A New World: Untold Stories (19 page)

The term ‘airborne’ implies some graceful maneuver through the air. What happens is anything but. Coming off a steep five-foot embankment, the vehicle sails for a very short distance before the front end noses over. Gabe is thrown forward into a deploying airbag as the front end hits a sand bar next to a wide, but shallow river.

The front wheels hit along with the bumper, digging deep into the sand. The forward momentum is instantly brought to halt and the rear end continues upward. The windshield breaks along the crack with shards of glass thrown forward. Almost tipping all the way over, the rear of the vehicle pauses in the air momentarily. The momentum spent, it crashes back to the sand, slamming down to the sand bar with a jarring crunch.

Gabe is thrown back in his seat as the truck thuds down with the spent airbag hanging in his lap. Momentarily confused, he sees the river just past a thin strip of sand. He wonders why the motion of the truck has stopped. Stepping on the accelerator doesn’t bring the anticipated reaction which confuses him even more. A thin wisp of steam escapes from under a warped hood. Suddenly aware of his situation, clarity returning in a heartbeat, he reaches for the door handle. Throwing it open to the sound of screeching metal, he scrambles outside, almost losing his balance as he hops to the sand. Stumbling, he starts toward the river.

“That’ll be far enough, my friend,” a voice calls from behind.

Turning, Gabe sees several armed men standing along the embankment above with their trucks parked behind.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice. You can walk to us or we can come get you. I don’t think you’ll like it much if we have to chase your ass down,” one of the men continues.

Gabe admits defeat. His shoulders slump as he turns and walks through the sand to the embankment. He has no idea why the men want him and would go through the trouble of chasing him down. The reason can’t be a good one though as it certainly isn’t a rescue mission. His mind races with possibilities as he trudges through the alternating hard and soft surface.

Perhaps if I told them who I am a part of and lure them north?

Maybe his credentials will be enough for them to let him go. He can tell them he’s heading to a sanctuary and they will be welcomed if they delivered him. So many thoughts and ideas crowd into his mind. He could threaten, cajole, plead, offer. He decides to watch their body language and see which option might have the best effect.

If none of them work, he’ll have to figure out an escape plan; make like he’s going along with everything and bide his time. When the timing is right, he’ll make a break for it. Gabe momentarily ponders making a run for it anyway, but realizes that he would be dead before his feet even got wet. He clambers up the steep slope, coming to stand before the men. Surrounded, he begins to tell them who he is.

“Sorry, bud,” is all he hears before feeling a tremendous hit to the back of his head.

Gabe is barely able to grasp that he’s falling forward before the world goes dark.

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He isn’t sure if the pounding in his head or his coming semi-conscious is the first thing he notices. Regardless, he is aware of both. The inside of his head feels like an ice pick stabbing him with each heartbeat. As awareness grows, Gabe feels a hard, bumpy surface under him. Some of the ridges are sharper than the others and press into his side. Shifting slightly to get more comfortable, he opens his eyes to semi-darkness.

Not moving and trying to still the pounding in his head, he notes light reflecting off what appears to be rock walls. Shadows waver and dance across the rough surfaces and he can hear faint voices drifting through what he now takes to be a cavern. His movement brings the sound of a metal chain clinking together and he feels chilled to the bone.

With effort, he raises to a sitting position to find that he is, in fact, in a cavern of some sort with his hands chained to a rock wall. Looking around, he sees that he’s in a small alcove which cuts off the view from where the light and voices are coming. Without any outside light to judge anything by, he’s not sure how long he’s been out or where he is. He could have been out for days and traveled far, or he could still be in the vicinity of where he was captured.

Within the wavering shadows, he sees an outline of a person expanding on the floor before him. The shadow stretches long and grows in size. A man, silhouetted against the light behind, appears and stops before him. Observing that Gabe is awake, he grunts.

“So, you finally decided to join us. I just want you to know that you have the honor of being the first. You should take pride in that fact,” the man says…and leaves.

What the fuck does that mean? Whatever it is, it can’t be good
, Gabe thinks, trying to hear words in the murmur of conversation in the cavern beyond his sight.

