Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (16 page)

Yes
, he thought,
you had to have proven yourself with special skills. You had to have achieved the status of elite in your specialty.
But there were lots of
those
men and women walking the earth. Warriors and doctorates were a dime a dozen, as were great actors. People who achieved all of the above were asked to join the firm.

It had been eight years since he had been recruited. His world back then had forced his mind to store memories by numerical context. It was a survival mechanism conjured up by gray matter that was being pulverized by practically constant violence. The location, date, or mission didn’t register anymore—everything was recalled by the number. Even today, so many years later, those numbers came floating back into his mind.

The heat index in the jungle was 130.

Two was the number of men they lost that morning.

The cost of the lead that had killed his friends was a number as well, $1.03.

When his unit finally caught up with the hunter-killer team it was chasing, it had ended quickly. He remembered standing over the enemy’s fallen and
evaluating their equipment. State of the art holographic optics adorned weapons bristling with infrared scopes and laser range finders. Practically every rifle was new—sporting accurate barrels and quality triggers.

A comparison to his team’s equipment was inevitable. Despite working for the richest country in the world, his men carried worn out rifles that never hit the same spot twice. They were forced to use iron sights, poor triggers, and scratched up
, old binoculars that had probably first seen service in the Korean conflict. The body armor worn by the corpses at his feet weighed a third as much as the unit strapped to his chest, yet protected twice as well.

There wasn’t any mystery why so many body bags were being shipped home to the States. They were fighting a foe that outstripped their technology by 30 years. They had lost Mark today; his three kids would never see their father again. Danny had fallen as well—his disabled mother wouldn’t be receiving any more of her son’s pay.

The irony was persistent that day. Normally his feelings of injustice would fade quickly, overridden by the responsibilities of command and a certain satisfaction with victory. But not that day. The dead men scattered around his feet weren’t elite warriors—most probably weren’t even military. They hadn’t attended the backbreaking schools of war located at Fort Bragg, Quantico, or San Diego. The corpses littering the small patch of unnamed jungle that day weren’t even that well led or organized.

Yet, despite the sweat, strain, and sacrifice of the world’s finest training, these ragtag bands of men were holding their own. They did so because of money, or more specifically, the advantages technology could provide on the battlefield.

Another defining number was 52. He had tried every requisition, purchase request, and avenue possible to get his men better equipment. The responses, 52 of them, were always the same—no. No budget. No appropriation. No need.

Looking down at the enemy gear, he felt more frustration. They weren’t even allowed to utilize captured equipment as a spoil of war. It too had to be inventoried and shipped back to the
States.

As his team searched the dead, they separated what they found into various piles. Weapons here, personal effects there, and money and valuables in the middle. All of the men they had killed that day carried wads of cash, gold watches, and bracelets—rings with jewels that cost more than his annual salary. Every piece was inventoried, photographed, and packed for shipment back to Miami.

The four-hour hump back to their camp had mellowed his mood somewhat. Their weekly resupply had arrived via Blackhawk while they were out on the op. The always-uplifting event dulled the edge of his anger even more.

One of the men subscribed to a hometown newspaper, the airmail delivering a three-week-old copy. As he passed out the bundles of envelopes and small packages, something on the front page caught his eye. The paper’s headline story was a piece on how welfare benefits for the people of Pennsylvania exceeded $50,000 per year.

There was another number for his mind to index—50K. Standing there in that South American jungle - filthy, hot, and suffering from crotch-rot, foot fungus, and diarrhea, he experienced an epiphany. He could resign, move to Pittsburgh and double his standard of living without working. No one would be shooting at him, and his body would no doubt last twice as long without the abuse. Best yet, he wouldn’t be required to write letters explaining to grieving family members why their son wouldn’t be coming home.

The next morning, there were visitors. Some prick from the State Department and his entourage added to the burden by flying in and demandi
ng attention. The man had three bodyguards who stayed with him as he toured the forward operations center. Each of them carried state of the art weapons, load gear, and optics. Better yet, they were shaven, didn’t smell to high heaven, and not a single one of them had scratched his balls during the entire visit. Nope, not a single case of jungle-sack among them.

“How do I get a gig like yours?” he had asked one of the security men.

“When’s your commitment up?”

“Next month.”

The man produced a business card. “Call this number before you re-up. The food’s better, the pay is great, and we get to play with all the new toys.”

Five weeks later, he accepted the offer letter from Darkwater, Incorporated, and never looked back.

A light tap on the door signaled his men had returned. The brief radio transmission had forewarned him that something important had occurred on the base. Now it was time to debrief and determine next steps.

