One of the helos started down as the other climbed to provide high cover for the SEALs. Rot and Sack moved toward the descending bird.
They were almost there when the unmistakable sound of AK-47 assault rifles rang out from every direction.
Ambush! “God help us!” Rot called out as he felt Sack back up against him. The big man began firing into the shadows of the rocks with his MP5. Rot, still carrying his sniper rifle, cursed himself for having let his guard down.
“On yer nine!” Sack screamed over the din of battle.
Rot looked left and saw several silhouettes in the moonlight charging them from behind a rocky outcropping, rapidly closing what few yards were between them. Without thinking, he turned the barrel of his weapon toward the closest attacker and fired from the hip. He watched as the fifty-caliber round struck the man in the chest, dropping him to the dust, dead. But the round, traveling at 2850 feet per second, passed through his target's flesh, somehow missing bone. It struck the next man in line just below his throat, activating the explosive within. The assailant’s loosely fitting clothes seemed to balloon out as his head simply disintegrated. What was left dropped heavily to the sand. The next man stopped in his tracks, blinded. He began to wipe the gore from the second man's exploded body from his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic. Rot fired again, forever eliminating his third opponent’s need to clear his vision.
“Cover!” Sack screamed as he began to sprint toward the rocks their enemy had been using as a shield.
Rot spun 360 degrees, searching for targets in the clamor. Finding the closest two, one behind the other and only yards away, he fired again with incredibly similar results as those of his first two victims. “Ya should a paid better attention!” He screamed at the men as what was left of them crumpled to the riverbed. He saw a flash from behind the boulders on the opposite side of the chopper. The entire area exploded as the helo's weapons went to work. Above him, he heard the telltale buzz of the twin M134 mini-guns and the thud-thud-thud of the two M2 fifty-caliber machine guns as they opened up, their muzzles flaring, lighting up the night.
Danger! Move! Run!
He searched for another target as an explosion rang out above him. The aircraft he was standing under shuddered violently. Rot's ears were filled with the unfamiliar sounds of a dying helicopter as it plummeted straight down, a shower of sparks, smoke, and bits of broken bird following closely behind. Scrambling, he back-peddled away from the crippled Black Hawk and tripped, landing on his back. The sickening sound of metal screeching in protest was deafening as the helicopter’s belly smacked the rocky riverbed. The force of the crash caused the starboard mini-gun operator to lose control of his weapon. It tore up a swath of ground to Rot's immediate left.
Go! Now!
The battered crewmen were shouting and jumping from the chopper as it bounced violently up and down, turbines still working hard to lift the crippled bird. Its landing gear had collapsed and the hulk was beginning to roll toward Rot, rotors leading the way. The ground exploded into a blinding cloud as he tried to find some footing. Somehow, he avoided the spray of the rotor blades as they shattered into a thousand, thousand pieces.
Rot found himself standing near the cockpit of the downed chopper, which was now resting on its side. His M82 gone, he watched through stinging eyes as Sack, silhouetted by an explosion, was down on one knee firing in his general direction, covering his six. Grabbing his MP5, Rot spun just as he felt the sting in his lower back. Ignoring the pain, he found an enemy closing fast. Having no time to line up his weapon for a shot, he used his momentum to swing the machine gun as hard as he could, catching his opponent across the jaw. Blood and teeth exploded from the man’s mouth as he went down in a heap.
“Sack!” he screamed.
And then there was pain. Nearly blind, he fell to his knees, trying to focus. The noises of battle engulfed him, coupled with images he was struggling to understand. Angry faces surrounded him. Voices screamed unintelligibly.
Danger! Defend! Fight!
He was … where? Doing … what? He felt his body moving. Twisting and contorting. Familiar movements disjointed from any rational thought. Senses overwhelmed. He continued to move, not knowing why. With the next explosion, he found Sack again in the flash of light, but why was he falling? Sack, landing face down in the dirt. Sack, not moving.