He struggles in his chains but remains firmly attached to the wall. He tries to find a way out of the manacles but they are too firmly attached. Minutes pass while he shivers in the coolness of the underground chamber. More shadows grow along the floor and several men appear. They unshackle him from the wall, but leave his hands chained together. Hoisting him up, he’s guided through narrow passages before being led up a flight of stairs cut into the stone.

Fear builds. First he is chained and now is being led toward some unknown destination. The man’s ominous words echo in Gabe’s mind. He looks for an opportunity to escape, but he’s surrounded by a group of men at all times. Emerging into the light, he blinks at the brightness. Once his eyes adjust, he notes that the light is actually subdued.

It’s either morning or evening
, he thinks, his head twisting left and right, looking for an opening to make his getaway.

He’s thrown into the back of a truck, two men scrambling in after him. Soon, they are motoring down a winding road that intersects a highway. Along with the two men, the bed of the pickup is filled with tools; shovels, picks, and others. Another truck pulls alongside and a jolt of fear passes through him.

Is that a cross in the back? Oh fuck! Please don’t let this be what I think it is
.

It’s not long before the truck he’s riding in slows and then stops. The other pickup pulls forward beyond his line of sight. He twists about but can’t make out anything beyond the cab of the truck. Sounds of digging and heavy hammering come from in front, but he can’t see what it is making the noise.

After time, he’s hauled out of the truck bed. Standing by the side of a large highway, he looks toward the front. A single cross lies beside a hole dug into the soft dirt of the shoulder. A pile of freshly dug up earth lies around the large, wooden structure. Realizing what is about to transpire, he struggles in his bonds. Something hits the back of his knees and he crumples to the ground, pain shooting up his leg.

He is manhandled to the cross and tied to it, his hands stretched out on each cross member. The cross is lifted and slides into the hole, settling down with a heavy thump. Gabe’s toes barely reach a ledge of wood bolted to the front.

His headache forgotten, Gabe is flooded with a rising terror. Warmth floods down his legs. His heart beat pounds in his ears.

This can’t really be happening
, he thinks, light-headed with fear.

His feet are tied in place and a man steps into his range of vision. Gabe thinks it’s the same man who momentarily visited him in the cave. Sunlight, glowing almost orange, bathes the man’s face. A shiver runs down his spine as Gabe looks into eyes that seem to glow with madness.

“You are the first and therefore will be remembered. The demons that have been unleashed and run abroad must be satiated. This is an honor for you. You should feel privileged,” the man states.

“Get me off this thing. You have no idea who I am,” Gabe says, struggling.

He wants to convey that he knows a place of safety, that he can provide that for them. However, the thoughts racing through his mind don’t allow for that kind of clarity. He tries to get his message out but only babbles.

“You would forsake such an honor as this?” the man asks, sounding incredulous.

Gaining some control over this thoughts, Gabe says, “I’ll do anything, just release me. I can guide you to safety. I promise, I won’t let the demons hurt you.”

The man chuckles as if genuinely amused. “You can’t hurt the chosen ones. But the demon’s thirst must be quenched.”

With that, the man turns and vanishes from Gabe’s line of sight.

Gabe screams and writhes to break free but the ropes are too tight. He hears the sound of truck doors closing behind him and shortly after, the vehicles leave, their sound fading into the distance. Gabe is left alone, not knowing where he is, only that he is tied to a cross beside an empty highway.

Below him, the shadow of the cross and outline of his body stretch along the gravel and dirt lining the sides of the asphalt. Looking up, he sees tall buildings rising in the distance, the downtown of some city. On the other side of the highway, the sides of some buildings are visible through a screen of trees.

Time passes as he looks down the road, hoping that someone…anyone will drive by and rescue him. The freeway remains empty except for an occasional bird winging its way across the pavement. He hears the chirping of birds in the trees across the road, but all else is silent. Slowly, the shadow of the cross elongates.

It’s evening and night is approaching
, he thinks, his body aching from being tied in the same position, shoulders strained from having to support his weight.

Realization floods through him. Gabe knows what the madman meant by demons. The mutated ones were susceptible to UV rays and therefore favored the dark…the night. His heart pounds against his chest walls and he struggles anew without success.

The shadows stretch longer and the light dims even more. Gabe ignores the burn on his wrists as he tries anything and everything to free himself. He’ll even take cutting through his hands if that will mean he’s free. He knows the mutated one’s ferocious nature and what they are capable of. Striving to break free, he can’t loosen the ropes. The light fades, turning darker with each passing minute, and then, fails entirely.

