The Golden Crystal (2 page)

A mortar shell blasted fifty yards from his location, opening yet another hole in a previously unknown cave system. A sergeant, Arturo Rodriguez, nearer to the explosion rolled back on his heels and fell backwards onto the sand. “Shit!” he yelled, “forget these Republican Guard guys, the friendly fire’s gonna kill us first!” 

Bryce dismissed the man’s complaint and instead focused again down the sights of his M-16 assault rifle. The mortar blast had opened the roof of a large underground cavern, and Bryce could see numerous Iraqi Republican Guard units scurrying away from the collapsing rock formation. One of the men lifted a gun, aiming toward Bryce’s team on the hill. The man next to him, Joseph Strahan, fired two rounds down into the cave, dropping the Iraqi soldier before he could shoot. 

“Nice shot, soldier,” Bryce said. He and the other four U.S. Army Rangers next to him on the dune waited for a moment to see if any more Iraqi Guards would run out from the cavern, but none came. 

They inched forward, slowly reaching the top of the dune. More artillery shells smashed down onto the sandy field in front of them, and each explosion caused the team to retract a bit, tensing in anticipation of a sudden counterattack. 

A break in the dusty air came momentarily, and Bryce could see the city of Samarra, Iraq to the northwest; the Tigris to its left, winding through the sand and rock plains like a mirage. Immediately ahead, he saw the huts and tents of the Iraqi Republican Guard, and men running about in preparation. Mortar blasts continued to launch debris and rock upwards, causing even more commotion among the opposing forces. 

“There,” Bryce called out to the rest of his team, “that’s where we’re headed. We need to secure the perimeter first, and Strahan and I will grab the package. Eyes up; on me.” He didn’t wait for his teams’ response; they knew the mission objectives. 

He rose to his feet; the Ranger team following. Master Sergeant Andreeson and the kid, Private First Class Jason O’Neil, took the left flank. They ran a straight-line path down the front side of the dune, pacing their advance carefully. The small camp they were ordered to infiltrate the small command and weapons depot from the south, just outside the city of Samarra, and to locate and retrieve the “package” — a list of firing orders and coordinates. Their cover would be an ongoing onslaught of artillery fire, raining down on the area from the
north,
hopefully causing the Iraqi soldiers to anticipate an attack from that direction. His team spread out over the wide expanse of sand dunes and rocky plains, and he heard his second-in-command recite the mission objectives to the rest of the men through the radio transmitter. 

At least, they knew
their
mission objectives,
he thought. 

Captain Reynolds, however, had one more objective; one that was not known to the other members of the small five-man Ranger team. Prior to their airdrop, Major Dwight Maynes pulled Bryce aside near the cockpit of the cargo plane and pulled him away from the rest of his men. The noise in the fuselage was deafening, but thanks to the ear-mounted two-way radios they’d been equipped with, the noise-cancelling devices prevented them from needing to shout. 

“Reynolds — there’s one more thing.”

“What’s that, sir?” Bryce asked. 

“In addition to your current objectives, I need you to locate another package.” Maynes answered. 

“Yes sir. What’s the item?” 

“It’s a book — a notebook, I guess. I have no idea what’s inside; just locate and retrieve it, and bring it back. I’ll take care of it from there.”

“Affirmative. So, what exactly is this all for? I mean, a notebook? And you don’t even know what’s inside?” Bryce asked. 

“Look, Bryce. I don’t understand it all either. This is definitely a need-to-know mission, and — “ he looked to the men in the cargo plane’s interior preparing for their jump, “I expect that you’ll keep this under wraps as well.”

“Of course. Say no more. See you on the other side, Major.” He turned and walked down the middle of the fuselage, the two facing rows of seated combat soldiers suited and ready for deployment. Bryce nodded at them and took his place at the front of the line, readying himself for the drop. 

Another mortar shell explosion brought him back to the present. So far, the attack had been executed flawlessly. The Iraqis didn’t seem to know there were enemy troops on the ground in their area, and the Ranger team was moving steadily and quickly toward the camp.

 O’Neil and Andreeson reached the clearing on the southwest side of the camp, and went prone behind a cluster of boulders. On the right flank, Sergeant Rodriguez moved into position and prepared to strafe the outside of the quartermaster’s tent. Bryce lifted a fist to his head, then counted to three on his fingers. At three, he lifted his gun and squinted down the scope of his assault rifle. Next to him, Corporal Joseph Strahan did the same. 