A dream? Sounds, smells, images assailed him. Time had no meaning. His brain received incomprehensible signals as the pain in his head intensified. He felt the involuntary motion of his limbs. He was moving, but he didn't know why. There were sharp pains in his right side. Then his back.
What's happening to me?
* * * * *
SACK WAS BARELY conscious as he heard the battle raging around him. He couldn't move his legs for the pain. He had difficulty even lifting his head. When he finally did, he heard the familiar sound of an MP5 ringing out and he caught sight of … he couldn't be sure who it was above him. Then he saw the ghillie suit.
“LT?” he managed, too weakly to be heard over the melee. Sack continued to watch in amazement as Rot turned and methodically engaged each enemy as they came at him. Using his MP5 with deadly accuracy, Rot dropped several of his attackers until his weapon’s magazine was finally exhausted. Dropping it, he drew his nine-millimeter Beretta from its holster and quickly emptied the clip. When the pistol was spent, Rot began fighting hand-to-hand.
With each passing moment, Sack expected to watch his friend die as assailant after assailant came at him. But Rot had become a machine, sometimes taking them on two at a time. Every fight had a similar outcome as the bodies piled up around him.
And then there was silence.
* * * * *
ROT WAS ON HIS FEET again but still couldn't see. The involuntary, automatic movements had stopped. A light blinded him and then an image coalesced. It was strange at first. Not faces, but colors. Olive green and black. Stripes and stars. There were voices he didn't understand. Familiar words, but they made no sense.
Then he was on the ground, unable to move. One word he discerned. Safe.
And then there was darkness.
* * * * *
ROT AWOKE AT Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany three weeks later. During the skirmish in Afghanistan, he suffered a gunshot wound just inches from his spine, one that narrowly missed his right kidney, and several deep lacerations from edged weapons. But most seriously, he had a head wound the doctors concluded was probably caused by shrapnel from an exploding grenade. They insisted on countless tests before allowing him any visitors, annoying Rot to no end. He had no memory of the incident, and he needed to know what had happened. The staff had assured him, albeit prematurely, that he would make a complete recovery and return to full duty. But they had also emphasized that it would take time.
Sack was at his side as soon as he was allowed. He was anchored to a wheelchair, both of his legs riddled with gunshot wounds. One of them had shattered his left tibia, requiring a titanium rod to be inserted to replace the bone. Two screws protruded from his shin six inches apart, which were periodically adjusted to ensure proper healing.
Despite his injuries, Sack insisted on being Rot's errand boy for the duration of their stay in the hospital. Rot tried pumping his friend for information, but Sack would only smile and say, “I ain’t supposed to tell ya.”
When the doctors were finally satisfied that the head wound would have no permanent effects, they, along with the SEAL’s commanding officer, gave Sack the go-ahead to tell Rot what had happened.
Rot lay in his bed with his head still wrapped in gauze. The nurse had elevated him enough that he could see the royal blue, semi-sheer draperies covering the window. They were closed because the direct light reflecting on the stark white walls sometimes hurt his eyes, an effect he was still suffering from his head wound.
His thoughts were the same as they had been from the first time he awoke in the hospital. They were
of his last mission. A mission, like so many of his other assignments, where he was to take the life of an assigned target. In the past, it had mattered little to him what motivated his superiors to send him to do his work. He had simply followed orders. But his last mission was different. His target was a well-known terrorist leader who was suspected of committing some heinous crimes. Rot agreed, with just the common knowledge of what this man had done, that he probably deserved to die. But still, when the stand-down order had been issued, Rot recalled feeling an almost overwhelming sense of relief. Not because the man’s life had been spared. No, not that. It was the fact that God had spared him from being the instrument that took the man’s life from him.
“Hey, somebody said the pus bucket in this room wanted some ice cream.” Sack’s voice came rolling into the room just ahead of his wheelchair. He was balancing two bowls of what appeared to be either chocolate chip or cookies ‘n cream on his lap, pushing the chair forward with his hands.
