“What brings you out this time?” Timmy Jackson asked his big brother.
“I gotta go out on Ranger to observe a Fleet-Ex. We’re trying out some new intercept tactics I helped work up. And a friend of mine just got command of Enterprise, so I came out a day early to watch the ceremony. I go down to D’ego tomorrow and catch the COD out to Ranger.”
“COD?”
“The carrier’s delivery truck,” Robby explained. “Twin-engine prop bird. So how’s life in the light infantry?”
“We’re still humpin’ hills. Got our clock cleaned on the last exercise. My new squad leader really fucked up. It isn’t fair,” Tim observed.
“What do you mean?”
Lieutenant Jackson tossed off the last of his drink. ” ‘A green lieutenant and a green squad leader is too much burden for any platoon to bear’ – that’s what the new S-3 said. He was out with us. Of course, the captain didn’t exactly see it that way. Lost a little weight yesterday – he chewed off a piece of my ass for me. God, I wish I had Chavez back.”
“Huh?”
“Squad leader I lost. He – that’s the odd part. He was supposed to go to a basic-training center as an instructor, but seems he got lost. The S-3 says he was in Panama a few weeks ago. Had my platoon sergeant try to track him down, see what the hell was going on – he’s still my man, you know?” Robby nodded. He understood. “Anyway, his paperwork is missing, and the clerks are runnin’ in circles trying to find it. Fort Banning called to ask where the hell he was, ’cause they were still waiting for him. Nobody knows where the hell Ding got to. That sort of thing happen in the Navy?”
“When a guy goes missing, it generally means that he wants to be missing.”
Tim shook his head. “Nah, not Ding. He’s a lifer, I don’t even think he’ll stop at twenty. He’ll retire as a command sergeant major. No, he’s no bugout.”
“Then maybe somebody dropped his file in the wrong drawer,” Robby suggested.
“I suppose. I’m still new at this,” Tim reminded himself. “Still, it is kind of funny, turning up down there in the jungle. Enough of that. How’s Sis?”
About the only good thing to say was that it wasn’t hot. In fact, it was pretty cool. Maybe there wasn’t enough air to be hot, Ding told himself. The altitude was marginally less than they’d trained at in Colorado, but that was weeks behind them, and it would be a few days before the soldiers were reacclimated. That would slow them down some, but on the whole Chavez thought that heat was more debilitating than thin air, and harder to get used to.
The mountains – nobody called these mothers hills – were about as rugged as anything he’d ever seen, and though they were well forested, he was paying particularly close attention to his footing. The thick trees made for limited visibility, which was good news. His night scope, hanging on his head like a poorly designed cap, allowed him to see no more than a hundred meters, and usually less than that, but he could see something, while the overhead cover eliminated the light needed for the unaided eye to see. It was scary, and it was lonely, but it was home for Sergeant Chavez.
He did not move in a straight line to the night’s objective, following instead the Army’s approved procedure of constantly veering left and right of the direction in which he was actually traveling. Every half hour he’d stop, double back, and wait until the rest of the squad was in view. Then it was their turn to rest for a few minutes, checking their own back for people who might take an interest in the new visitors to the jungle highlands.
The sling on his MP-5 was double-looped so that he could carry it slung over his head, always in firing position. There was electrician’s tape over the muzzle to keep it from being clogged, and more tape was wrapped around the sling swivels to minimize noise. Noise was their enemy. Chavez concentrated on that, and seeing, and a dozen other things. This one was for-real. The mission brief had told them all about that. Their job wasn’t reconnaissance anymore.
After six hours, the RON – remain overnight – site was in view. Chavez radioed back – five taps on the transmit key answered by three – for the squad to remain in place while he checked it out. They’d picked a real eyrie – he knew the word for an eagle’s nest – from which, in daylight, they could look down on miles of the main road that snaked its way from Manizales to Medellín, and off of which the refining sites were located. Six of them, supposedly, were within a night’s march of the RON site. Chavez circled it carefully, looking for footprints, trash, anything that hinted at human activity. It was too good a site for someone not to have used it for something or other, he thought. Maybe a photographer for National Geographic who wanted to take shots of the valley. On the other hand, getting here was a real bitch. They were a good three thousand feet above the road, and this wasn’t the sort of country that you could drive a tank across, much less a car. He spiraled in, and still found nothing. Maybe it was too far out of the way. After half an hour he keyed his radio again. The rest of the squad had had ample time to check its rear, and if anyone had been following them, there would have been contact by now. The sun outlined the eastern wall of the valley in red by the time Captain Ramirez appeared. It was just as well that the covert insertion had shortened the night. With only half a night’s march behind them they were tired, but not too tired, and would have a day to get used to the altitude all over again. They’d come five linear miles from the LZ – more like seven miles actually walked, and two thousand feet up.
As before, Ramirez spread his men out in pairs. There was a nearby stream, but nobody was dehydrated this time. Chavez and Vega took position over one of the two most likely avenues of approach to their perch, a fairly gentle slope with not too many trees and a good field of fire. Ding hadn’t come in this way, of course.
“How you feelin’, Oso?”
“Why can’t we ever go to a place with plenty of air and it’s cool and flat?” Sergeant Vega slipped out of his web gear, setting it in a place where it would make a comfortable pillow. Chavez did the same.
“People don’t fight wars there, man. That’s where they build golf courses.”
“Fuckin’ A!” Vega set up his Squad Automatic Weapon next to a rocky outcropping. A camouflage cloth was set across the muzzle. He could have torn up a shrub to hide the gun behind, but they didn’t want to disturb anything they didn’t have to. Ding won the toss this time, and fell off to sleep without a word.
“Mom?” It was after seven o’clock, and she was always up by now, fixing breakfast for her family of early risers. Dave knocked at the door, but heard nothing. That was when he started being afraid. He’d already lost a father, and knew that even parents were not the immortal, unchanging beings that all children need at the center of their growing universe. It was the constant nightmare that each of Moira’s children had but never spoke about, even among themselves, lest their talk somehow make it more likely to happen. What if something happens to Mom? Even before his hand felt for the doorknob, Dave’s eyes filled with tears at the anticipation of what he might find.
“Mom?” His voice quavered now, and he was ashamed of it, fearful also that his siblings would hear. He turned the knob and opened the door slowly.
The shades were open, flooding the room with morning light. And there she was, lying on the bed, still wearing her black mourning dress. Not moving.
Dave just stood there, the tears streaming down his cheeks as the reality of his personal nightmare struck him with physical force.
“… Mom?”
Dave Wolfe was as courageous as any teenager, and he needed all of it this morning. He summoned what strength he had and walked to the bedside, taking his mother’s hand. It was still warm. Next he felt for a pulse. It was there, weak and slow, but there. That galvanized him into action. He lifted the bedside phone and punched 911.
“Police emergency,” a voice answered immediately.
“I need an ambulance. My mom won’t wake up.”
“What is your address?” the voice asked. Dave gave it. “Okay, now describe your mother’s condition.”