Vengeance

[The Stig]

Copyright 2011 – No Reproduction Without My Express Consent



Vengeance


It was dark and gloomy as the low overcast skies, in an ever changing hue of gray and white, blanketed the landscape.

“Damn,” he thought to himself. “How many more days of this garbage are we going to get?” Back in his homeland the weather, in fact the mood of his entire country, was not unlike the depressing sky above, but he had expected a much sunnier and warm reception in the United States.

Or at least that's what his superior officers had told him.

“Yuri,” hissed the team leader. “Stay focused.” He'd been in command long enough to know when his troops had begun drifting off.

Hours upon hours of patrolling through burnt out homes and the debris of what once had been the suburban sprawl of a major US city had a tendency to cause soldiers to drift off. Coupled with the depressing winter lack of sun and gray days, patrols became more about berating the troops to stay awake then finding enemy soldiers.

Stepping over a pile of concrete and assorted junk he felt the weariness deep in his bones as he willed himself to place one foot in front of another. The city, a moderately sized industrial city, had been flattened during a battle a year and a half ago. The streets looked like a scene out of Berlin 1945.

“Blue element,” the team leader announced sternly, “make your way towards the third house on the left. Red will take the right side of the street.”

Chuckling to himself, he remembered that sometimes team leaders liked to give out orders, even if they didn't change what the soldiers had originally been doing, simply to remind the troops who was in charge. Some guys got angry about it, he just laughed it off as the natural order of things.

Even as he and his fellow soldiers slogged past burnt out homes and abandoned belongings he tired to picture the way the street once have must looked. Tree lined. Children playing in nicely manicured lawns. Music gently drifting across the wind as people grilled in their back yards. It was probably an idyllic time. Far more enjoyable and enforced uniformity and waiting in line.

But that time was before a traitorous former president decided to lead a rebellion to regain the power stripped from him when the American public rejected his polices under the pretext of a sex scandal. It created a rage in him that drove him to destroy those who weren't smart enough to understand his advanced ideas about society.

Now the streets of the town were quiet. Occasionally a stray dog would dart past, or a piece of rubble would tumble down from a broken building, but mostly the sound of nothingness hung in the air.

“It's almost a shame,” he thought. “Then again, capitalism and the pursuit of bigger televisions was destined to lead to the country ruin. At least, that is what he had always been told.”

His element had drifted ahead of the team leaders element by ten yards. Glancing back over his shoulder he watched in amusement as the team leader tripped over a discarded plastic container.

He wondered why officers always seemed to promote the incompetents.

Adjusting the AK74 that was slung over his shoulder he carefully stepped over what appeared to be a child's tricycle. With one hand on the grip of the carbine, he reached down with the other to playfully slap at the handlebars.

Looking back up, he straightened his torso just long enough to regain his balance. It was then that the team heard the loud crack followed by the distinct sound of a rifle round impacting debris and ricocheting off in an unknown direction.

The round had been close, very close. He could almost feel the turbulence created by the passage of the bullet.

Dropping to a crouch he instinctively clutched his AK74 and scanned the horizon for the sniper. The ruins of the city provided a never ending supply of hides for them to ply their deadly craft and the chances of seeing him were slim unless the shooter made a mistake.

Today there would be no mistake.

He never heard the second crack nor was their a ricochet. Instead a large portion of the side of his neck simply exploded under the sledgehammer force of the bullet traveling through flesh, cartilage, muscle and bone.

Never again would he have to worry about the depressing Midwestern winters or the evils of capitalism.



****

“Boy, you've got to be trying to kid a poor old country boy,” said Dink Roberts as he stared in disbelief at the weather forecast. Sure enough, his old friend Webb wasn't trying to pull a fast one. The predicted snowfall was twenty seven inches. Over two feet of snow in one eight hour period.

“That's flat crazy!” he exclaimed as he popped open a can of beer and sank into the overstuffed couch.

Smiling as he continued to surf the internet Webb took delight in poking fun at his old friend. “You know, you think after nearly two years up here you'd have stopped complaining about snow.”

Taking a long drink of from beer Dink contemplated which of many retorts he would unleash on Webb. In the end he chose to give him the middle finger.

Webb had a point, but the Mississippi boy just hadn't gotten used to the cold weather in the Wyoming retreat since a group of Dink's family and friends had fled the state. For the past two years the country had been tearing itself apart in the midst of a second civil war. In this case, instead of states rights, the central issues was purely political: liberal ideology versus the conservative view point. Some people still wanted to give away other people's money for good causes. Others wanted what they earned left in their pocket. It was along these general issues that the battle lines formed.

The former president, impeached and disgraced, Crutchfield, led his strange coalition of social groups and those not able to flee the Northeastern portions of the country. While initially successful, he had faced a series of major military disasters in Kentucky that had cost him irreplaceable men and material.

Things looked bleak for the traitor and his forces before a string of political victories had changed his fortunes and reinvigorated his desire to punish those who didn't accept the wisdom of his social polices and engineering.

First, the states of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Iowa threw their lot in with his movement and in the process pledged thousands of National Guard troops, and whatever regular army soldiers wanted to join in the cause. Like much of his presidency, Crutchfield used promises of money and financial payoffs to entice the leaders of the states, and the individual groups of soldiers, to lure them into the confederation. Those smart enough to see though the ruse fled southward to areas of the country still loyal to President Alan.

But ultimately, the men and material offset, albeit in piecemeal fashion, his previous losses in terms of numbers, if not experience. As one would expect, entire units were not in tact, however, combining the contributions of all the states resulted in a surprisingly balanced fighting force.

The other change to Crutchfield's fortunes came when foreign forces, who's interests did not include a united and strong America, were loaned to him under the auspices of “peace keeping” and to assist those rebelling against the country. It was a cruel twist of fate that foreigners interjected themselves into America's internal struggles.

Karma affected nations too.

Most of the troops arriving though ports in the North East and Great Lakes were sponsored by the Russian Federation of States. Russian politicos, seeing an opportunity to turn the tables on America and weaken their traditional enemy, was more than accommodating in loaning ground troops, vehicles and supplies to the beleaguered former President.

The infusion of men, and more importantly, combat hardened troops, reversed Crutchfield's fortunes and again gave him the upper hand.

****



“You know, this is the first boys weekend we've had in a coons age,” declared Dink as he inspected the contents of a nearly empty bag of potato chips.

“I don't think Miller knows what to do without his family here,” suggested Webb.

Their friend, Miller had sent his family off with Webb's brother and his new bride, Patsy. She had escaped Mississippi along with Miller's wife and daughter and found love in the strangest of places, a compound in Wyoming. They had flown over to Idaho to visit some of Webb's distant family who lived in a rustic cabin in the hills. Miller's wife Christy jumped at the chance to get to a part of the country she had never visited. Dink's adopted daughter, Maggie decided to tag along at the last minute which cleared the way for three men to enjoy a weekend of male bonding.

“I tell you one thing boy,” drawled Dink. “For all his talents, he seems lost picking up pizza and beer.”

Webb smiled as he pecked away at the computer keyboard, “Not everybody is as skilled at those pursuits as you.”

[bacpacker]

Here we go! Nice start Stig.

[ak474u]

Who has 2 thumbs and wants more? THIS GUY! great start keep it up!

[The Stig]

“Thanks Smitty,” said Miller as he negotiated the oversized pizza box through the doors.

“Damn,” he muttered as he nearly dropped the entire thing into the drifting snow.

Getting into his large four-by-four pickup Miller sat the pizza on the seat next to him as he settled in and turned over the engine of the big truck. For snowy days like this he was glad to have the big truck. He was even happier that Webb and his brother had modified the engine to produce even more horsepower and drive torque.

He negotiated several streets heading back towards the ranch before remembering that his other task was to retrieve the evenings supply of beer.

“I thought beer and pizza was Dink's department,” he said aloud as he wheeled the big truck back around.

The large SUV that was several hundred yards behind him doing the same caught his attention. Experience is something that doesn't leave a man, especially when that experience is honed by the hard reality of life. It may fade over time, but it never fully leaves a man once he's won it.

After nearly sliding though a stop sign, he pulled into the small gas station and convenience store. He'd pay twice as much for the beer, but it beat standing in line at the grocery store. Rationalizing that he was imagining things in the snowy wasteland of Wyoming, he trudged into the small cinder-block building as the snow continued to rain down unabated.

“Hey Miller,” said the store-owner with a smile and wave.

Nodding back with a smile, Miller said, “Evening Fred.”

“I see Dink has you doing his dirty work.”

Searching the endless see of bottles in the cooler Miller responded, “He does seem skilled at that no?”

As he brought his purchases to the counter, and handed the money to Fred, he couldn't resist and asked, “Fred, you didn't notice a big SUV drive by real slow and then head down the side street did you?”

Counting back the change, Fred looked up. “Yea. Thought it was weird to see a perfectly clean, black truck in these parts. Well, besides the snow and all.” Most of them are covered in mud and junk. ”

“Thanks Fred”

“You boys behave yourself tonight,” was Fred's response as the bell over the door jingled.

****


Tom Saxon was an interesting man. Originally enrolled in university on a football scholarship he quickly became bored of the sport and drifted away from the academic world. Enlisting in the army, he spent his four years rapidly rising through the ranks and demonstrated a natural capacity for soldiering. Despite the Army best efforts, he didn't reenlist and chose to give collage a second try.

The second attempt was less successful than the first. The proliferation of self-important ideologues, and frivolous self-indulgence, along the distinct disdain for anything that projected strength sickened him. He walked away from the university after thrashing a particularly obnoxious film student that fancied himself an artist in the mold of a certain overweight, pompous film maker.

He soon found himself back in the Army, welcomed with open arms by those who didn't want him to leave the first time.

Whispering into his microphone he said, “Second squad, go”.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two Privates, both black, moving from cover to the second objective of their mission: an over-watch position with an expansive view of a large shallow valley. They were good soldiers and had proven themselves in combat many times over.

He was struck by how one of them reminded him of Cuba Gooding Jr, the popular American film-star.

Glancing back over his shoulder he checked to see that his partner was ready to move. Making eye contact, Saxon gave the hand signal that indicated it was time to move to their next position also. Moving in concert, the two men, Saxon and the older one, moved to a position approximately fifty yards to the left of the two privates.

Saxon had to chuckle. The older man had been granted special dispensation to be attached to their group as an “adviser”. It turned out that being friends with the Captain had held weight with someone much higher up the food chain of command.

He was a good soldier. He couldn't carry the weight of equipment the younger men could, or move quite as fast, but he'd clearly been soldiering his entire life. His experience and natural talent outweighed his physical limitations.

Again whispering into the microphone taped to his cheek, “over-watch” was his basic command.

Their mission today was relatively simple. They were keeping watch on a particular road and counting how many enemy vehicles moved down it. Saxon would have preferred to attack the trucks, but it was wiser to get an idea of enemy strength in the area first before charging in blindly.

As they settled in and prepared to spend the day observing, Saxon had to chuckle at his situation. Only he and Dickerson, the other black private, were actual Army. The Captain and two of his men were National Guard troops that had gone AWOL but were mysteriously reinstated in full after resurfacing in Nashville a year and a half ago. Caddy, the older man, had been with them during that time period also.

Their small group had been sent to Southwestern Ohio to harass and interdict Crutchfield's forces in the area. When the large group of upper-Midwestern states succeeded from the Union to join his rebellion, he quickly moved those troops eastward to bolster his strength in New York, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. President Alan responded in kind and moved the bulk of his conventional forces to counter the threat.

For the past year conventional battles had unfolded in the east. Crutchfield had lost two armies trying to invade Kentucky and wasn't about to lose a third while the President refused to weaken his position in the Virginia’s and Maryland. The result was that Ohio and Kentucky faded into a backwater theater of the war.

As such Crutchfield tended to use a mix of a small garrison of regular troops bolstered by Peacekeepers from Eastern Europe to maintain control in the area. The President, equally reluctant to commit any real forces to the area was only too happy to let irregular troops carry the load. He left just enough regular forces in Kentucky to prevent an incursion, but beyond that, any real fighting was carried out by oddly constructed units of fighting forces.

So far the strategy was working. While the main forces bludgeoned each other maneuvering for advantage in the East, Saxon and his band of misfits, engaged in less mainstream fighting in the West.

[bacpacker]

+1

[The Stig]

“You know, you really have gotten paranoid in your old age,” thought Miller as he steered his pickup through the snow and slush covered streets of the small town. Snow had been accumulating for several hours and added to the existing blanket of white powder. Driving wasn't hazardous yet, but it did require extra attention.

Glancing in his rear-view mirror he again spotted the black SUV that had seemingly been trailing him. They had been hanging back after his stop at the store and then, as he approached the edges of town, felt the need to fall in behind him again.

“Ok slick, time to see how nuts you've become,” he muttered under his breath as he suddenly slung the wheel of the big truck to the right forcing the big truck to slide, more than turn, around the corner.

He planned on using one of the oldest techniques known to a particular set of defensive drivers who felt they were possibly being tailed by individuals of unknown intentions: four right hand turns around a city block.

If a suspected car made the first turn with you, it could merely be coincidence. Statistically speaking it was highly common for other drivers to be on routes that only appeared to mirror yours.

As he let off the accelerator pedal, and the truck slowed, he saw the black SUV start to make the first right turn just as he prepared to make the second.

The statistics started to turn in favor of being followed if the car made the second turn. However, there were a still a host of innocent explanations to explain away the coincidence in less nefarious ways.

It didn't necessarily follow that if another driver made the same two turns you did that they possessed ill intentions.

As Miller's truck approached the third stop sign he coaxed the big truck to a full stop. He wanted the other driver to close the gap between their vehicles, without letting get completely behind him. If they did plan to attack him, they may chose that moment to strike leaving Miller in the position of having to accelerate quickly, on snow covered streets, to have a chance to escape.

The black SUV, now having made the second right and approaching the middle of the block, was as close to Miller as it had been yet. He could clearly see it didn't have any snow on it's roof despite the rapid pace at which it was accumulating all around it and the amount of time it had appeared to be outside.

Gentling guiding the big truck forward, Miller turned the wheel to make the third turn. Now was the moment of truth; if the driver made the third right hand turn the odds of it being a coincidence plummeted. In a massive metropolitan area, however, there still existed a chance that the other driver simply happened to be going the same way you were.

Miller tried to look at the positive side but one thing bounced around his mind: this was a small town in rural Wyoming, not Kiev.

Looking up, Miller watched as the other driver hesitated, then proceeded to make the turn.

****

“What are you talking about boy?” asked Dink. Webb turned from the computer just in time to see Dink's puzzled look and furrowed brow.

“I know it sounds crazy Dink,” replied Miller. “But I'm telling you they just made the third right hand turn and have been following me for a while before that.”

“I don't know man, this is East Jesus Nowhere, Wyoming. Who's going to come up here to play spy games with you?”

Webb's ears perked up at the mention of the words “spy games”. Miller hadn't told them much about his past, but he'd seen enough to know that Miller had led a very colorful past life. Between the reference to Miller's particular skill-set, and Dink's growing concern, Webb began to realize something wasn't right.

“Alright son, calm down,” advised Dink, “How many are there?”

“Unsure, but the roof of the truck doesn't have hardly a lick of snow on it. Front and back. I'm guessing at least four, maybe six.”

Rubbing his chin Dink mused, “four to one are long odds, let alone six. If they make that last turn you better come back here pronto. Or do you want us to come meet you?”

A few seconds drifted by before Dink was forced to ask, “Miller, you still there?”

“Yea,” came the reply. “Looks like I'm losing it. They just drove straight through the last turn. I guess I need a boys-weekend to unwind....I'm seeing things.”

Dink laughed, “well, ya, it happens to the best of us. Which way you coming home?”

Miller paused before answer, “I think I'm going to take the scenic route. Don't really want them knowing where I'm headed just yet.”

“Thought you said they didn't make that last turn?”

“You're right. Still could be a coincidence,” said Miller. “Then again.....it could also mean they are pros.”


****


Watching the line of GAZ-3937 Vodnik 4x4 multipurpose vehicles navigate the winding road on the valley floor was not unlike watching ants march across a log in search of an unsuspecting picnic. As the convoy of three Vodnik's and several Humvee's wound through the passage it struck Saxon as odd to see the mixture of ostensibly American vehicles mixed amongst the Russian's.

Clearly these were Peacekeeping forces supporting Crutchfeild's troops.

Through the view of his high-powered binoculars, Saxon also noticed Hilux vehicles, one leading and one following the processional. These Hilux pickups, however, had been up-armored to include ballistic protection for the passengers and body panels, heavy duty roll cages, run-flat tires and lights. The snorkel equipment allowed them to traverse deep bodies of water while the two mounted 7.62 machine guns gave the vehicle an offensive capability.

While no match for any real armored vehicle, they were very effective for dispatching small units of troops like Saxon's. One unit had been ripped to shreds when several Hilux's appeared amidst their position.

“That's the second convoy like this we've seen today,” whispered Caddy.

Nodding his head in agreement, “They're pouring resources into that outpost east of the city. What do you bet that some of these vehicles stay behind to add firepower to the camp?”

Both the Vodnik's and Humvee's had heavy machine guns mounted in turrets atop the vehicle. Some even had small missile launchers in place of the machine guns. The units with machine guns could also rapidly deliver eight heavily armed troops while providing supporting fire.

All in all the convoy, while chiefly tasked with hauling goods to the new fire-base Crutchfield was constructing east of the city, packed a heavy arsenal against unsupported ground troops.

Leaning back towards Caddy, “the first convoy should be heading back about now. Let's see how many vehicles are missing from the return trip.”

[The Stig]

The sun finally slipped below the horizon, covering Saxon and his group in a blanket of darkness. Having seen the return of both the first and second convoy from the eastern outpost, and noted several vehicles had stayed behind, Saxon felt it was time to begin maneuvering out of the area and back across the river.

While he always enjoyed the more action oriented missions more, they had gathered solid information regarding the movements of the convoys supporting the eastern outpost. Number of vehicles, times, routes, even how many vehicles didn't return. The Captain had decided that outpost would pose to great a risk to their operations and at some point would need to be destroyed. The information Saxon and his team gathered would aid in that effort.

Saxon's base of operations was actually just across the river on the Kentucky side. This provided them a relatively safe position from which to plan and execute their missions, but did require traversing the occasionally treacherous Ohio River, and then maneuvering to their final destination.

Currently Saxon and his men were only about fifteen miles from the river, but they'd have to move at a steady pace to have a chance of crossing before sunrise. Otherwise, they'd have to spend another day on the Ohio side before attempting the crossing. Besides the obvious dangers of crossing a river in broad daylight, the Captain was didn't want his opposition to know that his teams were moving freely through their backyard.

So shortly after full darkness had settled in, both teams started backing out of their observation posts and began the phase of the mission least popular to most fighting men: walking.

****


John Miller had met Dink Roberts and Webb shortly after he moved to Mississippi in search of a quieter, more peaceful life for his family. His life since the move could not be described as anything of the sort.

When the problems in the North erupted, a Senator used the opportunity to seize power of a group of states and formed what most referred to as The Southern District. Attempting to create his own empire, the Senator inflicted his tyranny in millions of people and in the ensuing chaos, Miller's family was forced to flee the area. He and some friends then began fighting back against the various goons attempting to exert the Senator's will.

At various times Dink and Webb both returned from the safety of the Wyoming ranch to assist Miller's efforts. What neither of them knew, despite the strong friendship that had developed between them, was that Miller had experience in fighting back against tyrannical governments.

While in his first hitch in the Marines, Miller had caught the eye of the leader of a shadowy government organization. The man, a swashbuckling character of immense physical build, was universally referred to simply as “Papa” by the men who inevitably came to revere him. With graying hair and beard he bore an uncanny appearance to the television pitchman for a particular brand of Mexican beer, only taller and larger in stature.

Some say he cut his teeth helping the Mujahedin fight the Soviets in Afghanistan, others told tales of him running spy rings in eastern Europe during the late 1970's. There were some whispers of him being on the ground in Central America during the Reagan administration while commonly accepted opinion was that he actually held rank in Manuel Noriega's army.

Fact was, the only thing known about Papa was that he ran a group of clandestine shadow warriors so secret that their existence was known to only a handful in the upper circles of power in the Federal Government. What was also known was they had been so successful that funding, despite whatever the current economic situation of the country, was never in question.

Soon after catching Papa's eye, Corporal Miller found himself undergoing an unorthodox apprenticeship program that transformed him from common rifleman in the US Marines to a solider more comfortable working behind the scenes and in non-traditional ways on behalf of his country's political goals. Unlike most of his contemporaries who went to the Middle-East, most of Miller's time was spent in Eastern Europe, split between more James Bond like spying in several of the sprawling metropolitan cities and straight field work in the rural areas. While there, he'd work with local groups of insurgents or rebels, not unlike a CIA field officer.