Fear…intense terror rolls through him. His mouth goes dry from panic. Somewhere in the distance, coming from deep within the dark of the night, a shriek calls. Faint, but definite. Closer screams answer and soon, the night is filled with high-pitched shrieks.

Gabe lets loose another warm stream down his leg. The stars above give some light, but not enough to see very far. Everything beyond a few feet is hidden within an inky void of complete darkness. Very faint, he hears the slapping sound of feet running on a hard surface. He twists and turns violently. The cross rocks in place from his efforts.

That’s it. I can rock it until it falls
, he thinks, working his weight back and forth.

Focused on his attempt to free the cross from the ground, he doesn’t notice the sound of running drawing closer. The cross is moving more and more with each effort. A shriek pierces his concentration. Looking up, just at the range of his vision, he makes out a ghostly face staring at him in the darkness. Its mouth is stretched wide open in a scream directed at the heavens. The demons have arrived.

Gabe frantically rocks the cross as the mutated one charges. More arrive behind the first, each screaming with anticipation. Sheer terror halts any further actions by Gabe. He is rooted into place, watching the pale figures close in. He observes in shock as his shirt is shredded from his body. In slow motion, he watches his stomach ripped open, thick blood flowing out with his intestines falling toward the ground. His screams join with the mutated ones. His last conscious knowledge is white hot agony ripping through his body.

FAN

FICTION

Written by Mike VanDeMark

I always hated this part. Not the jump itself, but the sensation of the unknown waiting below. The red light lit up, indicating our track to the drop zone. Ten minutes until the plunge. Looking around at my team members, I see them going through their own pre-jump routines. Senior Airman James “Jimmy” Guthrie is built like a linebacker, with a standard issue high and tight, and hands that look like they could crush rocks. His biggest habit is to put a new stick of gum in his mouth before checking his straps and equipment. Jimmy hails from somewhere in Montana where he grew up on a cattle ranch. Besides Jimmy, there is Senior Airman Steve Tackett who joined the Air Force a few years out of high school. He’s a scrawny, blonde-headed kid, but smart. I’ve heard rumor he was some kind of artist, and even had some of his work displayed in a museum back home in Jersey. Steve’s a mumbler; talking his way through his checks, just him and his invisible personal assistant. Me, I like to take a moment to silently go over the mission in my head, sounds simple enough, but I’m responsible for the six of us.

Six members of this team all told; three handlers, and our dogs. This is the kind of mission we were created for; small teams of handlers and their dogs to secure a landing zone while the Combat Controllers, commonly called PJs, set up an area for further operations. Simple really, at least on paper; drop in, relieve the PJs so they can fall back to a designated command center, and wait for everyone else to finally join the party within forty eight hours.

The dogs for this operation were selected based on the mission needs, and their abilities. Jimmy’s dog, Ringo, is the lead patrol dog. He’ll work point and eventually take up position in the location deemed most likely to expect contact. He’s a brute of a dog and intimidating to look at with his short dark coat and black band around his eyes. Being a Belgium Malenois, he is fairly high-strung, but smart enough to know when he needs to sit still. To look at him and Jimmy together, you’d see they are a perfect pair.

Steve has brought along Marco, another patrol dog but not quite as good as Ringo. He has lighter markings and a tongue I swear is two feet long. Marco is also a Malenois, but can be a bit flakey, and has been known to shut down if not rested properly. Luckily this mission doesn’t require us to extend ourselves for more than four hours at a stretch thanks to the PJs taking rotations with us on the listening and observation posts.

I’ve brought the best dog I’ve ever worked, another Belgium Malenois named Oefje (OH-fee). His fur is a little longer than the others with chocolate and chestnut colors. His name is Dutch for “little devil” and it fits him well as he has been known to try to eat his handlers with no warning. I’ve never had any problems with him; we bonded quickly and are almost extensions of each other. He seems to know what I want just by my body position and tone of voice; I’ve never had another dog like him. Oefje is our boomer dog. He and I are tasked to clear areas of explosives. Normally on a mission like this we would use three straight patrol dogs, but our intelligence has shown us the buildings in the area we intend to ultimately secure may have been used as an I.E.D warehouse by the local resistance. Oefje is also a patrol dog, and damn good too if I do say so myself. He once detected an incoming contact a half mile out, long before we confirmed it. He got a steak for that one.