“Mortar team, open fire.” His own men also opened fire on the eight scattered tents and mobile buildings.

Bryce’s order signaled the beginning of the attack. While the mortar unit had been laying covering and distracting fire from the north, the real fireworks were just beginning. Bryce had timed their attack with the mortar team, stationed less than a mile away, and now the infantry unit there was using all three of their mortars in tandem, launching explosive rounds on the camp once every other second. 

The effect was chaotic — the twenty or thirty Iraqi men hunkered down in the tents and buildings snapped into action. They ran in every direction, some chopped down immediately by Ranger fire, and others hit by falling mortar rounds. The few that weren’t hit ran for the tunnels and bunkers surrounding the base. 

Bryce shouted orders as the team closed in. “Strahan, with me! O’Neil, Andreeson, keep punching through that line! Don’t let them get to the 50-cal!” 

He popped two shots into the nearest Iraqi, a man running for his life unfortunately in the direction of Captain Reynolds’ gun barrel. The next two Iraqis almost made it to the sandbagged outcropping just to the west of the base, where a 50-caliber machine gun turret had been set up. Bryce missed the first man, but Strahan clipped his leg just before he reached the half-circle of sandbags. The second man dove for cover behind his fallen comrade, just as a mortar round blasted into the ground and turned the whole area into a crater. 

Taking advantage of the moment, Bryce sprinted for the main circle of tents at the center of the camp. Strahan followed close behind, while the other three American soldiers continued their pummeling of the Iraqi camp. Bryce hoped to get in and out in less than two minutes — an eternity in the midst of battle. 

As he entered the nearest tent, his in-ear radio squawked to life. “Captain! O’Neil’s down!” The voice was Martin Andreeson’s, a man who’d been part of Bryce’s team for only a few months. “We’re under heavy fire from our six, sir! These bastards came out of nowhere!”

From their six?
Bryce’s mind went into overdrive.
How was that possible? Thermal scans showed no movement outside the 500-yard perimeter surrounding the base.
Further, ground-penetrating radar confirmed that the Iraqi troops were mostly above-ground, and not in the small tunnel system that ran throughout the area. 

But they were under fire from the west, behind O’Neil and Andreeson’s position. “I’m guessing about five, maybe six men, sir,” Andreeson continued, and Bryce could hear the sound of gunfire in between the soldier’s words. “Heavy firepower, and they seem to know our exact locations. I’m trying to hold them back, but it’s — “

The voice in Byrce’s ear died, replaced by an eerie silence.
Shit. 

Two of his men were down, and he still hadn’t located
either
objective. Thankfully, moments like this were Bryce’s forte, and the reason he was in charge of the small Ranger unit. His mind ran through the different scenarios while he continued searching the tents.
Why hadn’t the scans picked up the enemy forces to the west? Even with the river, they’d have seen their advance, and would have warned me. 

Bryce came to a small tent, almost dead-center of the camp. Strahan picked off two straggling Republican Guardsmen who were fumbling with their weapons, and then entered the tent behind Captain Reynolds. Out of the corner of his eye, Bryce saw an oddly placed satchel on top of a filing cabinet in the corner. “Bryce, what’s up? We’ve got two guys down, and they were hit
from behind.
Who the hell was doing recon for us?” 

“Yeah, I know. Just help me find the package and we can get out of here.” He motioned to the other tent, and Strahan nodded and walked over. Bryce waited for Strahan to leave the tent, and he grabbed at the satchel. Rifling through the contents — nothing but paper and maps — he threw the bag aside. 

And then, on top of the cabinet, underneath where the bag had been placed, Bryce saw it. Unassuming, it was a simple brown envelope. It was too small to hold letter-sized paper, but it’s thickness implied that it was meant for weightier items; souvenirs and such. It was sealed and wrapped in packing tape for additional security, and fastened with a brad. Bryce snatched it and ripped open the top. 

From the adjacent tent, Strahan yelled out. His voice, echoed by the radio, startled Bryce. “Boss, I got it — two sheets, double-sided. This has to be it!” He opened the flap connecting their tents, and Bryce saw him waving the documents in the air. Coordinates ran down the left side of the page, itemized and ordered in some unknown way. 