He had loved his time working for Papa, but after finding wife and starting a family, he felt a more traditional means of employment was in order. Miller had been one of the few members of Papa's organization to retire and leave the life. Most agents either worked until their age prevented field work, at which point they often transitioned into support

But his life working for Papa had never been far from his mind.

****

“Have another beer Miller,” teased Dink. “I think all this snow is warping your common sense.” The snow had continued to fall at a rapid pace and the tracks Miller's truck left in the snow had already started to disappear.

Smiling, Miller replied, “Dink, you're the duck out of water here. A good old boy like yourself being stuck in a Wyoming snow-storm for two years?” He paused to take a long pull on his beer, “Mercy. I'm surprised you hadn't cracked yet.”

Webb interjected, “Don't think that he hasn't.”

Miller, digging into a slice of pizza of his own, continued, “look, it was probably nothing but something wasn't right. A big black SUV from out of town, clearly full of men and suddenly just happens to be traveling the same route as little old me? Come on.”

“Who the hell would want to follow you up to this boring place and deal with the snowpocalypse?” Attempting to coax an errant piece of cheese from a slice of pizza into his mouth, Dink continued, “Now Miller, I'm not saying you were imagining things but your wife has been away for two weeks and that tends to make a man a little...well...antsy.”

Webb nearly choked on his beer while Miller teasingly taunted, “well that ought to make you BSC then”.

With a mouth full of pizza Dink looked at him quizzically. Miller smiled and replied, “Bat Shit Crazy.”

****

Their card game continued well into the night. Like most card games among male friends it was replete with taunting, jibs and copious swearing. There was some story telling and boasting but mostly it was three friends enjoying each others company during a rare time uninterrupted by the responsibilities of life.

As the cigars were lit and the cards transitioned into a casual game of pool in the game-room, the pace of the evening started to wind down.

“Miller,” said Dink, seemingly unaffected by the copious quantity of beer he had consumed, “you may have been all super-spy at one point in your life, but you flat stink at billiards.”

Miller was about to return the taunt when the evening was rudely interrupted by the crash of a metal object falling to the ground somewhere out in the compound surrounding the main house.

All three men froze as they processed the noise.

“That sounded like it came from the animal barn.” said Webb.

“I thought you moved the animals out of there?” asked Dink.

“I did,” responded Webb with a hushed whisper. “They are out in the pasture barn while the main one is being repainted and cleaned out.”

Dink, stating the obvious said, “So that probably wasn't a horse knocking a bucket over in his stall.”

Glancing at each other they suddenly realized one thing: Miller had been right. The truck following him had been full of professionals who had decided to come back to finish their job.

[bacpacker]

Uh-Oh!

[The Stig]

Military command centers, especially those in the field, are rarely considered bastions of tasteful decor or posses an inviting atmosphere. Crates and ammunition canisters re-purposed as tables, sandbags serving as walls and yards and yards of canvas meant this particular command center was no different. Down to maps spread over makeshift tables and rucksacks and rifles standing at the ready, this was clearly the epicenter of a military organization.

The small encampment, in the basement of an office building, long since burnt out and abandoned, was the current headquarters for Tom Saxon's unit. The Captain, the commanding officer, moved the headquarters location every few days to avoid it's detection and possible artillery attack or airstrike. Although the odds of that happening were unlikely, since Crutchfield had moved most of those assets eastward and his desire to attack across the River had evaporated after the previous disasters.

“Oh crap....” said the Captain as he leaned back on the uncomfortable crate that served as his chair. He had been studying the reports from his various field teams and they were not promising. The so-called Peacekeeping forces were busy building outposts around the city that would make his efforts that more challenging. More worrisome was they could also serve as stepping off points for cross-river incursions, not unlike his own.

“Captain, here's the data you requested,” said the young solider, his aide. He had been assigned to the Captain's unit recently but had already learned to anticipate his commanding officers needs.

Without looking up, the Captain replied, “Thanks Jones. Get yourself something to eat and get some bunk time. Saxon's team will be in before dawn. I'll need you for the debrief.”

Captain Mike DeMetrie truly cared for the men in his command.

A decorated war-hero from battles in the Middle-East, DeMetrie, was originally tasked with helping enforce order in one of the southern towns in the Southern District when all the countries problems unfolded. He soon found himself hunting down an innocent man to prevent an injustice and ultimately joined forces with him to fight back against the tyranny the maniacal Senator had hopped to instill.

For his part in quashing the Senator's plans he had been reinstated in the National Guard and awarded yet another medal for his valor. Between his service in the middle-east, and his role in turning over the traitorous Senator, he was also offered the pick of his next command.

To anybody who knew DeMetrie, picking an assignment running special operations in a backwater theater of the war made total sense. Some of the higher ranking brass had been puzzled when he didn't chose a more glamorous assignment. Nonetheless, he had been granted command of a unit tasked with intelligence gathering and more non-traditional missions Southwestern Ohio.

His benefactor in the highest echelons of military power also gifted him one of the rarest and most precious of military commodities: autonomy.

The arrangement folded neatly into President Alan's wishes to move the conventional fighting back eastward and use non-traditional assets to deal with the problems in Ohio and Kentucky.

For the past year DeMetrie had been both monitoring the activities of Crutchfield's forces across the river along with harassing them whenever prudent or necessary.

Looking at his watch he decided he too should grab some shut-eye so he'd be ready when Saxon's team returned.

****

Miller, Dink and Webb, realizing they likely had little time to respond to the threat outside the house, sprang into action without communication. It was as if they had rehearsed such an attack and prepared how they'd respond in advance.

Webb doused the lights while Dink killed the power to the television set. While this served to telegraph their location inside the house, it also made seeing them from outside much more challenging. While Webb and Dink moved, Miller retrieved the 12ga shotgun kept atop the bookshelf and quickly racked the slide to chamber a round. Contrary to popular misconception, the sound of a shotgun slide racking did little to deter the hit-squad outside your home.

“We're dead if we stay here long,” whispered Dink. Suddenly producing a pistol from beneath his t-shirt. Webb had magically produced one as well. They wouldn't be effective against rifles, but would at least provide them some protection if the attackers hit before they could move to a more advantageous position or obtain higher powered weapons.

Without speaking the three quickly moved from the play room, though the short hallway, back into the living-room. There they repeated the process of dousing as many sources of light as possible along with retrieving an AR15 rifle hidden atop the television entertainment center. Webb quickly chambered a round and ensured it was fully seated.

“How many you think there are?” Webb asked aloud.

While attempting to peer out a window, without presenting himself as a target, Miller whispered back, “Hard to say. We have to assume at least six men, but if they went to get reinforcements, who knows.”

“Come on ladies, lets move,” whispered Dink as he maneuvered behind a thick sofa. It would be scant protection against rifle rounds but at least offered some concealment should bullets start flying. That he was the only one without a long gun also factored in his tactical decision making process.

“Give me thirty seconds,” called out Webb who swiftly disappeared down the side hallway.

In what promised to be the longest twenty-two seconds in history, he returned with a a rifle for Dink and several odd shaped goggles. Tossing one each to Miller and Dink he quickly donned his own pair of night-vision goggles while Dink chambered a round in his carbine.

“We know there's a threat left-side, possibly near the animal barn. Unknown what we're walking into gentleman.”

Miller's statement laid bare the situation. They could chose to stand their ground, engage in a gun-battle and hope to survive. The odds were in favor of the attackers and chances were good at least one of them would be injured, if not killed. The alternative, also not promising, was to attempt to rapidly leave the house. However, in that case they would be storming out, into the face of an unknown number of attackers, coming from unknown positions.

Whichever course of action they chose, they had to chose it quickly. The animal barn was only seventy five yards from the house, and it had been nearly a full minute since they first heard the crash of an unknown object falling to the ground.

“I ain't going to die in no Alamo,” called out Dink. “But running out of here like rabbits is a sure way to get killed. They're too close already.”

“Stand and fight it is.”

With that, the power to the entire house gave out. What little light still being produced in the room by various electronic devices was quickly extinguished bathing them in near total darkness.

Miller smiled to himself. The hit-squad had made their first mistake.

[Stg1swret]

This is getting real interesting. love the pace, Stig. keep it coming.

[bacpacker]

Your getting there quick. Fantastic entry to this story.

[The Stig]

Miller's observation about the lack of snow on the roof of the SUV that had been following him proved accurate. Generating enough heat in the expanse of the SUV to keep all the occupants warm meant the rapidly falling snow melted off the roof. Combining that ambient heat with body heat was a telltale sign that six adults likely inhabited the vehicle.

His fear's that they had brought reinforcements proved unfounded.

The six men had parked their SUV near the end of the large driveway into Webb's compound. That it was night, and the weather unpleasant, aided in making their approach unnoticed. That Miller and Dink's family were gone, and the animal moved further away from the house, meant there was even less chance of detection.

Clad in dark colored clothing and sporting rifles, each of them walked with purpose despite trying to minimize the noise they were generating. They all wore street clothes, but the clothes had a distinctive military flavor to them. All of them were muscular, sported close cropped hair and were clearly in shape. They would have blended into a crowd but they would have still been distinct from the average working stiffs in the crowd.

As they faced Webb's house they were presented with a large tool-shed to the left of the home, a barn structure about seventy yards to the right, and an even bigger barn structure behind that. Directly in-front of the home were as many as four vehicles, all large 4x4 trucks, parked around the gravel circular driveway.

What the hit-squad didn't realize, and could have never known, was that Webb's house was constructed unlike any other ranch home in the state. Possibly the country. Gaps between wall-studs had been reinforced with blankets of Kevlar material. While unable to stop high-powered rifle rounds, they would be slowed dramatically and their effective force greatly reduced. Pistol rounds would be rendered impotent. The windows, strategically positioned to provide better fields of fire, had been coated with shatter resistant film. They wouldn't stop bullets, but they'd prevent windows from bursting into thousands of deadly projectiles.. More importantly, unless a window had been completely compromised by repeated bullet impacts, hand thrown objects, like flash-bang grenades, would simply deflect off the surface.

Building materials were chosen for their durability under attack. The half-wall separating the kitchen and living-room had been constructed from natural rocks. Both ascetically pleasing and bullet resistant, it transformed the cooking area into a pseudo pill-box.

Even the hallways were laid out so that there were no blind spots and any attackers would be forced into disadvantageous positions that would expose them to return fire.

While it seemed like something off a movie set, each of these defenses were well thought out, practical and ultimately financed by the generosity of Webb.


****


The hit-team leader directed his men to assault the house in a straightforward fashion: two men from the rear, one man from each side and two from the front. He would cut the power to the house and use the element of surprise to the overwhelm the targets.

To keep their noise signature to a minimum all of the men carried suppressed weapons; some MP5's, some AR15s.

The plan had been going off without a hitch until one of the men knocked over a large piece of sheet-metal that had been resting against the side of a barn structure. The screech of metal sliding against metal, along with the crash as the panel landing on top of other building materials seemed like a cannon in contrast to the sound of the falling snow.

Realizing they'd compromised themselves, the team pushed forward without pausing. Their skills had been honed to the point that operational setbacks did not deter them from the mission. The assigned man quickly cut the power to the home and the team prepared to make entry.

“All teams go,” called the team leader into his radio microphone.

On the signal the men quickly launched into their assigned tasks.

Their plan quickly unraveled as the rear team prepared to crash in the rear door. Most entry doors in U.S. homes are flimsy affairs: deadbolts only extend fractions of inches into the latch and door-jams are not reinforced. Even the construction of the door leaves much to be desired.

None of those situations applied to Webb's doors. He had them specially built with reinforced door panels to resist battering rams, door jams were actually made from angle iron and the latches constructed from a special high-strength steel. While not impregnable, the doors would take significant abuse before giving away to an attacker.

But all of those precautions would prove unnecessary.

As the lead man stowed his weapon, rared back and prepared to crash through the doorway, Dink, watching from a concealed position inside the home, signaled Webb at the door. As the intruder's momentum barreled forward Webb yanked opened the door. Having nothing to stop his momentum, the attacker simply crashed through the doorway and he fell to the ground with a loud exclamation.

Inside the house Webb expertly grabbed the intruders jacket pulled him completely inside and slammed door shut and flipped the lock before the attacker could recover. Dink, quickly subdued the man in a crude but effective manner: he broke his neck with a swift jerk to the side and dropped the man to the floor like discarded trousers.

The backup man, left momentarily stunned by watching his partner fall though the doorway, recovered by pumping nearly a full magazine of 9mm rounds into the door as he backed up to put distance between him and the home. He hoped to regroup and regain the initiative on the occupants of the house who were clearly not overwhelmed by surprise.

In a normal tactical situation, putting distance between yourself and an attacker is a sound decision borne out by thousands upon thousands of engagements. That distance translates into more time to act and that time can be the difference between life and death.

In this situation, in the dark, cold and snowy Wyoming night, it was the exact wrong decision. Webb, who was smart enough to move away from the door, saw the man through his night-vision as if he was standing in a brightly lit room, naked for all to see. He calmly lined the red-dot of his electronic sight on the man's chest and pulled the trigger. His AR15 launched a quick succession of five rounds of 5.56x45 rounds, all of which crashed into the attacker's chest. Though the green-gray picture of his goggles Webb watched the man fall backwards into the thick blanket of snow.

Webb didn't stay to watch the blood stain the virginal white snowdrift.

“Dammit” exclaimed Webb.

“You hit?” asked Dink, obvious concern in his voice. His eyes quickly scanned up and down Webb's body looking for any sign of wounds.

“No,” said Webb looking at the 5 neat holes in the glass window looking out towards the backyard. “I just cleaned those yesterday.”

[The Stig]

The situation was going equally poorly for the team at the front of the home.

“Go, go, go” the team-leader called out to his partner as he patted his shoulder as a signal to move forward. They had been crouched behind the truck closest to the front door of the home. Quickly they moved forward in tandem, negotiated the decorative flower pots and other assorted yard debris and prepared to make an entry of their own.

Using another standard entry tactic, the team-leader prepared to hurl an M84 flash-bang grenade though the front picture window. The flash-bang, designed to stun people into submission used 170 decibels of noise and intense bright light to achieve it's goals. When thrown into a room, even a larger one like Webb's living-room, occupants would be blinded, disoriented and generally rendered unable to repel attackers.

Stepping back, pulling the pin and raring back, the team-leader threw the grenade as hard as he could at the picture window and prepared to follow his man though the front entrance to the home.

He watched, in slow motion, as the grenade harmlessly bounced off the window and landed squarely at his feet. Before he could react both men were bombarded by the noise and light of the device and thrown into complete disarray. Bludgeoned by the tidal-wave of disorientation the men promptly reverted from hunters to hunted.

Miller, who watched the scene unfold from inside the safety of the home, averted his eyes in time to avoid the bright flash of light. Gritting his teeth against the overwhelming noise, he threw the front door open and unleashed three shells of twelve-gauge buckshot into the two men in rapid succession. The men, shredded by the point-blank shotgun blasts, fell to the ground in piles of bone, blood and torn flesh.

They were dead before the sound of the flash-bang faded away.

****

As the brief gunfight erupted amongst the serene landscape the clash of men and sounds of death were jarring against the never-ending silent cascade of snow. Large flakes, in trillions of patterns fell to the earth at such a pace that the body of the man Webb shot had already started to disappear under the fluffy blanket.

Making the calculation that one man each was approaching the side of the home, Webb and Dink carefully eased out the backdoor and prepared to fend off what they hoped would be the last of the attacking men.

Ensuring no other intruders lurked outside the door, Dink eased out and to the right while Webb broke left. Glancing quickly at each other in a signal of “good luck” both men pushed forward on their hunt to eradicate the last of the hit-team.

****

The man who had been approaching from the right side of the home moved forward well after the teams at the front and rear of the home began their assaults. After knocking over the sheet-metal panel that had given away the element of surprise, he then became entangled in a strand of barbed wire that Dink had casually left in preparation for a project. Covered by the snow the man hand not seen the danger until it was too late and his leg was hopelessly entangled in the wire.
A lack of luck had conspired against the man to turn his day into a complete mess.

After freeing himself, he moved towards the house at such an angle that he witnessed the debacle at the front door. He even reflexively dove to the ground as Miller unleashed twenty-seven pellets from his shotgun. He was wise to do so as a number of the projectiles had whizzed by at an unnervingly close distance.

Quickly jumping up, and regaining his balance over the situation, the assassin paused to weigh his options. Hearing the shots at the back of the home, followed by silence, and seeing the team massacred at the font, he did the battlefield calculus and determined that a hasty retreat was probably the better of the options.

Using the darkness of the compound to his advantage, he quickly side-stepped back towards the barn. Snow, caked to the front of his body sloughed off like dead skin cells as he tried to move quickly through the deep snow. His luck, already abysmal, continued to conspire against him. Reasoning that the threat of the man with the shotgun outweighed the unknown threat at the rear of the house, he positioned his back towards the later and focused on the former.

He almost made it to the relative cover of the barn where all his problems had started. Just before he did, however, Dink emerged from the corner of the house. Seeing the man clearly though his night-vision goggles, he calmly and accurately shot the man.

The life of the contract killer came to a violent end in a snowdrift in Wyoming.

[The Stig]

“Holt shit” thought the last remaining hit-team member as he scampered back to the relative safety of the tool shed. He had just cleared the structure as Webb quickly dropped out around the corner of the house.

It was only his quick thinking and situational awareness that had saved him. His side of the house had several windows but no doors. He had quickly covered the distance to the house and taken a position directly next to it as the assault had begun. However having no doors to easily access, he had planned to either force his way though a window, or preferably wait for one of the other teams to gain access and then follow in behind them.

It was one of the few times that being lazy paid off.

Experienced enough to know that events were spiraling out of control by the sounds of the conflict, he chose discretion over valor and retreated to behind the small shed.

****

Webb scanned the expanse of yard and seeing the foot-tracks in the snow it didn't take much to calculate that one of the hit-team was behind the shed. He also quickly realized his options were somewhat limited. Rushing the shed placed himself in grave danger as he'd be exposed for a long period of time before reaching the shed. Even if he made it, and the other man chose not to shoot him, Webb still had to round the corner of the shed. The other man would see him long before Webb could get into a position to shoot.

He could chose to move straight away from the house and deeper into the backyard. In doing so he would be able to use the angle between himself and the shed to minimize his exposure. The drawback would be that if the man chose to pop-out from his position Webb would again be exposed.

It would then boil down to which man was faster on the trigger.

Since his remaining option was to do nothing, he began walking nearly sideways, moving four or five feet straight out from the back of the house for every one foot he moved forward towards the shed. His feet crunching in the snow, he watched though the grainy green-gray goggles, straining to see any sign of movement or indication of his opponent's position.

After he covered fifteen yards away from the back of the house, he increased how far towards the shed he moved, again making sure the angle between him and the corner of the shed would afford him some limited protection.

****

Fighting to maintain his composure, and control his breathing, the sole remaining team member, knew he was in trouble. Straining to hear over the wind and his own lungs, he began to faintly hear the sound of footsteps trudging through the heavy snow.

To his dismay he realized he couldn't tell exactly where the sound originated. He thought it was his right side, the side towards the back of the house, but he couldn't be sure. The fear began to play tricks on him.

As the anxiety level rose with each passing second, the man finally convinced himself that his opposition was approaching from the side of the shed facing the rear of the home. Ensuring that his rifle's safety catch wasn't engaged, he quickly weighted his options. Thinking quickly he reasoned that he could rapidly move around the other side of the shed, the side facing the front of the property, come back around the front side of the shed and catch the other man out in the open.

Within a fraction of a second he began moving towards the corner of the shed facing the front side of the yard.

****

After a quick dash around the side yard buildings to ensure there weren't any other attackers, Dink returned to the body of the man he had shot. Kneeling in the snow, and remaining vigilant for any other assailants, he retrieved the man's wallet and other contents of his pockets. Glancing down at the man's attire something caught his attention. He couldn't place it; the clothes were all common American labels but something wasn't quite right. The dead man's hair was close cropped and his stubble, while attempting to appear unruly had a certain manicured quality to it. His weapon, a suppressed MP5 sub-machine gun with an Aimpoint mounted electronic sight bore testimony to the expense someone had gone to to outfit the team.

Deciding he'd spent enough time in the open, along with feeling the effects of the cold though his thin shirt, Dink bid a hasty retreat inside the home to examine his findings.

****

“I'm going to pull this off” thought the remaining gunman as he prepared to turn the corner from the side of the shed. He'd quickly drop out from behind the corner of the shed and face the open ground between the house and the front of the shed.