Five minute warning and my ears pop as the C-17 Globemaster crew start the depressurization process to open the ramp. I check to make sure my partner is secured in his sling, and his basket muzzle is on snug to avoid any unfortunate accidents on the way down. The dogs have all been screened and trained for these jumps, but they get the jitters just like us. I just wish they could invent a plug for the other end. I’ve been lucky so far and have never fallen into the results of a nervous dog’s evacuated bowels on the way down. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen.

Two minutes and we are up, shuffling to the now open ramp, checking our equipment one last time, and chambering a round in our weapons. It’s better to do it here because no matter how well-oiled the bolt is, it’s always loud when you are trying to be quiet. The roar of the engines is muffled by the sound of the wind swirling around the tail of the aircraft. The earplugs help, but our partners don’t have that luxury. Looking down at the big brown furry beast strapped to my midsection, I see the nervous tension in his eyes. I give him a scratch behind the ear and a pat on the shoulder to let him know I’m here and it’s going to be ok.

Green light and it’s time. I always like to be the first one out the door. In the grand scheme of things it really doesn’t matter the order as we are all out in a matter of seconds, but I like to lead my troops from the front. The first step is always a doozy as they say. One moment your standing on a solid surface, the next your stomach is in your throat, and you do your best to overcome the desire to scream in either pure exhilaration or unrelenting, bladder emptying fear. This time it’s a bit of both for me as I can feel my partner start to get fussy in his harness.

This is a relatively low drop from twelve thousand feet above the desert floor so the free fall is blissfully short. After seemingly forever, my altimeter hits the magic number and I pull the chute. The sudden deceleration tugs at my harness and makes my dog feel like he weighs three hundred pounds as the inertia of free fall is redirected into his sling as well. I hear the canopy fill out above me with a snap and I look up to verify it deployed correctly. Everything looks good so I begin scanning the area to identify the drop zone. Lowering my night vision, I look below me and find the infrared beacon set by the PJs on the ground. Time to let them know we’re here.

Reaching up to the throat mic I call out, “Papa ground, Kilo inbound approximately two mikes out. Over.”

“Kilo inbound, Papa ground copy. Area is clear. Winds out of the south-south west at twelve knots. Ground member will meet you when you are down for brief. Papa ground out.”

Now I just settle in and steer us down enjoying the last peaceful moments we will have for a while. It really is beautiful, floating among the clouds and watching the world below slowly rise to meet our feet. The sensation of falling is heightened at night with NVGs. I say this because, instead of enjoying the panoramic view as you descend, you tend to focus on one area a little more to make sure you don’t lose sight of it and end up in the wrong back yard. That would be bad.

Landing with a wiggling dog strapped to you is never a graceful event, I don’t care what anyone says. Not only are you worried about snapping your own legs, you have to worry about landing on your dog and injuring him, effectively ending the mission.

Seeing the ground coming up faster, I flare and try to reduce the impact as much as possible to avoid injuring my dog or myself. It isn’t pretty but at least we don’t bounce. Once down, I pull in my chute and secure it, then check on Oefje before calling to our contact again.

“Papa ground, Kilo one actual, three down waiting further.”

Quickly, I receive the reply. “Papa ground copies your arrival, and I have visual. Papa two will be approaching from your seven. Welcome to the party. Papa one out.” Short and to the point, I like these guys.

Normally when one thinks of Air Force troops, they think of pilots or mechanics. There are two combat trained career fields which often get overlooked, and I’m just fine with that. First and foremost are the PJ’s: Para rescue/combat control teams. These are the true special operation forces of the Air Force. Highly trained in all aspects of special ops, and additionally specialize in setting up ground communications in hostile zones for the aircraft flying sorties overhead and, when possible, to set up a new air base. Their other specialty is to rescue downed pilots and air crew in hostile territory. These guys have huge brass balls and are the stars behind the scenes, even the fly-boys will admit to that.