“What? They didn't have Neapolitan? Variety is the spice of life, my friend.”
Sack’s expression hardened as he stopped by the bed and regarded Rot.
“What? You gonna tell me you love me?”
“Okay, Rot. Tell me what you remember,” Sack stated flatly as he handed one of the bowls to his friend.
Finally. “I remember everything up to when the choppers came in.”
“That's it?”
Rot thought about it for a minute. Images of the helicopter on the ground in front of him flashed through his mind. “Did the choppers crash?”
“One of 'em went down.”
Rot sat his bowl aside and folded his arms across his chest. “Are you gonna tell me or—”
“It got hit in the rotor by an RPG.”
“Did the crew—?”
“They made it. The rag heads only hit it hard enough to knock it down, and it only dropped about fifteen feet. The co-pilot got his ankle broke and a couple of guys got shot up, but nothin' serious.”
Rot picked up the bowl and took a spoonful of ice cream. Chocolate chip. “Go on.”
Sack looked down at his legs. “Right after that, I got my legs shot out from under my ass.” Suddenly, the big man’s eyes went wide and he cupped a hand over his mouth in mock embarrassment. “Did I just say a bad word?”
“Get stuffed!” Rot laughed, and then gingerly laid his head back on the pillow. He looked at the ceiling in frustration. “Could you, I don't know, maybe tell me the parts I don't already know?”
Sack only smiled.
“What?” Rot shouted.
“You, man.”
“What do ya mean, me?”
Sack sampled another spoonful and winked as he swallowed. “I mean you saved the friggin' day. That's what I mean.”
“Huh?” Rot mumbled through the ice cream in his mouth.
The big man slapped the bed, hard. “I thought you wuz wussin' out on me, man. I thought we were goners 'cause you found religion.”
Rot screwed up his face in confusion. “Are you gonna start makin' sense anytime soon?”
Sack gave him a knowing look. “Got baptized, huh? Got all warm and fuzzy with the man upstairs, huh? You had me fooled, brother. I thought you wuz lost. You had me thinkin' I was a dead man in the desert 'cause you couldn't do yer job.”
A picture was starting to form in Rot’s mind, a picture he wasn't sure he wanted to see.
“After the bird went down, those desert rats came scurrying out of their holes from everywhere. All around us.” Sack’s description was animated. “There must've been fifty or sixty of 'em. They shot off three or four more RPGs and I think I heard a heavy machine gun open up. Now, I don't know how they took the chopper down 'cause they couldn't hit the left cheek of my grandmother's—”
“Mule?” Rot interrupted.
Sack cleared his throat. “Anyway, I wuz down and one of the choppers wuz down but the other one worked just fine. Them mini-guns wuz just a hummin'. They prob'ly waxed twenty of the camel jockeys in the first two minutes. Dug 'em right outta the rocks. The next thing I knew, there you were.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. You wuz standin' over me and the hajjis wuz comin' in. Ya took 'em one, sometimes two, at a time.”
“I took 'em?” Rot asked skeptically.
“You emptied every weapon ya had. Toward the end, you wuz usin' just your bare hands. Nobody could believe the sand rats committed like they did, but the Stalker’s terp said they kept hollerin' 'bout takin' us hostage. Imagine that? You an' me, guests of Ali Baba himself.” Sack shook his head. “You beat those Pakkis down, man. Killed nine of 'em that I counted before the rest ran off.” Sack shook his head again and smiled. “You really shook the sh—” He caught himself. “You saved my life, brother. Probably the lives of that Black Hawk crew, too.”
Rot gave Sack a doubtful look. “C'mon.”
Sack just stared back.
Rot smiled. “How could I do all that and not remember any of it?”
“Training, brother. It's all about training, skill, and desire.”
Rot's smile faded. He could see flashes of images but he couldn't remember doing any of the things that Sack described.
“There's more,” Sack said gravely.
“What?”
“The chopper pilot.” Sack made a distasteful face. “I guess he's the sentimental type.”