It was there he'd catch his opponent off guard.

When humans are stressed hundreds of physiological changes happen, all programmed through millions of years of evolution; blood is shunted to the core of the body, breathing shallows, adrenaline is released. All of these traits, and more, are designed with one central purpose in mind: survival. In search of an edge to flee or fight an adversary these particular traits became part of our hard-wiring.

As the gunman turned the corner, it became all too clear that he'd forgotten the lessons of human physiology and overlooked a fundamental trap common to those under stress. Fighter pilots call it “target fixation”; they become so focused on one target, they fail to see or respond to any other targets outside their direct line of sight.

He looked up just in time to see Miller, pressed against the back of the shed, shotgun leveled at his chest. Miller had dashed into position after seeing the man disappear behind far side of the shed, and Webb begin his chase.

Reflexively, the man shouted out, “don't shoot”.

The response, perfectly normal given the circumstances took Miller completely by surprise.

The man had yelled out in a foreign language.

For a fraction of a second, his brain raced to identify the language the man spoke. Millions of neurons fired throughout his brain in a desperate attempt to process the sound while deciding what to do next.

Seeing Miller's momentary pause the hit-team member, staring down certain death, saw a slim opening to act. All of his years of training and skills would all boil down to being able to raise his MP5 a fraction of an inch and pull the trigger before Miller could recover and respond in kind. The wheels spun at a frantic pace trying to calculate the odds.

All the effort was a waste.

Miller pulled the trigger and nine thirty caliber buckshot pellets exploded into the gunman's chest sending him spinning to the ground in a haze of bloody mist and gun-smoke.

****

“What the hell was that” yelled out Webb as he slammed down his rifle. “Who the hell are these guys?”. Webb, not often given to bursts of emotion, was enraged that men would dare to invade his private property. His home.

“This stuff is all useless,” declared Dink after examining the contents of the men's pockets. Years of experience as a Sheriff's Deputy taught him that the collection of drivers licenses, credit cards, scraps of paper, money and even library cards were all likely fakes. Tossing it all onto the counter into one big heap, he continued, “this is all just window dressing. Probably all faker than a Hollywood starlet’s chest.”

“That doesn't do much for us. These guys were trained. Miller, you said that. Look at how they assaulted the house. Sure, we got lucky, but a few things go their way and we're dead meat.” Webb stood in the corner trying to process the events of the past few minutes.

“Something ain't right about those guys,” said Dink as he too contemplated how a full-blown hit-squad had just attacked them.

“Besides the bullet holes?” playfully asked Webb.

A momentary smile flashing across his face, Dink replied, “Besides that. Their clothes. They were pretty standard American high-fashion military chic. High laced boots, BDU pants, heavy jackets, ball caps, the works. Something was off,” Dink said trailing off.

“Well, what is it?” asked Webb as he paced about the kitchen.

“Beats me son.”

“Eastern European” called out Miller who had been studying a piece of identification retrieved from one of the men. “They were dressed like American's but with an Eastern European flair”.

“Damn boy, I think you're right. Sorta like Euro-trash meets GI Joe.”

Webb, beginning to get himself under control, asked, “how do you get that? They're riddled with bullets or buckshot and none of them are wearing something that says, “I got this shitty T-shirt in Romania”

Without looking up from the identification card, Miller said, “Ukrainian”.

Webb and Dink exchanged glances as Miller continued, “They are from the Ukraine, not Romania. The last guy, by the shed, yelled out “don't shoot” in Ukrainian when I startled him. One of those involuntary things I guess, to speak your mother tongue when you've got a shotgun in your chest.”

Dink, quizzically looked across the room at Miller. “Well Mr. Smarty Pants, how did you know what he said was Ukrainian?”

“Oh....” said Miller as he stood up from the couch, “I spent some time there once. Sort of an exchange program for wayward youth.”

[bacpacker]

Nice Chapters Stig! Thanks

[The Stig]

“It ain't good boss,” said Saxon to his commanding officer, Captain Mike DeMetrie.

Saxon's team, all piled into DeMetrie's cramped office had successfully extricated themselves from enemy territory after the long reconnaissance mission. The four men, tired and filthy dirty, longed for sleep and a warm shower but knew that the Captain wanted to know the details of their mission right away.

They didn't mind, they all admired the Captain and regarded him the best commanding officer they'd ever had. For some he had been their only one, but for others, being the best of the bunch meant something.

Having already shared the pertinent operational details DeMetrie liked for his men to offer honest assessments of a given situation in their own words. It helped him to see the men's eyes and judge their belief in a particular course of action. He still called the shots, of that there was no doubt, but his desire to hear the soldier's opinions was part of why they respected his leadership.

“Captain,” offered up Sargent Lowry, “It ain't good. They've been pouring resources into that camp like crazy. Men, vehicles, supplies. Looks like they mean to run some serious operations out of there.”

“And the ratio of Peacekeepers to regular guys has to be four to one,” offered up Reynolds.

After hearing Dickerson and Saxon's views, which echoed the other men, the Captain said, “I agree, they intend to use that base for real. Caddy, opinions?”

Caddy, the oddball in the unit had earned the respect of all his peers. Despite his age he pulled his weight and brought an experience and different viewpoint to the rest of the team that added a new dimension. Reyonlds and Lowry had spent a long time in the field with him, and already trusted him, but Saxon and Dickerson didn't take long to warm to his charm.

Chewing on a short, unlit cigar, Caddy, after thinking for a few seconds said, “that camp is a pimple on the ass of progress. I'd say we better pop it sooner rather than later.”

Lowry, usually the class-clown exclaimed, “outstanding!”.

The Captain nodded in agreement. “Ok boys, get some chow, clean-up and shuteye. I've got other teams coming back in to debrief. Start thinking about some plans and we'll pop Caddy's ass boil tomorrow.”

****


It had been a long night. Webb, Dink and Miller had spent the rest of the evening enacting the contingency plans they had often practiced but never thought they'd actually need to carry out. Two of the men worked while the other stood guard, on lookout for more men attempting to kill them.

Originally they planned to leave as soon as possible after the attack, but as the minutes and hours crept by it was clear a second attack would not be happening that night. Also, they didn't want to leave in such a rush that a secondary team could ambush them outside their compound.

All of the trucks had been fueled, while one of them had been loaded with basic gear. Depending on what course of action they chose, they had other gear ready to load into other trucks at a moment's notice.

Tossing a backpack into a small pile of gear in the middle of the living-room, Dink commented, “Well ain’t this some shit? A Ukrainian hit-squad in the middle of this god-forsaken ice-box to come get little old us?”

“Maybe they wanted to tap into your world-renown knowledge of shitty beer and pizza?” offered up Webb.

Giving a slight over-dramatized bow, Dink fired back, “In addition to my many other talents, I am also equally revered for my ability to look good in a t-shirt and flip-flops.”

“Webb, did you make contact your brother?” asked Miller, clearly focused on their response to the attack.

Looking up from his sandwich and behind the kitchen half-wall, Webb responded. “Yes. He's going to keep the girls up there with him. The only people who know about their location are in this room so that's better than bringing them back here.”

Dink, “How in the hell did this place get compromised?”

It was a valid question. The children hadn't ever communicated with anybody outside the family, the wives were trusted beyond reproach and the men had been vigilant against security breaches.

“Were they some of your old buddies?” asked Webb. The question, clearly pointed at Miller.

Looking up from the small radio he had been fine tuning Miller replied, “Could be, I suppose, but that was a lifetime ago. Why would they show up now? Especially here? They could have dropped into Mississippi anytime they wanted.”

“So we're sticking with the main plan?” asked Dink of how two friends. Knowing they couldn't stay at the ranch, the men would head out by truck and eventually link back up with the wives in Idaho. Webb was right, they were far safer there and Miller had no connection to their location in the event his past was returning to haunt him.

“For now” was all Miller said.

The room fell silent as all three men continued their short break before finishing their final preparations to leave. Webb was particularly sullen as he took responsibility for the security breach because he and his brother had brought in his friends to this supposed place of refuge.

All three nearly jumped out of their skin when Miller's phone rang.

Dink and Webb exchanged glances when Miller's brown furrowed after looking at the number. It was a number he hadn't seen in a long time, from a lifetime ago.

But it was the location from where the call originated that concerned him the most.

[The Stig]

“Look sharp Devil Dog” came the booming voice over the phone.

Smiling Miller responded, “Roger that Papa”

Dink and Webb again exchanged glances after hearing Miller's reference to Papa. Webb simply shrugged his shoulders to indicate he'd never heard the name before.

“Sorry to bother you son, but I just got information you need to know about. Damn the dickheads in DC for taking their sweet ass time about it getting it to me. Those guys are as useful as a trapdoor in a canoe.”

Miller hadn’t forgotten about Papa's open disdain for the Washington establishment. It was rare when one of their conversations didn't include some form of verbal abuse for the carer bureaucrats.

“I see they are still driving you batty.”

The booming voice again rocketed though the cell signal, “You got that right. Here's the situation: those peckerheads in DC let your buddy Donovan escape. Something about a snafu during a prisoner transport. Sounds like a monkey fucking a football to me.”

Miller wanted to laugh but the mention of Miles Donovan, the Senator who had held the Southern District hostage and had thousands killed or jailed, had his attention. Miller had played a central role in bringing him to justice and allowing President Alan to regain control of the south.

“He's been rotting in a cell in West Virginia,” continued Papa, “but for some reason they felt the need to bring him back to DC. I'm trying to get a handle on on the details but he's been out for nearly two weeks. I just found out this morning, but as soon as I heard I figured you needed to know.

“Thank you sir,” said Miller before he briefly detailed the hit-squad's visit to the ranch.

“Sonofabitch didn't waste any time. Listen Devil Dog, I need your help with this one. Donovan's whereabouts are unknown but rumor has it he's struck a deal with Crutchfield. At least that is what the weenies in DC told me.” Miller could imagine the look of disgust on Papa's face as he shared the information.

“Papa, listen. I've been out a while do you really want me on this? I'd figure the President has all sorts of fancy black-ops groups he could send after Donovan. Hell, Mack's probably sitting around playing cards somewhere,” offered up Miller.

Mack and Miller has started working for Papa at roughly the same time. Mack, plucked from a US Marshals training class, had become fast friends with Miller. They had worked together many times and rapidly became Papa's star pupils but the two men had fostered a friendly rivalry that both seemed willing to resume at a moments notice.

After Papa stopped laughing he said, “Mack's busy but as soon as he's done I'll send him your way. The President's up to his ass in alligators right now. That cocksucker Crutchfield launched another offensive and the President's boys are all wetting their pants over that. No resources are going to be diverted for an escapee of limited value. No, if you want him you'll have to go get him.”

“Sir,” Miller started to protest.

“Listen son, I don't ask for favors much, but I need one. All my other boys are spoken for and I need a team I can trust right now. Besides, as long as this Donovan shitstain is running around, your family isn't safe. You'll be back in and I'll get whatever resources you need.”

Dink and Webb watched Miller as they pretended to be ignoring him. They could see his wheels spinning as he contemplated Papa's offer.

“What can you tell me about these Peacekeepers sir?” asked Miller.

The President had opted to keep the news channels and internet as open as was practically possible. While there was a censor board created, to much hue and cry, they only exercised their power to protect operational details to protect the soldiers. Through these reports Miller heard about the Peacekeepers, working under the auspices of the United Nations, that had interjected themselves into Americans internal problem.

Papa, realizing that this was Miller's way of saying he'd agree to help, replied, “almost entirely Russian but some other tin-horn countries mixed in. The Russian's are mostly out in the West, in Ohio and Indiana. After the double ass-kicking Crutchfield took in Kentucky he's letting the more non-traditional forces fight the battles out there while he fights back east. The Peacekeepers are helping augment their force.”

“Which Russian states?” asked Miller.

“The usual suspects,” replied the expansive voice from the other end of the call. “Including a lot of your old friends might I add.”

Laughing, “swell,” was all Miller said. “You say most of them are in Ohio?”

“Yea. Mostly in and around Cincinnati. Word on the street is they are going to start doing some cross-boarder shit into Kentucky.” After a slight pause the older man continued, “Listen, I gotta fly Devil Dog. What do you need from me?”

Thinking quickly Miler replied with his shopping list. “Need to know how to contact you and starter kit. I've got gear and sidekicks”

“Good. Done. Use your last access code. I'll reactivate it for you to get what you need and then burn it. New ones will be in the cache.” Using the same set of information a second time was a huge departure from normal procedure but Papa was right; the chances that a counter-security team would be sitting on that location, and that time and on that frequency were a billion to one.

“Oh, and one more thing Papa,” said Miller. “Call the local Sheriff and smooth things over with him?”

“Why am I always cleaning up your mess?” said Papa after a booming fit of laughter. “Listen Miller. Be careful, this prick has a hard-on for you and if you get jammed up it's like the old days.”

“I know sir. My chestnuts get in the fire, you're going to let them burn,” said Miller with a smile. It's was Papa's odd way of showing affection for his men before sending them on a mission. All of his boys, as he liked to call them, were fairly certain Papa would move heaven and earth to retrieve them if something went wrong on a mission.

Another fit of laughter boomed through the phone. “Good to have you back Devil Dog.”

****

Miller sat in silence for nearly a full minute after ending the call with Papa.

Dink, curiosity getting the best of him, finally broke the silence. “Damn son, that might have been the weirdest phone call I've heard since the time I caught young Webb here on 1-900-EAT-DICK.”

Webb, without looking up, gave Dink the middle-finger.

“I know how they found us. Donovan's escaped.”

The news hit Webb and Dink like a thunderclap.

Thinking to himself Miller replayed his final meeting with a friend that had been helping his fight against the Senator's tyranny several years ago. This friend, a former minister, turned on Miller and ultimately betrayed him to Donovan's security people.

Between the death of the minister, at Miller's hands, the death of the security people at a climatic battle at a grain mill, and the capture of Donovan, the threat to their safety had been eliminated. Donovan's escape changed all that.

Dink, finally recovered from the news asked, “so now what?”

“It would appear we've been deputized.”

For the third time in less than ten minutes, Webb and Dink exchanged glances as they hopelessly tried to figure out what their friend was talking about.

[bacpacker]

Nice chapter. The story is adding up quickly.

[The Stig]

“I agree, it’s not good,” said DeMetrie as he studied the map in front of him.

Saxon and his men had reassembled in DeMetrie's makeshift office to plan how best to deal with the encampment that Crutchfield’s men, supported by Peacekeepers had been building east of Cincinnati. It was an interesting group of men, all with combat experience, who came together to craft a way to deal with the growing danger.

Lowry, never one to be too serious, said, “Why don’t we just bomb the thing out of existence?

DeMetrie, who had worked with Lowry long enough knew better than to acknowledge and thus encourage the Sergeant. If given his wish, and the resources, bombing the camp would be exactly the plan DeMetrie preferred. The chances of getting attack aircraft support was slim and previous attempts to secure it for other missions had fallen on death ears at command.

Artillery was likely out of the question also as the risk of counter-battery fire was to high to risk the limited assets.

“Why don’t we just take up residence in the hills around the camp, Dien Bien Phu style and harass the hell out of them?” suggested Saxon. “If they are going to be so dumb to build the camp in the midst of a wide valley, surrounded by hills, who are we to pass on the opportunity?”

DeMetrie leaning back in his chair thought it over. It was another reasonable suggestion, but it was not without it’s pitfalls. “My main concern with extended operations is they are feeding men into the area so fast that the risk of an engagement goes up. Not that you life takers heartbreakers can’t handle the heat, but a war of attrition with five guys isn’t a great plan.”

“And if we make a bunch of little raids we won’t accomplish much anyway,” agreed Dickerson.

Nodding in agreement the Captain continued, “Right. This needs maximum effect, not harassment raids and the other teams are tied up with other operations so I can’t get you boys any more manpower right now.” DeMetrie would have given anything to get his best team more help.

“I guess that means a full-on assault is out of the question then,” Saxon commented while eating the rest of his pre-packaged MRE meal. Looking down at the paste masquerading as lasagna with a frown he reached for the small tin cup of coffee.

Continuing on he said, “We’re going to have to come up with something crafty here.” Taking a long drink from the coffee he first choked then spit the brownish liquid in the nearest trashcan. “What the hell is that?” as he glared at Lowry.

The Sergeant, known for his pranks, looked up innocently. “Why is it always me people accuse?”

“You have thirteen open packets of sugar next to you dickhead,” said Saxon.

Waving his hand, DeMetrie regained control of the meeting. “Enough clownshoes. Back on task.”

For the next hour the men put together various plans designed at eliminating the camp as a threat to their operations. Ideas were suggested, considered and evaluated one after another yet there was one inescapable fact that couldn’t be ignored.: they were only five men.

“Ok, you men saddle up,” said the Captain. “We’re moving to the next CP so get your gear squared away. I’ll get up to HQ and see if we can raise air-support.” Ultimately, the conclusion had been reached that aircraft was likely the only option available.

In mock protest Lowry said, “Hey, isn’t that what I suggested from the beginning.?”

“Shut your cockholster” was all Saxon said with a smile.

****

As Webb examined internet news stories about the Peacekeepers he still wasn’t sure why Miller had asked him to do what amounted to a research project.

Miller learned long ago that a trip to the library, or some research on-line, often yielded invaluable data. Especially in large metropolitan libraries in big European cities, the amount of data available was astounding. It wasn’t rare to find building layouts, news stories about people of interest, sometimes even information that turned useful in subsequent conversations. The use of these publicly available resources had been a treasure trove for spies for years.

Miller and Dink reorganized and checked the gear to ensure everything was in order and ready for them to depart, that is as soon they figured out where it was they were heading.

“Any luck in here boy?” asked Dink as they took a break from the chore. He cracked open a beer and took a long pull before plopping onto the large overstuffed couch.

Without looking up Webb said, “best I can tell Miller’s info is correct. The Peacekeepers are in the western parts of Crutchfield’s territory, most of them concentrated in Southern Ohio and Indiana. Looks like a counterbalance to the President's special forces types who took up residence in Kentucky after the conventional troops were pulled out.”

Taking a large bite out of a sandwich Dink asked, “And were might these fine, upstanding keepers of the peace hail from?”

“Thanks for the sandwich,” said Webb with irony. “The overwhelming majority are from the Russian Federation of States and most of them are Ukrainian.”

Taking a greatly exaggerated bite from the sandwich and holding it up to indicate it’s great taste, Dink said, “Interesting stuff. Wonder why that is?”

From the doorway Miller, eating a sandwich of his own, said, “a chance to screw with the US would not be passed up by the Russians and I'm sure Crutchfield tripped over himself in the rush to get them brought in.”

“And here I thought they were are friends,” said Webb sarcastically.

Flashing a brief smile, Miller responded. “Let me assure you, the Russian’s have never been our friends. They may have played the game when it benefited them, or been distracted by internal problems, but they’ve never been interested in what is good for the US.”

Dink, from the couch, began humming the instantly recognizable theme to the James Bond series of spy movies.

“How many names did you get from the various stories?” asked Miller ignoring Dink’s reference to his past.

“A bunch. Boychenko, Kotovskiy, Maslovskiy, Baranovskiy, Javorіvskiy, Gladkovskiy, Stahovskiy, Trublayevski, Kirilenko ”

“Say that last one again,” interrupted Miller nearly choking on the salami he’d just eaten.

Double checking the screen to make sure it had it right, Webb said, “Georgy Kirilinko?”

Miller, clearly recognizing the name, asked, “any pictures?”

Crossing the room to the computer in two long strides Miller peered over Webb’s shoulder as the younger man pecked away at the computer keyboard.

“Um….here,” said Webb, turning the monitor so Miller had a better view.

Dink, taking a bite of an apple, “friend of yours?”

Miller reading the story slowly answered, “yes….well. Something like that.”

“What a small world it is.”

The Reuters news story detailed Kirilenko’s entry into the country. He had been described as a “special adviser” to some of the Peacekeeping forces and included some complementary comments by the Russian President and none other than Crutchfield himself.

“Well, what’s the story?” asked the now curious Webb.

Taking a long drink from his water Miller explained his past dealings. “Kirilenko runs a special department of GRU, the Russian military intelligence. His people are responsible for all sorts of black-ops stuff; assassinations, counter-terrorism, keeping tabs on dissidents, the lot. His people are sort of a grab-bag of different skills.”

“Sounds like a swell guy,” said Dink sardonically.

Miller nodded, continuing to give the history lesson as he read the news story on the computer screen. “He rose to prominence in the early 1990's supporting Yeltsin during the attempted coup. Rumor has it he personally led Yeltsin to safety after a group from the Russian Parliament cornered him and began hurling threats. Needless to say this caused his star to rise and from there's it's been full speed ahead.”