My team and I belong to the second set of troops; Security Forces, formally Security Police. We also have specialties; my team members and I are combat dog handlers. Our current mission is to follow the PJs into hostile areas and free them up to establish communications. After this has been done, we’ll scout the areas, expanding our perimeter to allow for the ground combat Security Forces troops to come in and set up more permanent defensive positions. These teams are comprised of forty-four members each and are very skilled at what they do. Once they are in place, I’ll take my dog and clear any buildings of explosives which may be present. Most of the time we come up empty or with a few rounds of ammo here and there, but it’s the one time that we do find something which makes our job necessary.

Looking to my left, through my NVGs I see someone headed our way. Verifying it to be our contact, I begin the process of releasing my dog from his sling. I learned the hard way to take him out of the sling before removing his muzzle. Yeah, I have a scar from that one.

Approaching, but keeping a safe distance from the dogs, the PJ says, “Tech Sergeant Hal Miller.” He says introducing himself. “Glad to have you with us. We have a perimeter set up at about five hundred meters out in all directions. So far it’s been quiet with no unusual activity. As far as we can tell, they don’t know we are here yet.”

“I’m Staff Sergeant Pete Collins. These are Senior Airmen Guthrie and Tackett. Glad to be here,” I say returning the introduction. “We need a place to let the dogs take care of business, stash our gear, and then we can set up.”

He nods over to what might pass for a tree line in this arid climate. “Over there is where we have our latrine set up. It’s cat holes for us, and if you don’t mind, we’d like to have you do the same for your dogs. Sorry pups,” he says, grinning at our dogs. “Your gear can be stowed with ours about fifty meters over there.” He indicates a small area of what looks like scrub brush in the opposite direction from the bathroom area.

“Oh, four star facilities I see. You guys get all the cool stuff,” I say with a grin.

I motion for Jim and Steve to break their dogs over at the designated latrine area and ensure at least one of them has an entrenching tool to scoop poop and bury it.

While they are away, I check over the supplies we brought down with us to make sure it all made it. Our version of packing light is anything but. We each carry five pounds of dog food along with three gallons of potable water in addition to our normal load out. We are supposed to be resupplied in a couple of days, but you never know how things will go until they happen. At a pound and a half of food each day per dog, it gives us a little wiggle room just in case.

After the guys get back, I take Oefje over to the latrine area and let him do his thing. I don’t know why, but he always seems to have to take a crap after we get down. Better on the ground than in the air, I guess. After making a deposit in the hole dug by Steve, I cover it and head back to the others.

Grabbing our gear, we make our way over to where we can safely stow it and stake out the dogs while we get everything settled and make ready to head out. Miller gives us a rundown of where everyone is, along with call signs, and makes suggestions about where we should set up based on their observations. I look over the maps and wind readings, deciding to send my guys out where the PJs suggest, and make arrangements to be relieved in about four hours. Jim and I set out, leaving Steve and Marco at the command center as a reserve. It wasn’t long before Jim and Ringo earned their supper.

Sitting at my post I hear Mac call out to me, “Kilo one, Kilo three, I’ve got possible contact about three hundred meters out.”

“Copy three. Keep me advised if anything develops,” I respond.

Scanning the area with my night vision goggles, and watching my dog, I keep an eye out for any uninvited guests who may want to crash the party. The tension of conducting this type of operation is taxing on the handler just as much as on the dog. The dog is only concerned about his surroundings, I have to worry about the surroundings and the dog. He’s never let me down, but we all have bad days, the dogs included.

About an hour after his first report, I get another call from Jim. “Kilo one, I have confirmed contact about two hundred meters from my position at a bearing of about 270. It looks like we have somebody watching us.”

“Copy three; I’ll pass it on to the PJs,” I respond.

Great, they know we’re here now. I wonder how long they’ve been out there?

“Papa ground, Kilo one. Kilo three is reporting a contact two hundred meters from his position bearing 270 degrees,” I report.

“Kilo one stand by.” The radio goes silent for what feels like an eternity as I wait for the PJs to get back with me. “Kilo one, let your handler know I’ve got a team coming up behind him to assist, over.”

“Copy, will relay now.”

Switching the transmitter over again, I relay the message to Jim so he knows not to shit his pants when somebody suddenly materializes behind him. We’re already keyed up from being on post and it wouldn’t be good to give the enemy something to laugh at us for, though I suppose it could help point them out; just shoot at the laughing bushes.