“Great — let’s go.” Bryce had dropped the envelope onto the mess of papers and boxes strewn about, and he waited for Strahan to leave first. As the tall man stooped to exit the tent, he turned around and flashed a grin. 

“And you thought this shit was gonna take
two
minutes! Ha!” He chuckled a bit, and reached around his back for his rifle. Through the open tent flap, Bryce could see a shadowy figure approaching. 

“Corporal! Get down!” Bryce yelled. Joseph Strahan jerked away from the tent opening, but it was too late. An Iraqi soldier appeared in the doorway, and one hand reached out for Strahan’s head, while the other disappeared behind the American’s back. Strahan let out a pained whimper, and Bryce could see a flash of a knife’s blade, followed by a splatter of blood. He pulled up his weapon and aimed toward the two men, hoping to find a shot. 

Finally, a break in the struggle allowed Bryce to fire a short burst from his assault rifle. The Iraqi man tumbled forward, pushing Strahan down with him. “Shit! Joseph, you all right?” he called out. 

But as soon as Bryce saw his partner’s open wound, he knew the man was doomed. The knife had cut deep, catching him just beneath the ribs and pushing upward,
through
his lung. He was bleeding out, and there was no way he was going to live. His eyes flicked to Bryce for a long second, then closed as he coughed a mix of blood and bile. He reached to his side, struggling with something at his belt. Bryce started to walk toward him to offer aid, but within seconds the man was gone.

It was then that Bryce noticed two things: first, the group of three Iraqi soldiers running toward the tent, where they’d just seen their comrade fall. Second, he saw the metal object Strahan had wriggled free from his belt just before he’d died. 

The pin of a grenade. 

Bryce reacted instinctively. He jumped backwards, trying to put as much distance between himself and the downed soldier, and then covered his head. The grenade blew, just as the Iraqis had neared the tent. The blast tore into them, throwing their bodies back and out onto the open desert ground. Bryce felt the wind rushing overhead, pushing the shockwave and fiery air along with it. A few chunks of debris and smaller bits of rock rained down around him, but he was okay. 

Standing, he took in the ensuing scene.
The mortars have stopped,
he thought. Or had he been shellshocked? Maybe he was momentarily deafened by the explosion. Raising his hand to his ear, he strained to hear the update coming through his radio. “Bryce — you guys okay? I saw the explosion.” It was Sergeant Rodriguez, from the eastern front. “I think the mortar team bailed; we’re not getting any cover fire anymore, and I think I can see about ten guys moving in to your location.” 

Bryce listened to the message, and frowned.
The mortar team bailed? And now there were
ten
men approaching?
He looked off to the right, where Rodriguez would be stationed, and responded. “Yeah, I’m good. Strahan’s gone. We need to get the hell out of here, and quick.” 

He didn’t wait for a response. Bryce’s mind flared once again as the adrenaline coursed through him, igniting his capacity for reason and deduction. His world slowed as he thought through the protocols; the by-the-book training he and his men had gone through for these instances, and he calculated the risks and probabilities of each chosen strategy. His ability to think and process under pressure were unmatched in his field, and his superiors had taken notice. Bryce was the whiz-kid of the Rangers, and his analytical and data-driven mind had gotten him several quick promotions during his short career in the military. 

It was time to leave. Each option that Bryce ran through seemed to end in disaster, especially now that the mortar team had gone silent. The coordinates Strahan found were obliterated, as was most of his team. He called back in to Rodriguez to prepare for extraction, and then noticed again the small envelope on the sandy floor. Picking it up, he read the simple inscription on its front: 

M.J.

He tore open the top of the envelope, and let its contents slide out onto his hand. 

A notebook. 

Perfect,
he thought.
This has to be it.
Bryce was about to open the book and see for himself what all the fuss was about, when a spattering of an AK-47 sounded behind him. He jumped forward, bounding through the three tents and out onto the dusty plain, heading east. Just over the rise, he could see Sergeant Art Rodriguez still firing intermittent bursts down onto the base camp. A scream wailed from behind Bryce as he was running, and he heard a curse in Arabic — or Kurdish, he wasn’t sure — as the man fell.