Continuing on Miller said, “He spent a lot of time fighting against the Chechen's rebels in the mid and late nineties and from there consolidated his power. He was personally given the task of retribution against them for the terrorist attacks at the Nord-Ost movie theater and Beslan school. His bloody rampage is said to have broken the back of the terrorist cells responsible.”

Webb asked, “so what's this guy been up to lately?”

Miller took a long sip of his drink before replying, “about 2002 or 2003 he went a little rogue and began sourcing out his men on assignments overseas or to those with the money to pay him. Sort of a military contractor firm inside the military. The powers-that-be didn't care for this, of course, but he'd accumulated so much power there was little they could do.”

Dink, feet propped up on the couch asked, “that's a great story boss, but what's he doing over here and what the hell does this have to do with our little party last night?”

Miller, shrugging his shoulders said, “beats me, but I know some friends who can help point us in a direction. How do you boys feel about a quick trip to Texas?”

“Hot damn, Texas. No snow? I'm in,” exclaimed Dink. “Besides, whoever sent our last group of well-wishers is bound to figure out something went wrong and send a followup up team.”

Webb, standing from the computer said, “if they have some lunch I'm game.”

[The Stig]

So far the mission had gone well. Saxon and his men had slipped across the river unobserved and traveled the fifteen miles over the course of two days. As they slowly crawled into position on the hills overlooking the camp the men were rewarded with an impressive view of all their opponents had accomplished.

The wide sweeping valley, formed by a lesser river as it meandered between the hills on it's way to the mighty Ohio, was as much as three or four miles wide in places. Running roughly north to south, the valley floor was sweeping compared to the rolling hills that surrounded it. The position Crutchfield's men chose was near the junction of the beltway around Cincinnati and several major state highways providing them easy access to move troops in and out as well as staging cross-border raids into Kentucky.

Building around the existing large consumer stores and restaurants, the camp had sprung up formed a large blob shape near the center of the valley. With a large box-store anchoring it on the south, and the entrance to the highway on the north the camp had suddenly become a major threat to DeMetrie and his operations. Lined with barbwire fences, sandbags and guard-towers the facility was more than a simple rest-stop. The men had watched for the past few hours as their enemy built new structures, moved supplies into position and maintained a constant vigilance for attackers. Vehicles, like Humvee's and Vodnik's moved about and reinforced various positions, like entrance gates. The camp even had several large areas, clearly kept open for landing helicopters.

This was especially concerning as it allowed the camp to be rapidly reinforced if needed. As if to punctuate the point, they watched a Blackhawk helicopter circle in and land on the field, disgorging it's troops before zooming off again.

As they peered down through their binoculars it was clear that the camp, while not able to withstand armored vehicles, was quite impregnable to lightly armed foot-soldiers like themselves.

Dickerson's voice cracked through the radio headsets, “Time on target in one zero minutes.”

Somehow the Captain had obtained the impossible. The men didn't know how he pulled it off, but four South Carolina Air National guard F-16C fighter bombers had been allocated for the mission. None of them quite believed it, even as they lay facing into the valley from the relative safety of the hills.

Given the luxury of four aircraft, the men had split into two teams, to illuminate two different areas of the camp. Saxon, Reynolds and Caddy were on a hill east of the camp and were responsible to illuminate the large box-store and associated smaller buildings. Lowry and Dickerson were on a hill slightly further north, also on the east side, and planned on illuminating the fuel tanks and other supporting equipment near the middle of the camp.

The four aircraft, split into two, two plane elements were armed with either laser guided munitions or large canisters of cluster bomb units. The aircraft with the laser guided bombs were tasked with striking the pinpoint targets indicated by the laser designators. The subsequent aircraft would streak in to sow a carpet of destruction with cluster bombs. Each canister, designed to separate in flight and release hundreds of tiny bomblets, would decimate an area nearly a football field wide and four fields long. Any soft target like humans, light vehicles, buildings or unarmored equipment would be wrecked beyond use.

While it wouldn't erase the camp from the face of the earth, it would be damaged it beyond the point of being effective. That would buy DeMetrie the time to plan for it's ultimate destruction.

As Saxon peered though the viewfinder of the laser designator, he heard Dickerson's voice again, “Time on target five minutes.”

Hearing this, the men preformed last minute checks to ensure no equipment glitches would interfere with mission.

Dickerson, serving as the forward air controller, worked his radios to communicate with the strike aircraft and his fellow team members. He and Saxon had done this many times before and he soon fell into the odd rhythm that seemed to develop as the airstrike unfolded.

“Time on target zero two minutes. Confirm OPSTAT.”

Soon the voices of Saxon and Lowry came back, “systems online. Green and green.” They confirmed the presence of two green lights, indicating their illumination devices were working properly, and were ready to paint the targets.

Reynolds tried to look up, through the trees covering their position. The last time he'd done this he was in the middleast where it was much flatter and easier to pick up the aircraft in the bright sky. Even then, however, he was never able to spot the aircraft until they streaked past him.

Dickerson's voice again transmitted from the radio, “Time on target zero one minute, illuminate.”

The invisible beams of light sliced through the air like pencils as they pinpointed the exact location where the bombs would fall. Like a magic sign pointing “this way” the bombs would track towards the laser beam and hit within feet of it. Unless someone in the camp was wearing special goggles they would never be able to see the beams or the imminent danger.

As the first group of two aircraft rocketed over the treetops, they traveled from west to east and had the harder part of the mission. They would only be over the target for a fraction of a second and the release of the bombs at the correct point would be crucial for success. The second group of F16's would scream down the valley from north to south and cross over the target a fraction of a second after the lead element dropped their bombs.

The timing was meant to keep the second element of aircraft from flying into the bomb blasts of the first.

In the next few seconds, the camp would be dealt a crippling blow.

****

“I'm parched,” said Dink as the car pulled into a dusty gas station outside of Leander, Texas. They had been driving for two days and the rhythm of the road was slowly taking a toll on all three men.

Yet, the mystery of their journey helped keep Dink and Webb motivated as mile after mile passed behind them.

Miller hadn't said much about why they had to travel southward other than he wanted to meet with someone to get more information on the illusive Kirilenko. He'd been quiet for most of the trip, apparently lost in thought, but Dink and Webb knew enough not to press Miller too hard for information. Much of the trip consisted of joking, idle chit-chat and napping as the men took turns driving.

“It has been fifteen minutes since your last beer” said Webb.

Looking down at his watch in mock disgust, “Son, that is a lifetime.”

****

Holding the laser designator as steady as possible, Saxon peered intently at the intended target. He placed it directly on the center of the roof of an old Wall-Mart store figuring the blast of the bombs would crumple the building and render it useless.

Any second now the jets would dramatically screech overhead, the sound of their engines being blotted out by the explosions a mile further down the hill.

Before this happened, a ear-shattering roar of an anti-aircraft missile launch erupted from the treeline about one thousand yards along the hillside to their left. Saxon nearly jumped and even Caddy, normally the calmest one of the bunch, exclaimed “what the hell?” after being startled. They had no idea they were in such close proximity to an air defense site.

Nearly simultaneously, a low roar, not unlike the sound of a massive zipper being undone, burst from the hill across from them on the opposite side of the valley. A long finger of light, that masked thousands of lead projectiles, traced up through the air and erased the trailing aircraft from the sky in a bright white flash of light.

The lead aircraft banked hard to the left in a desperate attempt to dodge the missile that covered the distance in a fraction of a second. Had the pilot continued straight forward, while releasing counter measures, he stood a good chance of avoiding destruction. The missile had been launched from close to five degrees off straight ahead meaning the chances of a successful hit were the lowest.

The inexperienced anti-aircraft missile crew of the 9K35 Strela-10 got lucky, however, when the pilot pulled his aircraft in a high G turn in a desperate attempt to escape. This exposed the largest portion of the aircraft to the shotgun like missile blast as it detonated a fraction of a second before the first counter-measure decoy flare shot off the back of the aircraft. The aircraft simply disintegrated in a fiery ball of aircraft parts and jet fuel.

Before Saxon, or his men, could fully grasp what was happening they watched the same scene unfold a second time. Instead of the aircraft racing in directly towards them, the aircraft were traveling down the valley from their right to left.

Just as the aircraft shot into sight at the mouth of the valley, two different anti-aircraft guns, a electrically powered and modernized version of the venerable Gatling guns of old, erupted with long fingers of death that reached up to destroy the attacking aircraft.

The lead plane, that was just off to Dickerson and Lowry's right, was shattered into millions of pieces as the large rounds tore it to shreds. They watched in silent horror as the wings first separated from the fuselage before it too broke in half. In a nanosecond the entire wreckage of the millions of dollars of tax payer investment was engulfed in flames as the scattered bits of aircraft crashed back to earth.

The trailing plane banked hard to his left, almost directly over Lowry and Dickerson as he desperately pealed off and attempted to escape the ambush. Simultaneous to crossing over them, a bright flash of light jumped into the sky from across the valley and chased after the evading aircraft. He had already passed from view but all of DeMetrie's men listened to the loud thud and subsequent silence.

They could only be left to assume the worst.

[bacpacker]

Damn wasn't expecting that.

[The Stig]

As he slipped into the booth at the small restaurant, Miller couldn't help but remember all the times he'd been in similar situations before. He'd always preferred meeting in small, out-of-the way places instead of a park, or hotel bar. Hotel bars were the worst, especially in foreign cities. You might as well have worn a sign saying you were a spy if you tried to meet a contact in one, especially the Hyatt or other American chain in a foreign country.

Sometimes he did miss the life. While he loved Christy and Ava there were times when the boredom of domestication drove him to wonder if he'd made the right choice leaving.

“What can I get you darlin?” asked the middle aged waitress.

Looking up Miller wondered if someone issued middle-aged, heavy-set, professional waitresses to the small restaurants of the world.

“Can I have a sweet-tea and a hamburger please?”

As he waited for his guest, Miller's mind drifted off to various places he'd been. Vienna was his favorite. The restaurants, the culture, the history. It was all a wonderful diversion from some of the more dreary, eastern European cities where he'd spent most of his time. Sadly, he spent more time in the former Soviet Block countries than strolling on Der Graben Strasse eating Apfelstrudel .

Being lost in thought he almost didn't notice his guest slide into the booth.

“Miller, how the hell are you son?” asked Papa with a broad smile.

Miller wondered how Papa escaped attention at all. His immense physical size and flamboyant personality were hard to miss even if one wasn't on a counter-surveillance operation. Yet somehow, he'd made his appearance work for him all those years.

“Doing good Papa. Doing good.”

Waiting for the waitress to put down Millers food, and placing an order of his own, Papa continued, “Devil Dog, things have gotten dicked up really good here. Looks like our old buddy Kirilenko is somewhere with the other Russian and Ukrainian troops in southwestern Ohio. This Crutchfield son-of-a-bitch thought bringing in the UN Peacekeepers was a great idea, and nearly wet his pants when the Russian President offered up Kirilenko's services.”

Nodding his head, Miller chose to be quiet and let Papa share whatever was on his mind.

“Intel is that Crutchfield mentioned your pal Donovan and thought he'd be handy to have around. My guess is Kirilenko was in charge of the operation.”

Dipping a french fry into a deep pool of catchup, Miller asked, “How did they pull it off? Breaking Donovan out I mean.”

“Thanks sweetheart,” said Papa as the waitress delivered his sandwich. “That's where the monkeys were too busy flinging their own shit to worry about details. Someone dropped the ball and word about the prisoner transport leaked . Probably one of those shitbirds in NSA.”

“Damn, this is good grub,” said Papa as he devoured the hamburger. “Listen Devil Dog, you'll have to find Kirilenko if you want to find your buddy Donovan.”

Taking a long drink from his iced tea, Miller said, “Doesn't running an op that small, over here, seem like...well....a step down for old Georgy?”

Nodding in agreement Papa continued, “Hell yes it does. Looks like Kirilenko's antics finally wore thin at the Kremlin. Leverage or no leverage, Kirilenko was coming over here at that was final. Either that or he'd be eating borscht at Lubyanka.”

Chuckling, Miller said, “Oh, I'm sure he was thrilled about that.”

“No shit,” said Papa. “But I think the chance to avoid the gulag while participating in Crutchfield's utopian vision had a certain appeal. Having a shot at settling a score with you probably didn't hurt either.”

“Say again, you are coming in broken,” said Miller.

“Turns out,” said Papa sternly, “that somehow Donovan identified who nabbed him. Once Kirilenko sprung him the two of them realized they both wanted to kick your ass.”

Leaning back and searching his mind, Miller again realized just how much damage the former minister had done when he flipped on Miller.

“Yes, well...that isn't much mystery,” said Miller as he briefly explained the rise and fall of his former friend Tim Barnes.

“Ok, it's shit down the drain,” said Papa in his usual colorful descriptions. “You need to track down Kirilenko and take care of this Donovan character. Turns out DC is more interested in him that I thought. The President is afraid he's going to stir up shit in the south again. With the ground Crutchfield has regained in the east, the last thing the President needs is trouble in his rear area.”

“Roger that,” said Miller.

“Did you get the starter kit?” asked Papa.

“We're on our way to get it now before I make a quick stop in Mississippi,” said Miller. “I have to check in on an old friend,” he continued after seeing Papa's quizzical look. “And there's a good chance I won't be the only one paying her a visit.”

“How much do you trust the friends helping you?” asked Papa.

A smile flashed across Miller's face. If Dink and Webb were double-agents they'd be the best ones of all time. “Rock solid Papa,” he said before describing some of the things they had done to help him.

Downing the last of his coffee, Papa exclaimed, “Outstanding. You'll need men you an count on for this one. Be careful Miller. Something about this is giving me indigestion. Just can't figure out what yet.”

Looking back across the table at his mentor and former boss, Miller couldn't help but feel a longing to be back in the life. “Roger that Papa.”

“Good to have you back in the fold, son. I'm glad I've got someone to count on,” said Papa as he went to slide out of the booth. “Oh, Mack's still busy but once he's free I'm assigning him to you. Figure you can keep an eye on him for me.”

“Sounds good papa. I'll keep you updated in the usual fashion?”

“You better, or I'll hunt you down and cut off your gonads.”

As Miller made his way back to the motel he kept replaying the conversation over in his mind. Something about what Papa said wasn't sitting right, he just couldn't identify what it was.

“Probably just imagining things,” he convinced himself as he pulled into the parking lot.

[The Stig]

“So he flew all the way down from DC to meet you,” asked a confused Dink.

“Of course, he's a super-secret spymaster. Probably has his own personal jet,” mused Webb.

The truth was more mundane. Papa's office wasn't in DC, he preferred to work out of the rural Texas town rather than under the spotlight of DC or Northern Virginia. Foreign spy agencies tended to concentrate their counter-surveillance activities there and large cities like New York or Toronto. Dusty, rural towns in Texas, didn't draw much attention. Having the cover of a being an agricultural equipment manufacturer more than explained the traffic into and out of the small airport.

Miller, sinking into the reclining chair in the corner replied, “Is it so hard to believe the boss would come all this way to see me?”

After a short pause Webb and Dink both replied, “yes.”

Reaching in for a french-fry on the small table in the corner Webb asked, “so what's the plan boss?”

“Thanks guys,” said Miller sardonically. “Your confidence is inspiring. It's not much of a plan, we'll head out in the morning and check in on Clarissa. I've called ahead but her assistant wasn't totally clear about the situation. No guarantees, but pretty good chance of meeting up with some of Kirilenko's henchmen there. I can't believe he's going to forget her part in our little caper.”

“Yea, from what you described about it I can see why he'd be miffed” said Dink as he ate the burger Miller had brought back from the restaurant.

“Yes, funny how a woman can just flat piss you off. From there, its kind of open. I have a feeling we'll have to head north and try to track down Kirilenko. Donovan isn't likely to be too far from him,” said Miller. “Other than that, I don't have much to work with.”

Chasing an errant pickle that refused to stay on the hamburger, Dink said, “can't you work your super-spy mojo and call up a satellite or something?”

“You may find this hard to believe, but all those resources are somewhat tied up in the east where a full-blown war is being fought. Perhaps you've heard of it.”

Finally spearing the pickle, Dink, without looking up said, “That's the way it goes. Us Southern boys always having to do the heavy lifting.”

****

“This is bad, real bad,” whispered Reynolds into Saxon's ear.

Saxon didn't need the instruction to realize they were in a bad spot. As the shock of the failed airstrike wore off the men all realized one alarming fact: somehow they stumbled into a position teeming with enemy soldiers. The enemy base, already strong, was much more well defended than originally realized.

Whispering into his microphone, Saxon said, “Fall back to rally point Bravo.” It didn't need saying that they should avoid contact at all costs.

The microphone clicks were enough to confirm that Lowry and Dickerson had heard and understood the message.

It wouldn't be easy going. The rally point was about three miles to the east of their current position and they had no real idea of the enemies strength in the area. They could easily stumble into a large element of enemy troops, or worse yet, have to engage them in a firefight. Depending on the enemy strength, the odds would be heavily against them. If the soldiers in the base realized there were spotters on the ground they'd send out patrols to sweep the area.

Having someone looking for you doesn't make staying undetected any easier.

Slowly backing out of the hide spot, the three men all began what would promise to be a grueling journey. Anytime a solider moves though enemy territory they try to minimize the noise they generate and attempt to avoid detection. But in the case of Saxon's team, they'd have to avoid detection at all costs. They could afford no mistakes.

Using hand signals, Saxon signaled for Reynolds to take the lead and Caddy to fall in between them.

They knew for sure there was a air-to-ground missile launcher about one thousand yards to their south. Chances were good a security element was guarding the instillation or vehicles. They couldn't see it, but from the sound there was another gun emplacement some distance to the north along the hills. Lowry and Dickerson would be much closer to them.

Short of that, the location of any other troops was anybodies guess.

Saxon pushed their predicament out of his mind and focused on the task at hand: reaching rally point Bravo being annihilated.

[The Stig]

One thousand yards. That's all the distance they had been able to cover in four excruciating hours.

Saxon's fears had been confirmed and it was clear that Crutchfield's men were patrolling the area on the lookout for ground forces associated with the attempted air strike. At various times the enemy soldiers had been close enough that voices could be distinguished. They couldn't make out the words being said, but they were definitively voices. The sound of Hilux engines working through the gears was also heard in the distance as the Peacekeepers patrolled the streets.

Any second now he expected a helo to swoop overhead. “They'll probably save that for when they get a bead on our location,” he thought to himself.

So they moved, foot by foot, inch by inch, drawing ever closer to the rally point Bravo. Every leaf, every stick, every hidden tin can presented an opportunity to compromise their position. Their muscles started to ache from the constant tension of having to move deliberately and under full concentration.

Even their neck muscles had started to ache as they constantly scanned ahead for any sign, any hint, of an enemy solider.

And things promised to get more interesting.

They just covered what was to be the easiest portion of the journey. Most of the ground they traversed was heavily wooded. It had proved a welcome respite when they maneuvered into position. But now, preparing to leave the relative safety of the woods, the men realized that passing through the residential areas, far simpler when their enemy wasn't altered to their presence, would now represent a massive challenge.

In addition to being discovered by civilians, they had to contend with backyard dogs, fences, flower pots, trash cans and an entire universe of items that could foil their plans when they least expected it.

Yes, the trip in was much, much easier.

Saxon let out a slow breath as he placed one foot in front of the next. They'd wait till night-fall to leave the safety of the woods.

****

“Hear you are up to no good old buddy,” came the cheery voice from the other end of the phone.

Smiling Miller replied, “Well you could say it's a short term engagement, but yes. Nothing good is planned.”

After a short bit of laughter, Miller's old friend Mack said, “I would expect nothing less. I got the good news a short bit ago.”

Miller, feet propped up on the small ledge of the air conditioner said, “are my chances of promotion and professional development good?”

“Well,” said Mack, “we'll have to see about that. Depends on whether you a company man, attend all the sensitivity training and can file your FJ-8279 expense reports on time.”

“Oh, I'm screwed then.”

Mack and Miller had worked together on many missions over the years. Papa had recognized their complementary skills sets from the get go, thus they had been paired together often when they were first unleashed on the field.

It was Mack that helped transport Donovan back to Washington after Miller had captured him.

“Listen sport,” said Mack. “can't talk much. But I'll catch up with you soon. Looking forward to it.”

Miller signed off as he reflected on all the times they had faced dangerous situations together, navigated difficult scenarios or generally just wallowed in the mire together. While it was corny, they were brother's in arms.

Webb and Dink were both fast asleep with one of them snoring loud enough to cause a random plastic part on the television cabinet to resonate as it vibrated in sympathy with the dull roar.

Miller sat back in the reclining chair and thought over all they had to accomplish.