“Oh, please.”
“He's puttin' ya in for a commendation. After all the interviews wuz done, they gave ya credit for killin' eleven of the turban heads. I still say it was nine, but who am I to argue?”
Rot's arms dropped to his sides, nearly tipping the bowl over in his lap. SEALs weren't in it for the money, the glory, or bragging rights. They were in it for love of country and the brotherhood shared among teammates. Medal winners were regarded as show boaters unless they were awarded posthumously. But more than that, Rot was developing a conscience.
“What can I tell ya? He's an Army puke.” Sack offered a half smile. “They’re talkin' Silver Star. Maybe even the Navy Cross.”
Rot hung his head. “Oh, no.”
Sack pushed himself a bit closer. “No good deed goes unpunished, brother.”
Rot set the bowl down again on the table next to the bed as he reflected on their mission. He was still having a hard time taking it all in. An image of his wife drifted in, a welcome interruption. He remembered a discussion that he and Carol had had after his baptism, before they left Japan. She was aware of what he did on his deployments. She knew he couldn't discuss details with her, so she did her best to offer him some encouragement.
“Rob,” she had said softly, “if God doesn't want you to kill, then it won't happen, regardless of your orders.” Her head had then leaned softly on his chest. “But just remember, David killed Goliath and many other men in the name of the Lord.” Suddenly, he was thankful that he had no memory of the event.
Sighing, he picked up the bowl and took another spoonful.
Why did I have to kill again?
2 Conundrum
27 August 2009
HIS UNIFORM WAS khaki and smartly pressed, his hands were held loosely at the small of his back, and his burden was weighing heavily upon his soul. Captain Bernard Walsh strolled through the hallways of the world's largest building, the Pentagon. The fifty-year-old was small-framed but sturdy and slight in stature, standing only five foot six. He had been small for his age when he enlisted in the Navy at eighteen, and the other recruits had spared no expense to make sure he knew he was the runt of the litter. But it was his quiet personality and even temperament that had deceived them all into believing he was weak.
He was raised on a dairy farm in Cochran, Georgia. His mother had died as he was being born. His father, a Methodist minister, had little money to purchase modern equipment, so Benny and his three older brothers had worked that farm, and worked it hard. While growing up, he had also been consumed with an insatiable thirst for knowledge. He read anything he coul
d get his hands on. The combination of study and the long hours spent in the fields prepared him well both physically and mentally so that what he lacked in stature he more than made up for in stamina. While he had been able to complete only those physical tasks required to graduate from basic training, he outlasted the other men in any test of endurance.
In his early years, shipmates had been both confounded and amazed at his prowess concerning the opposite sex. His features, no one could deny, were striking. Cleanly shaven head, chiseled jaw line, and razor-sharp, gunmetal gray eyes that, it was believed, could see through bulkheads. He could pierce his adversaries through the heart, offer comfort to those close to him, or disarm the most disagreeable of sorts with those eyes. But with the ladies, it was the uniform that never failed him, and the “whites” always worked best.
Benny thought of himself as an extroverted introvert, being equally comfortable barking commands in combat situations or standing back at dinner parties observing the people around him while they hardly took notice of his presence. He had the uncanny ability to accurately size up anyone he came in contact with, and could do so in an instant. This fact was well known among the upper echelons, and there was no doubt in Benny's mind that this was the reason he had attained his current assignment.
The halls Benny strode through were brightly lit, their gray floors polished to a high gloss. The walls had been painted stark white and were dotted with maps detailing both the interior and exterior of the building, placed there to assist newcomers in finding their way throughout the massive structure. There were paintings depicting various officers, battles, and machines of war from different periods spanning the more than 225 years of American history. And there were highly disciplined, heavily armed Marine guards whose intense stares, under different circumstances, would have made passersby by more than a little uncomfortable. Mounted in the ceiling at the center of every intersection were inverted domes of smoked glass that housed security devices of every type, monitoring the comings and goings of everyone who had business within.