, blah, blah, blah. Lock and load and hit the road. We go back to Van. Had a good time there, then headed to the border, off-roading here and there. We decided if the Gods will it, we will find you guys alive and well and wearing the ears of Iraqi bad guys as a necklace. Well, it sorta worked like that. ’Cept for Saadi and Magyar. Poor bastards. Aaand, here the fuck we are!”