Soon he was fast asleep.

****

“Dammit!” yelled Captain Mike DeMetrie as he slammed his fist onto the desk.

“Sir,” asked his young assistant. “Can I get you something?”

Collecting himself, DeMetrie replied, “No, I'm fine Jones. Bad news. The airstrike on the camp was a bust. We lost all the aircraft and the boys are neck deep in injins.”

“Here sir,” said Jones, handing his Captain a cup of coffee. “It's not much”.

Smiling DeMetrie took the cup. “Saxon got off one short message but he's going to stay off the net to avoid radio detection. We better round up a standby team and a bird. I want to be able to hit their LZ the second they give us the word for an exfill. Tell the team that just got back in from the field not to stand down just yet. I'll start working the net for a helo.”

“Sir,” acknowledged Jones as he spun and left the room.

DeMetrie leaned back in his chair. “This is why I told HQ we needed a damn bird of our own,” he said aloud. Command, while letting DeMetrie run his own operations, had been very stingy on the equipment they allocated him. Designating a helicopter for their sole use had been rejected several times before on the grounds one had never been needed before.

Civil war or no, military bureaucracy was always prepared to defeat common sense in the life of the fighting man.


****

“Damn, she's hot.”

“Put it back in your pants sport,” said the team-leader.

“Thanks dad,” came the sharp reply.

“He's right about her,” thought the team-leader to himself. She was shorter, well proportioned, had a beautiful face and long brunette hair. Perhaps most attractive was that she wasn't afraid to work.

Over the past two weeks of surveillance he'd seen her driving tractors and helping men in the fields. The combination of beauty, brains and work ethic made for what he thought might be the perfect woman.

As he lay in the underbrush, binoculars in hand, he thought about their coming mission. It was dark, and she clearly had come back from some evening business function. He watched as the lights in the various rooms of the large, seemingly brand new home, slowly turned on and then off as the occupant made their way upstairs. Several minutes later he watched as the last light in the house was extinguished.

“Early to bed, early to rise,” he thought to himself.

They'd hit the house tomorrow night, about this time. It seemed a shame that such a beautiful woman must die, but he'd learned long ago not to question the orders he was given.

“Come on Mykola,” he said to his leering partner. “We've got a long drive back to the hotel. We need to rest up for tomorrow night.”

“Let's see if we can find some girls tonight.”

The team-leader, never amazed as his partners proclivities, replied, “let's get the rest of the team ready for tomorrow first.”

[bacpacker]

Too bad about the fly boys. Seems like a world of S is fixin to HTF! Good Stuff Stig, THANKS

[The Stig]

As he strained to peer into the dark night, Saxon forced every part of his body into a sense of stillness so he could attempt to make out any sound, any indication, that enemy soldiers might be in the area.

After the daylight faded into darkness there was a definite reduction in the activity of the Peacekeepers and their presumed search for the team. The sounds of Hilux's and Vodnik's faded into the distance and a soothing sense of calm descended over the neighborhood.

This was the same neighborhood they had traversed on their way into the hide site and that leg had transpired uneventfully. As they waited, the men replayed the sights and sounds of the inbound trip in their minds for any indication of the presence of the air defense equipment. None of their previous reconnaissance missions had discovered them.

To a man, each felt a heavy responsibility for the oversight and the loss of the four pilots. They had failed their brothers.

After deciding the coast appeared to be clear, Saxon nodded to Reynolds, sending him forward. There was no way around it; they would have to cross through the residential neighborhood before getting back to several acres of woods and ultimately rally point Bravo. So they had waited until 02:30am with the hopes that most people would be sleeping.

As leader, Saxon had additional worries. Lowry and Dickerson had been clicking their microphones on a regular schedule to indicate they were still en route to the rally point. They were doing it often enough so Saxon knew they were still alive, but not so often as to give away their location to any radio detection equipment.

But the microphone clicks had started getting fainter.

It was likely a mechanical malfunction, which always seemed to happen when it was least convenient. It could possibly be the result of terrain. But Saxon still worried. There would be no way he'd signal for the evac without all his men.

Worse yet, if they veered off course to link up prior to the rally point, they stood a good chance of finding Peacekeepers long before they happened upon Lowry and Dickerson.

The die had been cast. They'd have to proceed to the rally point and hope for the best. If their teammates did not arrive then they'd back-trace the route to their hide site and hope to run across them.

Saxon watched as Caddy emerged from the wood-line and began crossing the street. They were on a cul-de-sac which would greatly reduce the amount of traffic and chance of being spotted.

As Reynolds disappeared between the two houses across the street, Saxon heaved himself up and out of the thicket of underbrush. Instinctively, he bent over and ran, trying to present as small of profile as possible.
He had to run, scan for oncoming vehicles, look for trip hazards, stay alert for dogs, and try not to trip any motion detection lights. It was a task which was physically demanding along with uncomfortable.

“This isn't going to be fun,” thought Saxon as he crossed the first road.

****

“Jones,” DeMetrie called out. “What's the status of the standby team?”

“Sir, they are ready to go once you give the word. They have rearmed and will stay in the ready room until the word is given.”

“Excellent. I finally rounded up a couple helos. Birds should be here just before day break so it's going to be close. Depending on when they make it to the rally point, we may be able to zip across the boarder, snatch the team and get back across the river before light. Otherwise, we'll play it by ear.”

“Sir,” said the young assistant, “its all we can do.”

Ignoring the attempt at consoling him, DeMetrie said, “see if you can find some food and get it to the guys in the ready-room. Also, dig out a map of rally point Bravo, along with all the other rally points they planed on using, and get it to the ready team so they can study them.”

“Sir,” said the assistant crisply as he spun and left the room.

“Damn,” thought DeMetrie to himself. The chances of snatching them out before dawn were slim and a day-light rescue would be near suicidal. It was clear the air defense network around the camp was much stronger than anticipated.

Worse yet, the choppers would have to travel nearly twelve miles behind the enemy line just to get to the rally point. There was a good chance they could be shot down long before reaching Saxon and his men.

It was the fear of any combat rescue mission: when the rescuers themselves needed rescuing. Soon you are pouring in more men and equipment some of which, in turn, are effected and need rescuing.

That scenario would quickly escalate into a full-blown disaster.

****

As the three men huddled behind a small shed in the side yard of a home, they plotted their next move. Their current hurdle was to pass the front of the house, cross a major street and then dash back into a thicket of suburban homes. They'd been on the move for over an hour and so far had avoided detection.

All three were experienced enough to know the break would be short. There was still much ground left to cover and the timing was against them. They wanted to reach the rally point before dawn, chiefly so they could be extracted quickly.

But they had other reasons, every step away from the camp was a step closer to the river. They all figured the more distance they could put between them and the outpost, the less likely they'd be discovered.

Barely above a whisper, Saxon said, “Reynolds, you still ok on point?”

Reynolds, as Saxon had fully expected, nodded his approval.

Reynolds was a top-flight solider and one that impressed Saxon. He was squared away, knew his craft and didn't dick around on missions. It was that six sense that warriors have about another warrior and Reynolds was clearly dialed in like a batter turning on an inside fastball and knocking it out of the park.

“Ok,” Saxon commanded. “Cross the road and then duck down in the culvert thing on the other side of the road. Don't break your leg. Once he goes, Caddy make sure there are no cars and then go. I'll follow over last.”

They would have to come from behind the shed, go around the front of the house, traverse the front yard and then cross the two lane road. Because of the hour, traffic was sparse, nearly nonexistent.

So far the men had retraced their steps from their previous trip through suburbia. They had crossed this road once before so the details were no mystery, even in the moonlit darkness. The road was several feet higher in elevation above the front-yard of the home. On the opposite side was a large drainage ditch measuring eight feet deep and nearly eighty yards long. It was a convenient refuge and would afford them some cover should a car pass.

The stretch of road dissected the neighborhood like a ribbon, curving, rising and falling as it followed the terrain. Actually it was a good stretch of road for the crossing. This section was mostly straight, with gentle rises and shallow curves, however there was a sharp turn two hundred yards further up the road.

With a toss of his head, Reynolds gingerly stood up, and began crossing towards the front yard. Moving quickly, to minimize his exposure on the road, he fast-walked steadily, hunched over, until he reached the road. Caddy and Saxon could make out his head moving as he checked both ways and then dashed across the street.

His shadow soon disappeared from sight as he dropped into the large ditch on the other side of the road.

“One down,” Saxon thought to himself. Straining for any sign of an engine or lights approaching he was rewarded with nothing that indicated danger.

Soon Caddy was retracing Reynold's steps and he too slipped from the exposed danger of the road into the relative safety of the drainage ditch.

“Lord, just thirty more seconds,” Saxon quickly prayed. He wasn't a religious man, but the old axiom held true. In front-yards, like foxholes, there were no atheists.

Quickly he rose and began crossing the eighty feet from the shed to the road.

Mentally he started counting off the distance as he crossed it.

Seventy.

Sixty.

So far so good. Scanning left and right he saw no signs of trouble in the still moonlight.

Fifty.

Forty.

Getting closer now. He could just begin to see the dull glow of the reflectors embedded in the blacktop and the yellow tape that marked its center line.

Thirty.

Twenty.

Just twenty feet to go before he reached the road. Just a little bit further and he'd be rejoined with Reynolds and Caddy.

Sometimes life just isn't meant to be easy.

He looked up just in time to see the headlights coming around the corner.

[piranha2]

Holy cow! keep em coming.

[The Stig]

It is amazing how small people can make their bodies when needed. Soldiers often will use shallow depressions, no more than a couple inches deep, as cover when under fire. Humans instinctively flinch and curl up in anticipation of car wreck or impact. It's what we do as part of the flight portion of fight or flight response.

Saxon, as he watched the headlights of the truck complete turning the corner and begin tracking straight down the road, desperately scanned for some shred of concealment. Some place to hide. He quickly chose flight over fight.

The flat, open, yard of the house coldly refused to assist him and offered nothing, no matter how small, to protect him.

Making a decision in a fraction of a second, Saxon dropped to the ground by letting the weight of his body pull him down as quickly as gravity would allow. He then began scrambling back towards the safety of the shed.

His only hope would be that nobody saw him before he dove down and he'd be able to crawl back to cover.

The deep roar of the truck's revving engine told him he'd likely been spotted.

“Damn,” he swore aloud as he crawled back towards the shed.

As the truck closed in on the yard, a spotlight suddenly blazed through the night sky, bathing the area in white light. It rapidly swept across the yard and street, in the general area of where Saxon had just been.

It was a race he wasn't likely to win. He had to crawl nearly seventy feet before the truck could accelerate and cover six hundred. Listening to the deep roar of the Hilux's engine, combined with the physical exertion made his stomach churn.

Pushing himself forward with his legs while trying too pull himself along with his harms, Saxon frantically tried to put as much distance between himself and the road as possible.

He was still ten yards short of the shed as the Hilux skidded to a halt abeam his position on the road. The spotlight coldly bathed him in light as he suddenly realized just exactly how far ten yards can be.

The loud speaker mounted on the trucks roof suddenly blared, “YOU BY THE SHED. STOP MOVING AND SURRENDER IMEDIATLEY.”

Saxon, under no illusions about his safety should he decide to stop, dropped the charade and flung himself forward and to his feet in a desperate attempt to at least get to the shed.

In the process he heard the noises of the truck doors flinging open, men emerging and more orders to stop from the loud speaker. Most ominously, as he rounded the corner of the shed, was the metallic sound of the PKM heavy machine gun atop the Hilux being charged. Somehow in the rush of adrenaline and fear he heard the charging handle being pulled to the rear and released, preparing it shower him with a deadly mixture of copper and lead.

“FOR THE LAST TIME,” blared the voice on the loud speaker, “SURRENDER YOURSELF.”

Saxon clearly had no intentions of surrendering as he slipped the safety catch on his rifle to off.

****

Pulling a grenade from his harness, Saxon prepared to hurl it towards what he only assumed would be two men charging his position. Knowing tactics, they would probably approach the shed, one man from each side, keeping a wide birth to allow a lane of fire from the truck. The heavy machine gun would chew the shed to pieces and force him into the open.

His only real hope was to toss a couple grenades in rapid succession, fire off a short burst from his rifle and try to dash behind the house for cover. If he could buy himself enough time to cover the short distance he stood a slim chance of disappearing into the neighborhood.

That would allow Reynolds and Caddy the time they needed to travel up the drainage ditch and disappear in the opposite direction. With any luck they'd be able to put enough distance behind them they'd slip away and make it to the rendezvous site.

He was under no illusions. He would simply be running a stalling game until the Peacekeepers called in additional troops and kept him on the run until they captured him. There would be no dramatic roof-top rescue, or hiding out in an attic until the cavalry arrived. Simply put, they'd run him down and kill him.

It's what he would do if the roles were reversed.

The loud explosion of machine gun rounds piercing the thin sheet metal of the shed jarred him back to reality.

It was now or never.

****

Mercifully it had been a short burst from the machine gun. Only two of the seven rounds actually pierced both walls of the shed. Saxon had been granted a brief reprieve by the engine block of a small lawn tractor. By utter coincidence, the tractor had been in the line of fire and the thick cast iron walls of the engine stopped of deflected the remaining rounds.

Sensing his opportunity, and lurching forward from the concealment of the shed, Saxon quickly hurled both grenades in rapid succession as he simultaneously ran towards the house.

He was as surprised to see the two troops , both much closer than he anticipated, as they were to see him. One of the troops attempted to raise his Ak74 and fire in his direction but in hurrying successfully caught it on an errant piece of his chest harness. The brief delay was all Saxon needed to dash to temporary safety.

The other solider froze entirely.

The gunner on the truck attempted to pivot the machine gun on it's mount, however, Saxon moved so quickly it was impossible to swing the heavy gun fast enough. In the rush to try to acquire the target, the gunner inadvertently fired, striking the solider to Saxon's left in the back and head. Sometimes in the rush and fog of war accidents like that happened.

Saxon had no time to morn the unfortunate mistake however, as dashing behind the house was a very temporary solution.

He kept moving along the back of the long ranch-style house. Nearly tripping over a garden hose, he recovered just long enough to completely fall over a child's tricycle. Ungracefully collapsing to the ground , rifle in hand, Saxon briefly exclaimed, “whoa!” as he fell forward. As the bulk of his body weight and equipment skidded across the ground he rolled slightly and tried to regain his balance. He might have pulled it off had the flower pot not been in his way.

He had entered a suburban version of a minefield.

Ending up flat on his back he looked up just in time for the other Peacekeeper, the one that hadn't been able to react in time to come into view.

This time his rifle was raised, and fully at the ready.

[The Stig]

I temporarily lost my mind and put up the last installment in three separate edits. So you may have missed something I added to it later....in other words, you might want to scan the last installment if you read it shortly after it was first posted to ensure you don't miss anything.

Sorry....I went a little daft there for a minute.

[piranha2]

It happens - keep em coming.

[The Stig]

For someone who preferred activity over idleness, the last several hours had been tantamount to torture for Sargent Lowry. Their trip towards rally point Bravo had started out well. The route between their hide site and the rendezvous area was mostly wooded so he and Dickerson had covered a much further distance than the other team after the abortive airstrike.

All had gone well until a patrol of Peacekeeper's had stumbled on them. There was no indication that they had spotted Lowry and Dickerson, but they'd spent hours slowly searching the area and generally had the two men pinned into place. With little chance of being discovered unless a Peacekeeper stepped on them they simply had to wait out their opponent's before moving forward.

Even as darkness fell the men had stopped patrolling and set up a small defensive perimeter in the area. Lowry thought he'd explode from boredom.

Dickerson glanced at him after the men quickly mounted their vehicles and suddenly sped off in a southerly direction.

“What the hell was that all about?” asked Dickerson.
Stretching out his cramped limbs, oddly sore from doing nothing, Lowry replied, “Beats me. They camped out because they knew they had us pinned. They were either waiting for reinforcements or for one of us to do something stupid. No clue why they saddled up and bolted.”

“Either way,” he continued, “we gotta beat feet if we want to reach the rally point before morning. Its going to be tight.”

The two men resumed their escape at a careful, but quick pace.


****

Saxon knew he was a goner. The Peacekeeper, rifle at the ready, took and steady aim at his head.

He knew he'd never registrar the sound of the gunshot before the 5.45x39 round punched a hole though his skull and covered the homeowners barbecue grill with his brains.

“Oh well,” he thought, “it was a good run.” Despite his best efforts, he couldn't help but close his eyes. It was as if a subconscious defense mechanism had been activated deep within his mind.

There was nothing he could do but await the inevitable.

The sound of the solider exclaiming “oh” and crumpling to the ground shocked him as he reopened his eyes and he tried to take in what had happened. Seeing the other man laying motionless before him he gingerly regained his footing.

Before he knew what had happened Reynolds appeared around the corner of the home, sound suppressed M4 carbine rifle in hand.

“You alright Sarge?” he asked pulling his team-leader to his feet.

Picking up his rifle, that had landed several feet away when he fell, he said, “Damn am I glad to see you. Let's get the hell out of here.”

Rounding the corner of the house Saxon saw the scene that had unfolded. The gunner lay lifeless in the turret of the small truck while the driver was equally unresponsive. One of the soldiers lay near the corner of the shed, head and helmet nearly torn from his neck while the other had clearly been shot by Reynolds. Caddy stood near the Hilux keeping a look out for any additional enemies.

Caddy asked, “you want to take this for a ride?” as Saxon and Reynolds returned.

It wasn't a half bad idea and would cut down on much of their travel time.

“As much as I'd like too, it'd stick out like a sore thumb. Come on,” replied Saxon as he motioned his team towards the drainage ditch. Let's get as much distance away from this as possible.”

The three men had covered the entire distance of the trench and disappeared into the maze of houses in the adjoining neighborhood when two Humvee's roared down the street and came upon the scene of the brief fight.

****

DeMetrie was worried. It was two hours before dawn and the choppers had just arrived. He scavenged two from an old Army buddy in Nashville. It took some cajoling but they had been in basic training together and the bonds still ran deep.

“Jones, I've already arranged for the birds to get refueled at the airport. Get the ready team over there and have them standby in the birds. That way they can get airborne the second we get the call.”

“Sir,” responded Jones as he spun and went to carry out his assignment.

Several more teams of soldiers had returned from their patrols and DeMetrie briefed each one on what had happened. Soon the men were rearming and making their way to the river. They would cross it and began making their way towards rally point Bravo. They'd never cover the distance to the rally point in time to be of any help, but DeMetrie liked to keep his options open.

Now all he needed was a signal from Saxon's team that they had reached the rally point. From that point the Blackhawk helicopters would be launched and would cover the minimal distance in a short period of time.

From there all DeMetrie could do was pray. For now, all he could do was wait.

****

Glancing at his watch, Saxon realized they were running out of time if they wanted to be pulled out before daylight. The team had just gotten to rally point Bravo. Much like a scene out of South East Asia in the 1960's, there was a large clearing in the midst of heavy woods where the helicopters could land and pull the team to safety.

They had about forty-five minutes before dawn and already the night sky was already starting to lighten.

The three men huddled in silence near the edge of the woods while they awaited their ride to safety. Reynolds and Caddy set up a makeshift perimeter while Saxon contemplated his next step.

Saxon had a tough decision to make.

If he waited for Lowry and Dickerson to arrive before calling for the extraction it could be too late for the chopper to arrive before daylight. They'd be forced into waiting for darkness to fall again before another attempt. While they were in a fairly remote area, the battle with the Hilux made clear to the Peacekeepers that the enemy was in the area. They were certain to pour in troops and every minute the team spent on the ground they risked detection.

If they did have to wait another day they could move on to the next rally point which would also move them closer to the river. But this would do nothing to minimize the chance of getting caught.

The other option was to call for the extraction now and hope the other men made it to the landing zone in time. The risk here was that they wouldn't make it and Saxon would have to call them off at the last second. Not only would this pin point there location to the enemy, it forced the choppers to make a difficult run through enemy territory for no reason.

There was no way he was leaving without them.

Looking at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes Saxon decided he'd give them ten more minutes before calling for the extraction.

****

As they moved through the woods Lowry and Dickerson were doing the mental calculus of their own. They'd make the extraction with just enough time to spare, or so they hoped, before daylight.

“I guess we better let them know we're on the way,” said Lowry. On the prearranged schedule they had been quickly clicking the microphone's on and off to signal they were still moving to avoid communications. Although on scrambled frequencies, there was a good chance the Peacekeepers would be using radio detection equipment in an attempt to track them down.

Nodding in agreement, Dickerson keyed his microphone, “Raven 1 this is Raven 2, over.”

Expecting a quick reply Lowry kept moving without looking back. It took him nearly fifteen seconds before he realized none had come.