Moses opened the door and peered inside before maneuvering his huge frame through the opening. He was quickly followed by Grim, the team’s best shooter.

The two men were dressed in the uniforms of military police, complete with proper insignias and name badges.
Again
, thought Deke,
the actors on the stage were in appropriate costume, given the base was silly-thick with Army cops at the moment.

Moses was excited
. “Somebody tried to kill that dude and his wife. They weren’t in the room, and now they’ve bugged out. Nobody knows where they’re at. It was a professional hit job. The power was cut to the building. They used silenced weapons, and nobody got a good look at the shooters.”

Grim chimed in, “Something spooked the husband. He freaked, and they moved out of their room. Here’s the interesting part; Westfield and his boys are all a twitter over something the wife said. Rumor has it that our deceased
Commander in Chief told her the Independents weren’t responsible for the attempt on his life.”

Deke was puzzled by the report
. “I read their depositions, and there wasn’t anything in there about that.”

Deke paced the office floor for a few seconds before continuing. “This is the sort of information the client wants to know. I’ll fill him in immediately. Good job, guys.”

The enhanced cell phone buzzed in Deke’s pocket. He set down the duffle bag he was packing to answer the voice on the other end of the line.

“You called?”

“Yes, sir. There has been an event here at Bliss that I thought you should be aware of.” Deke went on to explain what his men had uncovered.

The odd hum of static, generated by the satellite relay, was his only response.

“Are you there, sir?”

“Yes . . . yes . . .
I’m processing this new information.”

Almost a minute went
by while Deke stood quietly, waiting on instructions.

“There’s been a change in plans,” the warbled voice announced.

“Yes, sir.”

“The woman who claims to have new knowledge about the assassination attempt on our former
president—we need to interview her in private.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t follow.”

“We need to interview this woman alone, without the act being common knowledge. I want you to detain her and find someplace where she can be debriefed in private.”

Deke scratched his head
, the whole thing not making any sense. “The husband’s not going to just let us waltz off with her into the sunset. What are we supposed to do about him?”

The response sounded especially cold over the connection. “He has a warrant out for his arrest, a known fugitive. Don’t let him become a factor in all this. Don’t let him get in the way.”

“So let me clarify—you want us to eliminate this Bishop character and grab his wife? I’m going to need a little more justification and a lot more manpower and assets.”

The voiced boomed through the small speaker. “You don’t need shit! This is a matter of national security, and directly related to the security of your contracted protectorate.”

Deke pulled the phone away from his ear, sorely tempted to disconnect the call. Thoughts of going back to his North Carolina home and scavenging for food entered his mind. He fully understood that if he didn’t accept the job, someone else would. Besides, the client had a point.

After another pause, the voice continued. “Moreland is the new
president.”

Deke was stunned, the news causing his mind to race in an effort to analyze what it all
entailed.

“I understand,” he
answered meekly. “We’ll get on it right away. I’m still going to need more personnel and equipment.”

“Send me the list of what you need.”

The connection went dead.

Once again, everyone’s attention in Meraton was drawn to the sky. Main Street was bustling with preparations for the day’s opening of the market. Stalls were being set up, and the air was filled with the
aroma of baking bread, cooking meat, and the promise of commerce. Everyone was in a cheery mood because it was Christmas Eve. Several shoppers were waiting, last minute gifts on their minds.

Overriding the din, a distant whining noise soon morphed into a constant thumping of the air. Pete was talking with Betty when the sound interrupted their conversation. Pete looked to the northwest with a scowl, “Tell me that’s not Santa and the reindeers—he’s early.”

The small speck gradually grew larger as the Blackhawk helicopter zoomed overhead. Two black stars were painted on the fuselage directly above the stenciled “US Army.” The craft buzzed low over Main Street and then made a slight banking turn above the open desert to the south.

Betty shielded her eyes from the sun and watched. “News of the market must be spreading, Pete. We’ve got customers flying in from all over.”

Her remark drew a chuckle from the town’s bartender, who winked and then strode off to see what all the fuss was about.

The large chopper approached Main on the outer edge of town, slowly losing altitude and
lifting its nose. A billowing veil of desert sand rose into the air, surrounding the craft with a thick brown and yellow haze. 

The helicopter landed gently on the ground, i
ts powerful motor slowing to a redundant idle. As Pete and several other onlookers gathered at the end of the market, three dark images emerged from the cloud.

“I guess word of my new distillery has spread all over—even the army
has dropped in to sample a shot,” commented Pete as he watched the soldiers come closer.