“Raven 1, this is Raven 2, over,” repeated Dickerson.

The only sound heard heard in reply was that of the men's footsteps.

Keying his own microphone, Lowry repeated the same message with no avail.

“Looks like maybe going with the lowest bidder wasn't such a great idea after all,” quipped Lowry.

“Now what,” asked Dickerson.

Repeating the call, and again getting no reply, Lowry replied, “let's pick up the pace. They clearly have no idea if we're coming or not.”

Both men began moving more quickly. They still moved deliberately and so as to minimize noise, but their pace increased noticeably.

****

Looking like a scene out of popular American movie Star Wars, the room was a sea of lights. Some blinking, some steady. Some red, some green. Dials and switches seemed to have been sprinkled across the face of the console like toppings on an ice-cream cone. Both of the soliders faces were illuminated by the dull green glow of the equipment.

The shift had been tiresome. In additional to their normal duties, the Colonel had assigned the the task of monitoring for any strange radio signals. Their ordered were to determine the location of their source and alert him at once.

For weeks their had been various drills of the same nature. For hours they would twist the dials, move the levers and listen for any sort of incriminating radio traffic. Other than some short-wave transmissions from civilian radio operators, which had been outlawed by Crutchfield, not much had been noted in their log books. They simply reported the short-wave activity so that a team of soldiers could be sent to arrest the transgressor.

They had both nearly fallen asleep as the gentle buzz through their earphones combined with the warmth of the equipment, lulled them into a trance like state.

One of the men, the younger one, bolted upright.

Knocking his coworkers arm he grunted out, “channel seventeen.”

The coworker heard it too. The signal was scrambled but was definitively a high frequency burst type transmission and most definitively not civilian.

Both men, jolted from their near slumber began wildly typing on their console keyboards and adjusting their equipment.

“Got em,” exclaimed the younger one as he wrote down the coordinates for the grid map.

“Good work, get that to the Colonel,” he instructed his young partner. “Go.”

[piranha2]

Awesome, keep em coming.

[The Stig]

“Raven Nest, this is Raven 1 Actual, over,” Saxon said quietly into his radio equipment. Fifteen minutes had passed and there was still no sign of Lowry and Dickerson. Making the tough call that battlefield commanders often have to make, he decided to call in the choppers. If the two men didn't make the rally point, Saxon would stay behind and they would simply have to stay alive long enough for another extraction attempt.

He pointedly omitted this information from Reynolds and Caddy to prevent them from getting any romantic notions of staying behind.

Captain DeMetrie needed every hand he could get and two troops returned safely beat five dead ones.

“Raven 1, this is Nest go ahead,” came the surprisingly crystal clear voice of the base radio operator.

“Nest, Raven 1, at RP Bravo. Raven 2 en route. Request extraction immediate. Over.”

There was a pause in the reply that caused Saxon some concern. Captain DeMetrie had always promised a helicopter extract for his men in the event of extreme emergency and the men took him at his word. They never really thought about the practical realities given that their unit didn't have any direct access to a helo. They weren't even sure there were any in the general area. As such they were dependent on other units to assist them and that help wasn't always guaranteed.

“Raven 1, Nest. Expect extract in one five minutes.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Saxon and the radio operator exchanged the necessary information to coordinate the rendezvous between the men on the ground and their saviors from the air. Soon grid coordinates, call signs, and radio frequencies were exchanged.

“Good luck Raven 1, Nest out.”

Saxon turned to his two men and said, “bird arrives in one five for exfil.”

Caddy and Reynolds exchanged glances as they realized the implications for Lowry and Dickerson should they not make the landing zone by the prescribed time.

****

Lowry and Dickerson kept moving to cover the remaining one thousand yards to the landing zone by the prescribed rendezvous time. They knew a chopper would likely be coming to extract them, but much like Saxon had never really considered the concrete details of how that would happen. They figured that the Captain would send a chopper for them, despite the obvious risks but chances were that a bird, if one was in fact coming, would be sent before dawn.

They could see the sky in the east lightening and knew that sunrise was approaching on a time table determined over billions of years. There would be no adjusting it.

Putting their heads down they continued to push forward through the heavily wooded area and move closer to the landing zone.

They stood a pretty good chance of making the deadline. They only had a relatively short distance to travel, and since they were out of communication with Saxon he likely pushed back the extraction as late as he could make it. They were moving through a wooded area, which slowed them somewhat but there was no roads to cross or residential areas to traverse.

It would be close, but Lowry gave them ninety percent odds.

Then he heard the throaty roar of diesel engines.

****

The landing zone, which ran almost due north and south, was approximately six hundred yards long by fifty yards wide. With a gentle dogleg to the left, and a sharper rise towards the northern end the spot was an obvious place for a rally point, and excellent spot for a helicopter landing.

A gentle creek meandered down the west side of the landing zone for nearly the entire length of the open field. The creek, which over thousands of years had dug a trench nearly three feet deep spots, was anywhere from ten to thirty yards from the treeline on the west.

On the eastern side of the field the treeline extended directly to the edge of the landing zone.

Saxon, Reynolds and Caddy were huddled together in the creek-bed about two hundred yards from the northern edge of the field. Lowry and Dickerson would approach the rendezvous point from behind and their left, although where exactly they'd emerge from the woods remained to be seen.

“Raven 1 this is Hammerflight, copy? Over.”

It had been a long time since Saxon was glad to hear a pilot's voice over the radio.

“Hammerflight, Raven 1. Copy.”

“Raven, Hammerflight will be on scene in one zero minutes. What is the status of the LZ hot or cold? Over.”

The pilot, concerned about the chances of a enemy reception, was asking if there was a chance they be fired on by asking whether their touchdown point would be hot or cold.

Hammerflight, Raven. LZ currently cold, not sure how much longer it will stay that way. Enemy presence nearby. Throwing out IR markers now.”

“Hold tight Raven 1, we're on the way.”

After getting the signal from Saxon, Reynolds tossed several IR marker beacons towards the middle of the field abeam their hiding spot to mark where the helicopters should touch down. The devices, no larger than a baseball emitted an infrared signal that would be viable to the helicopter pilot through his night vision equipment.

Peering into the darkness with their own night vision equipment they scanned intently for any sign of Lowry and Reynolds.

[The Stig]

When rally point Bravo was chosen by Saxon and his team as one of their many emergency meeting points one of the features that attracted their attention was it's seclusion. They had ruled out several large public parks, with broad open sports fields, specifically because they were in the midst of residential areas and were subject to heavy traffic.

Rally point Bravo on the contrary had no direct access and the nearest road ran parallel to the field about four hundred yards to the west. While the road was fairly close the team had decided it presented a reduced risk as it was a maintenance road to a cell phone tower, not a heavily traveled thoroughfare.

When the mission had originally been planned none of the men fully realized the extent to which the Peacekeeper's had penetrated the area and had been studying their surroundings. They knew the camp was being reinforced and must have figured into Crutchfields plans, but without aerial reconnaissance or satellite imagery they had no knowledge of the air defenses and total amount of men in the camp.

The large field loomed just as large on the enemies maps as it did DeMetrie's, and as such the maintenance road was already known as an expeditious shortcut to the long, narrow field. It hadn't taken long to note the location of the detected radio signals and the proximity to the open area and deduce where to send their men.

Lowry and Reynolds had just crossed the maintenance road when they heard the sound of vehicles approaching

Realizing that their enemy was much closer than they anticipated, both men, already tired from the long trek broke into a run.

They were a mere thirty yards into the underbrush as the first Humvee, followed closely by a Vodnik, screeched to a stop on the gravel and dirt road before disgorging their troops.

Knowing the seriousness of the situation, and hearing the shouts of soldiers behind them as their leaders began directing their men, Lowry and Reynolds knew their situation was dire.

Running through the woods and underbrush, with nearly one hundred pounds of gear, in the dark and through the grainy green view of their night vision equipment was a challenge. Between the risk of twisting an ankle or braining themselves on a tree limb, there was a good chance they'd injure themselves before reaching the landing zone.

Both men realized a sprained ankle outweighed the unpleasantness of a rifle round through their chests and kept moving.

****

Saxon heard the noises simultaneously; the rifle shot from their left and rear along with the deep thump of the Blackhawk Helicopter's rotor blades as it approached, swooping in just over the treeline.

“Hammerflight, Raven 1. Be advised LZ has just become hot. Enemy fire just heard several hundred yards to the west of the LZ. Strength unknown.”

“Roger that Raven 1” came the emotionless reply. The pilots strained through the night sky looking for the shape of the landing zone they had previously memorized on DeMetrie's maps. More importantly, they peered into the darkness to avoid hitting a power-line or tree branch as they skimmed just over them both.

Turning to Reynolds and Caddy, “once those choppers flair for landing you both break for them. I'll be the rear guard.”

Reynolds, normally quiet and reserved asked, “Sarge, what about Lowry and Dickerson?”

“They'll be here. You just run like mad to those choppers.”

Caddy and Reynolds simply nodded in response to the order. They were fighting men and understood the risks and chances they took on a daily basis. Still, these were friends, comrades, brothers-in-arms. They had no desire to leave their friends behind.

He glanced up to see the outline of the Blackhawk Helicopter as it turned and began descending towards the landing zone.

“Godammit, you better be here,” Saxon thought to himself as sporadic rifle fire popped and echoed in the distance.



****

“Run dammit, just run,” yelled Lowry as the first rifle shot exploded behind them. Having a well trained enemy behind them, with high powered rifles, suddenly made the scant distance separating the two groups seem very small. They had long since dropped their heavy packs and other equipment other than a few rifle mags and their M4 carbines to allow them to move faster.

With just over fifty yards to go before reaching the clearing Lowry and Dickerson plunged ahead ignoring the sting of tree-branches hitting their bodies and desperately trying to remain upright.

They had gotten lucky.

They were in the bottom of a small ravine of sorts that ran between two hills, the tops of which were fifty yards higher in elevation. The ravine ended just short of the treeline and about twenty yards north of Saxon's position and shielded them from view.

Crutchfield's men and the Peacekeeper's, aware only of a general heading, were forced to fan out and look for the escaping men. One solider, a former American, thought he saw movement and fired several shots at what would ultimately be a raccoon. Sporadically other men would see movement or the imagined insurgent troops and fire a short volley.

But between the noise Lowry and Dickerson made while running, and some outdated Soviet thermal imaging, it didn't take long to get a better idea of what direction to search in.

****

“As soon as those wheel's get near the ground you two haul ass,” Saxon reminded his men.

As he scanned the treeline for his men, Reynolds and Caddy watched as the first helo began flaring just prior to setting down in the soft earth. They glanced back and saw a second helicopter a short twenty yards behind lead airship begin the same process. The lightening sky was giving away from the dark of night to grayish hue so that the helicopters were gray shapes hanging in the air.

Reluctantly, Reynolds and Caddy began sprinting towards the bird.

As they ran, legs pumping, chest pounding, they were unaware of the unfolding drama behind them.

Lowry and Dickerson emerged from the woods seconds before the first enemy appeared just to their left. Running full-steam towards their salvation, they were oblivious as Saxon calmly fired two shots in rapid succession to take out the threat.

Reynolds looked up, and in a scene out of a Vietnam War movie, could see the door gunner begin engaging enemy troops with the mounted SAW machine gun. The gun rocked back and forth as spent brass casings arched through the air. Careful not to cross into the line of fire he watched the crew chief as he waved and encouraged them towards safety.

Simultaneously, the small group of men in the second helicopter had begun shooting towards the woods to the right of Dickerson and Lowry in an effort to slow the advance of those troops. They wouldn't move much beyond a few yards from their helo, but the addition of their firepower was welcome. The door gunner on that helicopter soon joined the fray, sending a stream of tracers flying into the woods.

Finally reaching the helicopter, after what seemed like an eternity, Reynolds turned and helped push Caddy up onto the metal floor of the aircraft and helped by the crew-chief, he was soon pulled aboard, albeit ungracefully. Reynolds couldn't hear the roar of the SAW, despite it being only several feet from his head, over the screeching helicopter turbine.

Soon he too was pulled aboard and finally turned to see, in horror, what was happening.

The treeline was a sparkle of bright lights as nearly fifteen soldiers fired at Saxon, Lowry and Dickerson. By the time Reynolds was pulled aboard the airborne chariot, the two wayward soldiers had reached Saxon and all three began the dash to the waiting helicopters.

Bullets whizzed through the air all around them as the three men, now oblivious to anything other than covering the distance to the helicopter ran as hard as their bodies would allow. For Lowry and Dickerson both it felt as if their feet were encased in cement. In slow motion they watched each agonizing step bring them closer to the waiting arms of the helos.

Reynolds, hearing rounds begin to smack into the fuselage of the helicopter, and seeing the spent casings of the SAW gun spit through the air, heard the pilots screaming, “we have to go, they are tearing us apart.”

In the same split second it took Reynolds to comprehend the pilots words, he turned in time to see Dickerson fall to the ground and land in an awkward heap. Lowry and Saxon, both sensing his absence turned to attend to their fallen comrade but it was clear there would be nothing they could do.

They were a scant twenty yards away when Reynolds sensed the engines surging to a full power and the helicopter begin to move forward across the ground. Caddy and the crew-chief reached down to pull Saxon into the chopper. As they did Caddy suddenly grunted and fell forward, nearly out of the chopper. Reynolds watched in horror as dark red blood began seeping onto the hard surface of the chopper's floor. The crew-chief had to yank him back to keep him from pitching out of the jerkily moving helicopter.

Saxon somehow scrambled on board, if only barely as the helicopter began lifting off. Reynolds, kneeling over Caddy suddenly realized they were short one passenger. Screaming towards the pilot, “Wait, there's one more” Reynolds realized the two pilots in the cockpit were now focused on getting their bird out of harms way before further damage could occur. He wasn't a pilot, but the urgently flashing red lights on the cockpit console told the tale: the chopper was already damaged and any further time on the ground would result in all of them going down.

It was the cold reality of war.

He realized the sensation of the accent as the chopper pilots tried to coax the wounded aircraft into the dawn sky.

Without thinking he grabbed the rifle that miraculously landed on the web seats as he was pulled aboard the chopper, turned and pitched himself out the door on the side of the Blackhawk facing away from Lowry and the oncoming enemy soldiers. Barely missing from smashing his head into the barrel of the mounted machine gun, Reynolds fell ten feet to the ground and rolled to the side in an awkward attempt to break his fall.

Looking up in time to see Lowry, who had given up on getting in the helicopter and was running towards the trees on the opposite side of the landing zone, Reynolds fired a short burst at a visible solider as the second Blackhawk roared above his head, desperately clawing at the air while it tried to climb to safety.

Something grabbed his arm and yanked him backwards.

Yelling over the din, Lowry said, “You sir are an idiot.”

The two men frantically scampered into the woods on the opposite side of the field.

****

The pilots of the second helicopter, the one filled with DeMetrie's other men, manipulated their controls as they willed their machine into the air. They suffered the misfortune of crossing directly in front of the bulk of Crutchfield's men just as most of them emerged from the woods.

The chopper proved a tantalizing target as it awkwardly tried to transition into flight in the gray tinted morning light. As Lowry and Reynolds disappeared into the woods, all of the men on the ground fired, in concert, at the now smoking helicopter. Round after round of rifle fire poured into the fragile craft.

Inside the cockpit, the pilot exclaimed, as a round penetrated the side door and pierced his leg. Yelling out, he frantically tried to stem the flow of blood as it squirted across the canopy and cockpit. His femoral artery had been pierced, sending blood spraying and causing the pilot to forget, understandably, the first rule of airmenship: no matter the problem, fly the aircraft.

The co-pilot, who already had his hands on the control's was suddenly overwhelmed by the alarm bells, screaming warning horns and the din of the battle. Several rounds skidded across the canopy directly in front of him. Desperately, he yanked on the vertical control, the one that controls climb, which abruptly changed the angle of attack of the rotor blades. Suddenly, they tried to bite too much air and an aerodynamic stall developed across the blades, causing the chopper to lunge to the side.

As rounds continued pummeling the aircraft, and having already killed two of DeMetrie's men, the helicopter stalled and violently pitched downward into the sharp hillside at the end of the field. The chopper burst into flames on impact and within seconds a giant fireball enveloped the shattered airframe.

There would be no survivors.

[piranha2]

Now thats a damn shame.

[bacpacker]

Bummer, Damn near whole team wiped out.

[The Stig]

They had already covered several hundred miles before the sun broke over the horizon. Knowing that time was of the essence, Miller, Dink and Webb only slept for a few hours before heading out towards Clar Mar farms.

As the miles ticked by, and the friendly joking continued unabated, Miller couldn't help but think of his last trip there. Clarissa Donner managed a large working farm that employed a large percentage of the county and pumped a lot of money into the local economy. Her husband, killed in the war, and Father, killed in a gun-battle at the farm itself, were no longer there to look over her. Not that she needed it. She had taken to the farming business and learned the ropes the hard way. Attacks from other farms and business espionage were not consequence as the built a surprisingly strong business out of nothing.

During the reign of Senator Donovan, and his attempt to usurp power across several states, she had allowed Miller and his friends to use the farm as a clandestine base of operations to fight back. It was during this time that she caught the eye of the Senator and eventually factored heavily in his capture.

“So you think Donovan's sending some of Kirilenko's henchmen to ClarMar?” asked Webb.

Shaken from his thoughts Miller replied, “yea. It's likely. Like I said, we wouldn't have caught the guy without her. I can see where he'd be a tad miffed about that.”

“And with that part of the country being open to travel, getting a team in there would be easier than stealing candy from a baby,” suggested Dink. President Alan encouraged an open approach in the former Southern District in an attempt to return the area to normalcy after the Senator was deposed. While other parts of the country were under a kind of martial law, the southern states had no such restrictions.

“You ever get through on the phone?” asked Miller. Webb had been calling every so often but kept getting no replies.

“Nothing yet,” was his reply as Webb reached for a drink of soda.

“So Miller,” started Dink in his slow drawl, “we're pretty much counting on the bad guys showing up, letting us capture them and then spilling the beans?”

Webb, nearly choking on his soda said, “when you put it that way, it's not really a ringing endorsement.”

From the back seat, Miller replied, “mostly we're heading to ClarMar to get Clarissa to safety. If we get to monkey stomp a badguy who just happens to share information that leads us to Kirilenko and Donovan, so much the better.”

“Makes sense,” said Dink. “Any chance we can hit the head at the next gas station? I gotta drain the lizard.”

“Charming,” was Webb's only reply.

****

At six foot, four inches, and two hundred and fifty pounds, Gegory Kirilenko was an imposing figure. His bald pate and rugged features only intensified his overbearing appearance as did his obviously European military uniform. He was used to using his physicality to intimidate young soldiers or people who had information he wanted. But there was more to the man than hulking size. Having seized on a chance encounter with the Soviet Premier during the political uprisings in the 1990's, he wasn't even supposed to be in the building that day, he used his new patronage to swiftly establish himself in Soviet, then Russian Military circles. Despite his Ukrainian heritage he quickly became the favorite of the Kremlin and he found himself facing increasingly more challenging assignments.

Slowly he entrenched himself in the GRU and used its network of spies and information to gather information on Russia's political elite every bit as much as the Chechen rebels he spent most of his time fighting. Soon he had become a major power broker. During the Second Chechen War, Kirilenko was everywhere as the Russian Federal forces brutally regained control of the rogue state. Directing military missions, assassinating political figures both in Chechnya and abroad, and running special forces missions behind enemy lines, the man worked around the clock to defeat the rogue state. His tactics were ruthless, brutal and entirely without compassion. When the phone rang following the Beslan School massacre he crushed anyone and everyone even remotely connected to the terrorist attack.

Cunningly he also used the situation to remove several Russian military rivals whose only connection to the attack on the schoolchildren was created by Kirilenko.

“So now what happens?” asked the older, tan man, clearly used to being in control.

Compared to Kirilenko, Miles Donovan was a small man. With quaffed hair, tailored suits and impossibly tan skin, he looked like a used car salesman compared to his new henchman.

“Your team in Wyoming failed to get Miller,” stated Donovan accusingly.

He had convinced Crutchfield that he was valuable and maneuvered Crutchfield into giving the blessing for a revenge mission against Miller. For his part, when Kirilenko first found out about his assignment to assist Donovan his enthusiasm was lacking. He had been dispatched to America as a form of punishment as those in the Kremlin finally gathered enough leverage on their rival to have Kirilenko banished. He figured he'd bide his time helping America implode and then return to Russia with a vengeance. Now he would be babysitting an old man on a bizarre vendetta. He couldn't fathom why Crutchfield was bothering with the dispatched Senator.

But then, in a meeting with Crutchfield and Donovan he heard one name that changed it all: John Miller. Realizing an opportunity to settle old scores, his enthusiasm for the operation blossomed.

Kirilenko, who bristled against the snide comment replied, “So what. We know they are en route to this farm in Mississippi. We have a team in place to hit the farm tonight. If all goes well, they'll all be dead this time tomorrow.”

Unflinchingly, Donovan said, “you really think this?”. He was used to testing political aides, underlings, lackeys and intimidating them. Simply put, he was out of his league with Georgy Kirilenko.

Staring back, hatred in his eyes, he said, “Miller is a wise opponent. I give him that. But my men are professionals. They will get him. If not, we send more.”

Unsatisfied Donovan left the small office.

Staring at his cup of coffee Kirilenko couldn't help but feel the excitement of facing an old rival. It took him back to different times and places around the Ukraine, Chechnya, even Eastern Europe.

****

It had been close. Lowry and Reynolds continued their escape on foot after the failed evacuation attempt. In a cruel twist of fate, the time spent shooting down the second Blackhawk helicopter at the field had afforded the men the opportunity they needed to evade the Peacekeepers.

They first traveled nearly a mile due south, towards the river, as one might expect. However, they then turned westward, back towards the city, in an attempt to evade the majority of the squad of men chasing them. They had gambled, and it paid off. Most of the mixed force of Peacekeepers and Crutchfield's men converged on the wreckage of the downed helicopter before regrouping and searching the area for any other signs of remaining men. There had been unclear reports from some of the men that several men had run into the woods near the end of the fight. As a precaution, a force was dispatched southward to pursue them.

Soon however, the force drifted easterly assuming any survivors would want to head both towards the river and away from most of their forces.

They had covered the mile just as the sun reached it's full brightness. Knowing they had to keep moving, despite the daylight, the two men pushed on, exhausted, as they turned sharply westward, towards the city and the camp they had failed to destroy. After another half mile they found a large concrete drainage pipe, nearly eight feet in diameter, running into a hillside. Since it offered a modicum of safety they ventured inside and soon found a small chamber nearly fifty yards into the hillside. While dirty and dank, it afforded them a place to regroup.

“You really are dumb, you know that right?” said Lowry to Reynolds in a low whisper.

“You're welcome,” was all his friend could say.

“No really, you were safe and on your way home. The Captain needs every man he can get. Now he's out three men,” said Lowry thinking back to Dickerson's death at the landing zone.

Leaning close to keep the noise down, Reynolds, who looked oddly like the American actor, Cuba Gooding Jr, said, “might be four. Caddy took a hit as we were taking off.”

Pausing for a second to think about the potential death of their friend Lowry continued, “see you dolt. He needs you that much more.”

Reynolds, not really knowing what to say, sat in silence.

After thirty seconds Lowry leaned over again in the damp fetid air, and whispered, “thanks man.”

Reynolds, smile on his face, drifted off to an exhausted sleep. Lowry followed closely behind.


****

The gas station, was part convenience store, truck-stop and travelers lounge. It was a large building which was odd given it's location. It wasn't particularly near any large cities, nor was it a logical stopping point for travelers looking for a restroom. Somehow the business stayed afloat despite the distinct lack of customers. As Webb's large truck pulled in, he guided it to the pumps.

“I'm good guys. I'll fill it up. Just grab me a water,” said Miller, offering to perform the tedious task of filling the tanks of the large diesel truck.

Tossing him the keys, Webb said, “check the oil and clean the windscreen too.”

Flipping him the middle finger, Miller scanned the parking lot. Used to keeping track of his surroundings, it had kept him out of trouble many times before, he noted a couple old sedans, a pickup truck filled with junk and one large tractor-trailer at the commercial pumps. Several travelers milled around the inside of the store, with several more near a small cafe located near the back of the restaurant.

Soon he attended to the process of fueling the thirsty tanks of Webb's truck.

“This is probably going to cost me an arm and a leg,” he considered as he squeezed the pump handle and diesel began flowing.

The pump ran well past $100 before Miller decided staring at the dial wasn't good for his blood pressure.

It was as he walked around the truck, checking each tire for damage, that he noticed them. Two men, both in their early thirties, approaching the store. They had pulled in as Miller tried to decipher the credit card reader on the gas-pump and were now about to enter the building.

While they tried to disguise it by wearing blue jeans and untucked shirts, their appearance screamed of military experience. Short cropped hair, excellent physical build, boots instead of shoes all told Miller these were not locals on the way to work. That they walked upright, with ram-rod straight posture and a confidant and measured gait only reinforced his feelings, especially as he watched them scanning the parking lot and what could be seen of the store.

But what really set off Millers alarm bells, and put him on edge, was what they hadn't done. They hadn't made eye contact with him. In fact they had gone out of their way to ignore him.

“That ain't good,” was all he thought as he casually returned the hose to the pump and replaced the gas-cap.

[hedgehog]

Excellant.

[piranha2]

Its gonna get hot now.

[bacpacker]

Yeah it is.

[The Stig]

“So...soo....sorry boss,” stuttered Caddy from his hospital bed. The electronic and rubber spaghetti ran from Caddy's body to a myriad of machines all employed in sustaining his life and highlighted his medical situation.

Gently patting the soldiers arm, DeMetrie said, “Stay strong trooper. You did good.”

During the evacuation from the landing zone, Caddy took a round to the lower abdomen area. Despite blood loss and internal injuries it appeared he would survive the wound. The immediate response of the helicopter crew-chief to employ combat casualty care along with the arrival at a hospital in under ten minutes saved Caddy's life.

DeMetrie rushed to the small hospital complex as soon as the chopper radioed to notify him of the injury. He personally carried the litter to the chopper as it touched down.

“So what's the outlook Sir?” asked DeMetrie of the attending doctor after the preliminary surgery. They had left Caddy's small room to talk in private.

Looking over a small chart, the doctor replied, “your man should pull through Captain. He got very lucky. Internal injuries were relatively minor and he received medical care quickly. He's out of action for the foreseeable future, and will be on a pain med regimen, but overall I'd say he should recover fully.”

“Outstanding,” replied DeMetrie. “Keep me posted would you Sir?”

Shaking the Captain's hand the doctor replied, “Absolutely. Once he's stable, he'll be flown down to Nashville for long-term care. Probably in a day or two.”

After ducking back into Caddy's small private area, and asking if Caddy wanted anything, the Captain prepared to leave, “Looks like you'll be heading to Nashville in a few days. Doc says you should be be fine.”

Looking up weakly Caddy forced a slight smile, “Thank you.....Sir.” After a short pause to collect his breath, he continued, “I'll be back to keep Lowry in line.”

Both men knew that Caddy would likely not be returning. He'd been cleared for combat with the team under special circumstances and as a favor to DeMetrie. But the combination of his age and special status likely meant he'd be sent home with a hardy handshake and a nice plaque. DeMetrie might be able to pull strings, a second time, but in the short-term the odds were likely that he'd never see Caddy again.

Neither man wanted to acknowledge that reality or Lowry's present situation.

After several minutes of small talk the Captain stood. He had developed a true affection for the older man who's sense of honor and duty was an inspiration to him. They'd once been enemies and now the Captain considered the old Marine a true friend.

Shaking Caddy's hand the Captain said, “I'll come see you before you leave, you get yourself well, understand?”

Weakly....and with a slight effort, Caddy replied, “yes....yes sii...Sir.”

The Captain spun and left the room before noticing the slight tear in Caddy's eye. He'd been in the military in one form or another his entire life. The fact was, the only thing he knew how to do was solider.

Now that was all over.

****

“What the hell happened Mike?” asked Colonel Tom Haggard. He was the officer loosely assigned to overseeing DeMetrie and several other similar operations. “Four aircraft, a helo and it's crew, five of your men dead, another wounded and two more missing. How did this thing go so sideways?”

Without pause or hesitation Captain DeMetrie replied, “my fault entirely Sir. I rushed the airstrike without doing proper recon first. Had I done so the presence of the air defenses would have been discovered.”

Captain DeMetrie, decorated service member, was not one to shy away from blame.

“I'm not interested in beating you down Mike. No satellites, no air recon, no drones. You can't catch everything when you do boot-recon. Any word from your two men?”

“No Sir,” replied DeMetrie. “My comms people are on all the preset freqs, but looks like one of their radios was inop and no telling if they've had time to think let alone get out a message.”

“So what's your plan from here?”

In between responding to the returning helicopter, dealing with Caddy and quickly debriefing Saxon, DeMetrie had been asking himself the same question.

“I don't have the manpower to go wandering all over the countryside looking for them. And the surviving helo is shot to pieces. I have to get a report from the pilot once I return to HQ. That said, I've already recalled a couple teams that were working further west, I'm going to insert them on the east side and have them start working towards the last known area. That will cut down on response time. Ultimately, I need that bird, and need it to fly, so I can pull them out the second they make contact. Otherwise they have to hump fifteen clicks through Indian country.”

“The bird's yours. I'll clear it with the pilots CO. Wish I had men to send you Mike, but for now I'm afraid you are on your own. Crutchfield's forces have made some big advances in the East so the President has shifted what little resources we had over there. Keep me posted.”

****
Returning to his operations room, DeMetrie sprung into action. He wasn't one to sit around and sulk after a setback.

Before he could say a word, however, Saxon, who had been hovering over the radios waiting desperately for Lowry and Reynolds to make contact, said, “Sir, I blew it. I should have called off the extraction, or chosen a different LZ.”

Waving his hand through the air to stop Saxon, DeMetrie said, “Sergeant, your task now is to help bring your men back. I'm not going to second guess decisions you made in the heat of the moment.”

Looking at his aide Jones, DeMetrie fired off a series of orders. “Jones, once Echo and Foxtrot teams return to base have them brought up to speed and ready to reinsert, on foot, ricky tick.” Glancing down at his watch, he continued, “They should be back within two hours. Send the team leaders to me first so I can brief them.”

Barely taking a breath he pushed on, “every member of the comms team should be on station and working the gear. If Lowry or Reynolds farts, I want to hear it. Go.” Jones quickly finished his notes and left the command center.

Turning to Saxon, DeMetrie continued, “any support staff that aren't part of an active mission gears up and is our ready reaction team. You brief them on the situation, review procedures for the green guys, and square them away. They may go in by chopper or foot, unknown now. They stay on this side of the river until we get word from the boys, but when you go, you go in hot and hard. Good?”

“Sir,” Sergeant Saxon replied as he dashed out of the cramped room DeMetrie used as a command center. His Captain had been right, putting him back on the horse right away kept his head in the game.

DeMetrie then turned to the last remaining person in the command center, the surviving helicopter pilot. Wiping a light film of sweat from his forehead, DeMetrie asked, “status on the bird?”

Looking somewhat surprised, the young pilot responded, “Shot to hell sir. Several systems are out.”

“No good,” the Captain fired back. “I need that bird to fly. You're going back in to get them.”

“Sir,” the young pilot responded, “I'm not sure I can fix it and we need to return to our base.”

The Captain, already not pleased with the pilot leaned in very closely. “Listen to me Lieutenant, and listen good. You owe me for two Mk. 1A1 troops that you left in Indian country. Until they are back on my post you aren't going anywhere. Now you beg, borrow or steal what you need, but that chopper is going to fly, and it's going to bring back my men.”

The young pilot, clearly not realizing the time to shut up, again tried to protest, “Sir, I understand but I need to check in with my commander.”

Cutting him off, the Captain's voice rose from it's icy cold tone to a heated rage, “You shitstain. It's been cleared with your boss. From here on out your ass is mine. You will do what I say when I say it. You will fucking make that bird fly. You will fucking go get my men. You will bring them back to me. Copy?”

Snapping to attention, the Lieutenant, realizing his predicament, “I'll get to work on the bird and advise you the minute we're cleared to go.”

“Outstanding,” replied DeMetrie as he dismissed the young officer in disgust.

Sitting down in his chair DeMetrie let out a long sigh. Being fifteen miles behind enemy lines, with limited means of contacting your headquarters, low on supplies and surrounded by an enemy looking for you, was a tough spot for Lowry and Reynolds.

He would move heaven and earth to get them back, but the odds were slim.

Pushing the negativity from his mind, he began pouring over maps of the area.

[bacpacker]

Very nice update Stig. Glad Caddy pulled thru.

[The Stig]

“Man, this water sure is cold,” murmured Dink as he and Webb both began releaving themselves.

At the next urinal over, Webb replied, “and deep too. I remember what that was funny.”

The truck-stop bathroom, covered in the grime of years of abuse and travelers, was both dimly lit and located in the far rear of the building. It took the two men a few seconds of searching before a lackadaisical employee indicated the presence of a small hallway by grunting and nodding his head in its general direction.

The entrance to the restroom was a small L-shaped hallway off the main one. The lack of a door fit in with the rest of the crudely constructed building.

“Aw comeon now, when did that stop being funny,” Dink said to continue the well intentioned fun.

Webb, suddenly changing the mood of the conversation, asked, “what do you think about this Kirilenko business?”

Dink, replied, “Well man....Miller needs us so we help him right?”

“No, of course. I mean what Miller told us about him.”

As he finished his business, Dink zipped his trousers and stood for a second. “I reckon it's all true.”

A third voice, uttered, with a thick accent, “Gentleman, I assure you everything you've heard is true.” The man, wearing an untucked button-down shirt and ballcap also held something that immediately gathered Dink and Webb's full attention: a silenced Gsh-18 pistol. The Russian built pistol held 18 rounds of 9mm ammunition, more than enough to silence them for good.

Dink, spinning around at the sound of the voice, knew the man standing at the entrance to the room had the drop on them. There was little, if anything he and Webb could do to defend themselves. Despite having pistols of their own, there would be no way for them to draw and fire before the man simply gunned them down.

Rushing him was out of the question for the same reason.

Simply put, they were cornered.

“I know what you are thinking Mr. Dink. I'd suggest you both slowly turn back around, and walk backwards to the sound of my voice. Once we get out into the hallway, you walk forward and out the backdoor.

Webb remembered seeing the exit door at the end of the hallway right before he turned into the restroom. It was only a few feet, straight ahead, beyond the bathroom entrance. Cursing himself he realized they had lost all situational awareness and the mystery man with the gun held all the cards. The men were going to march them out the back of the building before he or Dink had a chance to make a scene or create a distraction. Once they were behind the building, and out of sight, odds were the men would silently kill them. Their bodies would be cold before anyone realized they were there.

Thinking the same, Dink said, “As you wish old buddy.” He and Webb turned and slowly started walking backwards towards the man.

After negotiating the L-turn, it was clear what happened. As he backed out of the bathroom into the main hallway Dink caught a quick glimpse of a second gunman. He had been guarding it to prevent anybody else from walking in. Now they both marched Webb and Dink forward towards the rear door.

“Good work gentleman,” came the accented voice. “Straight through that door please.”

Glancing at each other Webb and Dink slowly moved forward towards the door. Pushing it open, the door swung out to their right presenting them with a panoramic view of an overflowing dumpster and piles of old boxes. Several feet beyond the dumpster was underbrush leading into a heavy woods.

The gunmen might even toss their bodies into the woods to further delay detection.

“Turn to the right please,” instructed the gunman. “Then straight ahead.”

Webb felt the presence of the two gunmen as they moved closer to he and Dink. Normally captors try to keep separated from the men they are guarding to ward off any attacks. But in this case, the gunmen wanted to prevent their two captives from turning the corner and dashing to safety. Even with just a few feet head start the odds of an escape increased. It would be a risky move for Webb and Dink, but at this point is was their only option.

Following instructions Dink and Webb exited the building, all the while scanning the area for some makeshift weapon or avenue of escape.

The gunmen exited closely behind them, then paused slightly to survey the narrow area between the rear of the building and the beginning of the woods. This also allowed a slight space between them and their captives to redevelop.

The noted the dumpster, discarded boxes and general unkempt appearance of the alleyway. They'd move the hostages towards the corner of the building. One man would hold them at gunpoint, still hidden behind the building, while the other retrieved the car and drove it closer to where Dink and Webb were being held. They wanted to minimize the amount of distance they had to cover from the corner of the building and the car.

They were taking no chances.

Once they secured their hostages in the car, they'd deal with the third man, their actual target. Having his friends might even serve as leverage to entice him to go willingly.

The gunman from the bathroom, clearly the boss, instructed “alright gentleman, ahead towards that packing crate near the corner of the building.”

Dink, turning towards Webb said, “he sure is a polite henchmen.”

The head gunman replied, “well, no reason why we can't be civil.” As he said this he reached towards the door to the building, with his left hand, to shut it. He used his left hand as his right was occupied with the menacing pistol, still pointed ahead at Webb and Dink. The door was only three-quarters open but with the door fully shut there would be nothing to indicate trouble to an employe or customer who entered the hallway to the bathroom.

He exclaimed “oh!” as the heavy metal door suddenly flung open, wrenching his arm and throwing him both off balance and back a step. As the door bounced back off the man, it was flung open a second time, this time knocking the gunman to the ground.

As his partner turned to respond to the threat, he watched in slow motion as the throwing knife, arced through the air to cover the short distance between his assailant and his chest. To his horror the knife planted itself deeply into his chest, slicing through several vital organs and preventing him from responding further.

As the wounded man fell to the ground, his hands, responding in sympathy to both the fall and the sudden appearance of a metallic object in his chest cavity, clinched. This served to discharge his weapon with a dull thud as it too was silenced.

The gunman who had been thrown backwards to the ground attempted to bring his weapon up to shoot his attacker. He actually fired several rounds of 9mm ammunition through the door near where it met the building, but the attacker had already leapt forward, out of the line of fire.

Stunned, the gunman failed to respond allowing Miller the time he needed to swing the heavy pipe he'd found laying in the debris. With a slight change of direction Miller rared back and swung with all his force. The metal pipe connected with the gunman's head, sending his hat flying and caving in his skull in one violent motion. The gunman, still seated, collapsed to his side with a grunt. The crater in his bludgeoned skull was already pink and crimson.

“Thanks for dragging that one out so long. Webb here about pissed himself,” Dink said jokingly. He was helping pull Webb up from the pile of debris they both flung themselves into when they realized Miller was attacking their captors. The last thing they wanted to be was in the line of fire if the gunmen shot at Miller.

Breathing a bit heavier than normal, Miller replied, “yea, sorry about that. Last time I let you two go to the bathroom without adult supervision.”

As he reached down to drag the man who's skull he had fatally fractured, he continued, “come on, close this door. Webb, help me pitch these two goons in the dumpster.”

Webb nodded while Dink replied, “Yea, we better make tracks before we get hung up by Johnny Law.”

****

As their truck sped down the highway the three men processed through what happened.

“That was bad. Real bad,” offered up Webb after several minutes of silence.

“No kidding,” replied Dink. “how the hell did they know my name?”

Miller, from his spot in the back seat offered up a more troubling question, “I got one better. How the hell did they know we were there?”

Webb nodded in agreement. “I didn't see anybody tailing us. And this highway was so desolate we would have spotted anybody back there,” chimed in Webb.

As they mulled over the situation, Miller suddenly barked out, “pull the truck over.”

Dink, taken by surprise, hurriedly replied, “what is it son?”

“Pull the truck over, now.”

After slowing the large truck and pulling to the breakdown lane of the highway, Dink and Webb hopped out after Miller. He had jumped down from the cab before the truck had come to a complete stop.

As Webb and Dink trotted to follow their friend, he disappeared beneath the rear of the truck.

Dink and Webb instinctively scanned the horizon for any sign of danger.

After a short while Dink, who could barely contain himself said, “Come on man, what is it?”

Miller suddenly reappeared, grasping a small metal box. After Webb helped pull him back to his feet he tossed it to Dink. “GPS tracking beacon.”

Staring at the small black box he uttered, “Son of a gun. How on earth did we forget to check for that?” Dink continued sheepishly, “I guess I figured the assault team back at the ranch didn't have time to plant anything.”

“Whoever planted it,” said Webb solemnly, “it led them right to us.”

As the three men climbed back into Webb's truck, it was clear to them all that they were being hunted by professionals. They would need to step up their game if they wanted to survive.

[Thor827]

This just keeps getting better!

[bacpacker]

Awesome!

[piranha2]

Gotta love it - keep em coming.

[The Stig]

“Look at that, 'Welcome to Shelton County'. Seems like just yesterday when we strolled the gentle winding streets of this fair land,” mused Dink as they crossed into the county that once was their home.

That was well over two years ago. Before the civil war. Before local government officials took advantage of the situation. Before Senator Donovan tried to create his own kingdom. All three men had lived and worked in the area before being forced underground and ultimately into a resistance movement.

Webb stretched and yawned as he replied, “yea, good old home.”

The county had recovered after the brush with totalitarianism. Road blocks disappeared. Military outposts were reclaimed by the wilderness. Bullet-holes were patched, the dead were buried and evil-doers brought to justice.

Even the city of Shelton, twenty or so miles further East, had recovered. Once a quiet rural county-seat, it quickly became a military garrison when the troubles started. Entire blocks around City Hall had been razed to make room for a new military barracks and command center. The high-school had even been incorporated into the mass structure.

Making the best of the situation, the locals had used the space for a massive community center and open park. It was a fitting end for a dark period in the town's history.

As they passed a long, straight stretch of country road, with flat land to one side, and thin woods to the other, the three men looked at each other knowingly. The site had factored heavily into their lives on the run.

“We should be at ClarMar in fifteen or so I think,” announced Webb.

Miller, who had been mostly quiet since the incident at the truck-stop, perked up as he adjusted from his semi-asleep posture. “Let's come in from the north. There's a grove of trees where we can scan the farm and see if there's any signs of trouble before we go be-bopping in.

Dink, chimed in, “Mosey. Saunter. Trapse. Hell, even stroll. But no Southern man, in his right mind, would ever be-bop into anything.”

****

As they approached the grove, and prepared to observe the farm, Dink asked softly, “so Miller, how did you know to bushwhack them behind the exit door?”

“You mean at the truckstop?”

As Dink nodded affirmatively, Miller smiled and replied, “after I saw your two buddies enter the truckstop I followed them in. When I saw badguy number two posted outside the bathroom entrance, and the exit door just beyond it, it didn’t take much to figure out where they’d be headed. They sure was hell weren’t going to drag you back through the store and risk you making a scene.”

Webb asked gingerly, “what if you had guessed wrong?”

“I’d have been pissed,” declared Miller defiantly.

Dink snorted. “Why on earth would you have been pissed? We’d be the ones with 9mm slugs in our noggins.”

With a smile Miller jerked his thumb towards Webb and answered, “because then I’d never get my money back for filling up Webb’s truck.”

****

“Alright Kirilenko, what’s the status on the operation?” asked Donovan as he stormed into the large office.

Kirilenko, sitting behind a massive desk, once inhabited by a now imprisoned Federal Judge, looked up angrily. Glancing at his aide, he dismissed him with a quick nod of the head.

With a forced smile Kirilenko grunted, “what can I do for you today Mr. Senator?”

“What’s happened with the attempt to kill Miller before he reached ClarMar Farms?”

Sighing, and looking at Donovan as a principal would look at an impertinent schoolboy, Kirilenko answered, “Senator, you must understand that operations like this have a fluid nature. They do not happen on a set time table.”

Grimacing, the former car salesman shot back, “is that another way to say you failed again?”

Donovan was the one used to giving the orders and asking the questions. He’d always worked through underlings who did his bidding without question. Having to work with the Russian GRU General, who clearly wasn’t impressed by Donovan’s smile and brilliantly white teeth, did not sit well.

With a calm demeanor that belied his anger, Kirilenko responded, “I’ve been, as you say, locking horns, with Mr. Miller for many years. Sometime he wins, sometime I do. But he is always a worthwhile adversary. He is not to be underestimated.” He waved his finger to emphasize the point.

Eyes narrowing, “he’s a small town hick. You ought to squash him like a bug. Let’s hope your plan for ClarMar tonight nabs him and that whore both.” Donovan then turned and stormed out of the richly appointed office. In his huff he nearly knocked Kirilenko's aide to the ground.

“He is a….,” he paused searching for the word. “A Смикніться,” the Ukrainian word for jerk.

With an awkward smile Kirilenko replied, “he’s more than a jerk, Vanya.”

Handing his boss a file of papers, the aide continued, “Pardon me for saying so Sir, but the Senator was correct. Miller defeated another team. Do you think the team at the farm will have better luck?”

Without looking up from his papers, the General replied, “luck has nothing to do with it. The team will either succeed or fail. Either way, this dance with Miller will end before we go back to Russia. Its been going on too long.”

“Shall I coordinate with the team at the farm to ensure they’ve made all their preparations?”

Smiling, the General replied, “you are always on the details Major. When we return to the Ukraine you’ll have a lot more hardware on your shoulders.”

Nodding his head in appreciation, “Thank you sir.” As he reorganized the files Kirilenko had handed back, he paused slightly before asking, “have we heard more from the…..er…. Розвідник?” While a talented solider, the Major’s English left something to be desired.

“No. Lets not push him either eh?” replied the General as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s taken a while to get him on board. Let’s not spoil him by asking too much.”

Nodding in understanding of the direction, the Major turned and left the office leaving Kirilenko to his thoughts.

He had no intention of staying in American long. He’d complete this irritating diversion before returning to Russia. Once this messy affair was over his enemies at home would feel his wrath.

****

“Got time for some visitors?”

Clarrisa Donner looked up from her desk to see John Miller leaning against the doorway. Dink and Webb stood just behind him.

“Miller!” she exclaimed with genuine excitement. Rounding her desk the attractive brunette, gave Miller a full hug, and repeated the process with Dink and Webb. “I wish I knew you were coming. I would have made preparations.”

“Yea, about that,” started Miller. “We’ve been calling for two days with no answers.”

“We’ve been having problems with the phones for days. Frustrating really. We’ve been trying to coordinate a big delivery of supplies from a vendor and can’t seem to get anything done.”

Miller, looking concerned, asked, “internet?”

Looking up with her beautiful round eyes, Clarissa replied, “it’s down too. It’s through the phone lines.”

Turning back to Dink and Webb, “go find the main junction box for the phone line. Follow it back to the connection at the street. Look for any equipment that shouldn’t be there.”

“Let me call my farm manager, he can help you,” Clarissa chimed in.

After Dink and Webb had been dispatched, Clarissa, continued, “John, it’s wonderful to see you again. Let’s go over to the house and I’ll cook you boys some lunch.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m afraid you aren’t going to like the reason why we’re here.” Miller knew Clarissa was a strong woman and the direct approach would be the best. Most people wouldn’t respond well to knowing a team of soldiers was coming to kill them, but Clarissa wasn’t most women.

Sensing the seriousness in Miller’s tone, she sat back in her desk chair and nodded for him to continue.

“Donovan’s escaped to the north. He’s got an old friend of mine, a Russian General named Kirilenko hunting me down. They’ve already tried a few times. Odds are they are coming here too.”

Taking in the news Clarissa got down to business, “how serious and what do you need from me?”

Appreciating her no-nonsense nature Miller replied, “it’s serious. Kirilenko is a bad guy and has bad people who work for him. And Donovan. Well…he’s definitely got a bone to pick with us.”

“Yea,” she said thinking back to all that had happened in the past two years. “I can see where his ego would be deflated.”

“Odds are Dink and Webb are going to find equipment on your phone line that’s blocking the phone calls. Chance are good there’s a cellphone jammer somewhere around here to mess with those signals too. These guys are pros Clarissa. I’m afraid there might be a replay of last time.”

Sucking in a small amount of air Clarissa thought back to the night where a team of rogue State Troopers had assaulted her farm and killed her father. The farmhouse, destroyed in the process, had been rebuilt and her father buried, but that night still lingered in her psyche.

“Swell. So how do we play this?”

Miller smiled. “Let's go get that lunch started. I've got an idea but I'm not sure you are going to like it.”

[Grumpy Old Man]

I'm liking this more and more!

[bacpacker]

Me too.

[The Stig]

Jolting awake with a startle, Lowry struggled to understand the environment around him. It was dark, very dark. He seemed to be sitting on some sort of concrete, propped up against a wall of the same construction. The air was dank and thick and there was little sound except the occasional dripping of water.

Within seconds he regained his senses and remembered that he and Reynolds had sought refuge in a concrete culvert that lead deep into a hillside.

Whispering carefully, Lowry called out, “Reynolds. Wake up sunshine.” For good measure he elbowed his friend in the side.

“Ugh...what the...,” he exclaimed in a normal tone of voice before he too remembered their predicament and began whispering. “How the hell long were we out?”

“Looks like nearly all damn day. It's 21:15. Guess the thrill of adventure got the best of us.”

“Now what,” asked Reynolds.

Chuckling softly, “you didn't have all that worked out before you took the header out of the Blackhawk?”

Reynolds replied, “ya, well....it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Ok. Let's figure out how much ammo and water we have left. We'll have to improvise on food. We've got two radios.”

Reynolds interrupted him. “Actually one. Your radio is inop. We lost the signal from both yours and Saxon's set.”

With a sigh, Lowry said, “So one radio. Lets see what we have to work with first, then we'll have to figure out where we are. I dumped my GPS unit but have a paper map in my jacket.”

After a few minutes of careful movement in the dark they totaled eighty-nine rounds of M855 ammunition for their M4s, about one hundred rounds for their M9 pistols and one smoke grenade. In the dash for the helicopters Lowry dropped most of his extra equipment while Reynolds left most of his on the chopper. Both men had some water in their hydration packs, but they too were running low.

“This is a sad state of affairs,” declared Lowry. “At least we have the PVS-15s so we can see once we get out of here.” Turning on the low intensity LED light clipped to his chest rig, Lowry fished out his paper map.

“So we'll try to figure out where we are, get outside this tunnel and then radio HQ. They might try another snatch but we'll see.”

Reynolds whispered through the dark, “Probably going to be a long hump.”

“Well, you wanted adventure and to be all you could be right?”

****

From the grove of trees the team-leader leader watched his men slowly approach the farmhouse. He had two men approaching from one side, two from the other, and two head-on. It was standard doctrine as the team had practiced many times before.
The radio cracked to life as the teams reported being within twenty five meters of the house. From his vantage point he couldn't see the team to the right of the house, as they were blocked by several other buildings in the compound.

In Ukrainian, a voice came across the radio. “One light visible. Upstairs, probably a bedroom.”

In a low voice the team-leader responded, “Cleared to assault Mykola.”

Peering though the grainy green-gray view in his night vision scope, the team-leader, clad in all black, lay on the ground. His AK-74 beside him, he had chose to let his second-in-command lead the assault. He wanted his young second in command to gain experience. It was an odd choice given the news that Miller might be present. But he had convinced himself they were raiding the house of a single woman and the odds of her having assistance were low.

Soon the radio crackled to life again. “Basement cleared.”

“Continue.”

After what seemed an eternity a voice whispered across the radio, “first floor clear.”

“Continue.”

Everything fit. The young woman was in bed, and probably close to sleep. The sudden presence of six armed men would be sure to overwhelm her. The idea of her resisting was laughable.

“Sir,” came an oddly toned voice. “The house is....empty.”

“Say again?”

“It is empty, the house. Target is not present.”

“You searched completely?” Mykola had a tendency to rush operations and miss important details in the process.

After several seconds the reply came, “Yes, top to bottom. Nobody is here.”

The team-leader was confused. They had set up surveillance shortly after dark but had not seen anybody enter or leave the home. Where could the lady have gone? For good measure he scanned the property again to ensure she wasn't sneaking off to a separate building to hide.

While the team-leader contemplated his next move, the assistant team-leader called in again. “Standby. Loud noise just heard in the building across the way. Team investigating.”

“Proceed,” was his simple instruction.

Looking through the night vision scope, he watched as the team emerged from the house, one man after another, and begin maneuvering across the yard towards the large building in the middle of the u-shaped parking area. Americans oddly called the place where one parked an automobile a driveway.

Based on their surveillance it looked like they were headed towards the farm's office building. The lady had either been working very late, or more likely somehow detected the team and sought refuge in the building. In the dark, and likely panicked, she had knocked something over drawing his teams attention.

“Report Mykola,” he instructed in the radio.

“We're just about to make entry. Going to rush the main office door in a stack formation to avoid crossfire.” He was right, if the men separated and entered the building through different doors the chance of them shooting each other by accident increased. By crashing through the door, and rapidly pouring into the office building with as much noise and violence as possible, they would overwhelm the target and avoid being in each others line of fire.

“Proceed.”

The door they planned to enter faced away from him, but the building was angled such that he could see the last two men in the stack preparing to enter the office building. Suddenly they rushed forward and disappeared from sight.

Seconds ticked by. In the course of an operation seconds become minutes which become eternities. As he stared at the office building, as if his willpower would grant him X-ray vision, he grew more anxious as each second without an update passed by.

Suddenly he wished he was with his team.

“Report Mykola,” he uttered into the radio.

Several more seconds passed without an update.

With more urgency he commanded, “report Mykola!”

Looking over to ensure his AK-74 rifle was still by his side, he depressed the transmit button on his radio-microphone and prepared to chastise his young assistant team-leader. Simultaneous with his first words the office building exploded with an earth-shattering roar. He watched, in slow motion horror, as the walls of the building burst outward and a huge fireball rocked out of the seams of the building. The five thousand square foot building was turned into a pile of rubbish and twisted bodies. His team simply vaporized.

Quickly grabbing up his rifle and small backpack the team-leader ran through the options in his mind. Weighing the pros and cons he rapidly determined it was best to cut his losses, head to the SUV's and get back to the hotel. From there he'd grab the gear and head north. The long drive would give him time to figure out how to explain the debacle to Kirilenko.

Glancing back at the funeral pyre of the six men he'd lead for the past two years, the team-leader knew something had gone horribly wrong. An explosion like that was no accident or mistake. The cause was likely from military grade explosives or an improvised device constructed by someone with intimate knowledge of how to maximize the effects.

It would appear that Miller and his men had been able to reach the farm before his team had.

****

Crashing through the entrance to DeMetrie's office, Jones, the young aide blurted out, “they called in Sir! They called in!”

DeMetrie and Saxon both turned and hesitated for a fraction of a second while they processed what the young solider was telling them. After the second passed, however, they both bolted upright.

“They're on right now Sir. Commo section has them,” Jones exclaimed excitedly.

As the three men briskly strode the short distance down the hallway, DeMetrie asked, “they say anything important so far?”

“Something about Broadsword calling Danny Boy. I didn't quite follow it.”

DeMetrie smiled as he replied, “let me guess, it was Lowry.”

Nodding affirmatively as they entered the communications room, Jones said, “Yes Sir. No idea what it means.”

Saxon interjected, “how old are you Jones?”

“Just turned nineteen Sargent.”

DeMetrie, in no mood to discuss classic World War II movies, grabbed the radio from his man and transmitted, “Glad to hear from you boys.”

Lowry, without hesitation replied, “same here Sir. We're good but could use a lift.”

DeMetrie glanced at Saxon who had just gotten the latest update on the helicopter. One of the safety systems for the tail rotor had been destroyed by gunfire at the landing zone. While the chopper could fly, it could also come crashing back to earth without warning. Unless the situation was desperate, killing all of the men in a helicopter crash after plucking them from danger was too risky.

Saxon slowly shook his head side to side.

“Negative. You'll have to hump for now. As soon as the bird is online we'll come get you. Day or night. Give me your grid and we'll figure out plan B,” said Captain DeMetrie.

After getting the grid from Lowry, DeMetire and Saxon quickly scanned their maps. DeMetire had long ago committed the map to memory, but to avoid mistakes he looked over Saxon's shoulder.

Saxon looked up, “Sir, assuming the grid is correct, if they head for rally point Delta, they'll be able to stay in the woods most of the time. It has a good LZ. They can reach it long before daybreak and in moves them four miles closer to the river.”

Scanning over the map, DeMetrie nodded in agreement.

“Listen Lowry. Head for rally point Delta. Stay low and avoid contact at all costs. By the time you get there the bird should be ready. We'll have you home in time for breakfast. I've got two teams that crossed the river six zero minutes ago and will start working towards you. If worse comes to worse, you hump to link up with them.”

“Roger that Sir.” It was clear Lowry was trying to minimize how much time he spent on the air to avoid detection.

“You two stay safe. Give me updates when you can,” said the clearly worried Captain.

“MacPherson murdered. Thomas, Christiansen, and Berkley captured. I'm effecting entrance to the castle within the hour. Out.” Lowry signed off and was gone.

Looking at his communications men, Captain DeMetrie ordered, “stay on the net. I want two men on the set at all times.”

As DeMetrie, Saxon and Jones returned to the Captains office, DeMetire continued, “Saxon, you've got the ready-response team set. Go encourage that dammed chopper pilot to speed up the repairs. Use your normal charm.”

“Yes sir,” came the reply as Saxon quickly departed.

“It's gonna be tight Jones. If we don't get that bird ready by 04:00 there's a good chance we won't be able to get them until tomorrow night. And that assumes they make rally point Delta.” The concern and love for his men was palatable.

“We'll get them back sir. Shall I make you something to eat Sir?”

DeMetrie smiled wanly, “Yes, thanks.”

Jones spun to retrieve some food for his Captain. As he got to the entrance to DeMetrie's office, the young solider turned back and around and timidly asked, “Sir, the last message from Lowry. What the hell did that mean?”

“Well Jones,” the Captain replied thoughtfully, “I think it means Sargent Lowry is nuts.” After a slight pause he added, “and when this is over we have to take you to the movies.”

****

As he approached the SUV the team-leader scanned the horizon looking for any signs of someone who might want to ambush him. Seeing nothing through the grainy night-vision scope he approached the SUV.

He knew he was in a bad situation. Kirilenko demanded results of his men and wasn't shy about dismissing them if they failed their task. While in Russia, that usually meant being reassigned to an infantry unit fighting in Chechnya or Georgia. Here in America chances are Kirilenko would send him to Peacekeeping outfit doing miserable work. He might even kill the team-leader without repercussion.

Fishing the keys to the SUV from a small case, he scanned left and right as he slid the key into the lock. Turning it he glanced one last time to his right as he pulled the door open.

It appeared that no one had followed him. Maybe he would simply drive off to a remote part of America and disappear. He'd read books about Utah as a child; surely Kirilenko's wrath wouldn't reach that far.

Tossing the AK74 and small pack into the passenger seat he jumped into the SUV. As he slid into the seat he was startled by the presence of a passenger in the rear seat. Spinning around rapidly, barrel of the Glock pistol appeared to be a much larger diameter than he remembered in training classes.

“Howdy partner,” said Dink. “Seems us boys need to have a little talk.”

Before he knew it a second man had approached from outside the truck. Even if he could close the door without the man in the back seat shooting him, it didn't matter as the man had blocked it with his body. Webb commanded, “Ok Ivan. Slide across to the passenger seat.” He motioned with a pistol of his own to emphasize his request.

Before the team-leader could do as he was commanded, Dink leaned forward between the seats and snatched the AK74 to safety. Having a loaded rifle in close proximity to a captive wasn't good operational practice.

“Ok Webb. Back to the ranch.” Dink ordered as Webb turned the engine and prepared to drive back to ClarMar Farms. “And Ivan, like they say in the movies. No funny business or I'll open you up like a ripe watermelon.”

[Stg1swret]

great installment

[piranha2]

Just keeps getting better.

[The Stig]

“We got our work cut out for us,” said Lowry in a low whisper. They had exited the drain culvert and gotten several hundred yards away from the hillside before they radioed DeMetrie. They still had the better part of four miles to travel before daybreak. It was a manageable distance for any hiker. It was a walk in a park for a solider. But that assumed Crutchfield's men and the Peacekeepers played along. Four miles while avoiding detection or perhaps in a running gun-battle would be an entirely different challenge.

Scanning the horizon with the nigh vision devices mounted to their helmets, one of the few pieces of heavy gear not left behind at the ill-fated landing zone, they saw no signs of life.

“I'll take point first. Lets keep a spread so we can't both be captured at the same time but be close enough to respond if something goes down. Sound good?” asked Reynolds.

Although Lowry outranked him, they had worked together long enough that Lowry openly accepted input from his fellow solider. Reynolds was careful to never make suggestions in front of the other men and Lowry often modified or overruled the younger man. But in this situation, he was willing to break from military protocol if it got them both back to safety.

“Let'er rip sport,” replied Lowry.

He watched as Reynolds began slowly traversing the ground in front of him. He took up as fast of pace he could while remaining relatively silent. To Lowry, every footstep, every leaf and every broken stick sounded like rumbling thunder.

“We are in some deep shit,” thought Lowry.

****

Kirilenko's team-leader had been led into a utility shed near the back of the cluster of buildings around the farmhouse. He had looked at the twisted remains of the office building as they drove past and felt remorse for not leading his men on their last mission. Maybe the outcome would have been the same, but it may very well have been different. A sight. A sound. Some sort of clue alerting them to danger.

Webb led him to a chair and motioned him to sit. After hesitating a second, Webb gave him a forceful shove into the chair. “Sit down Waldo,” he taunted as Dink began tying him to the chair.

“Don't worry Ivan,” said Dink with a disconcerting smile. “We ain't gonna kill ya. We're going to fuck your world up, but we aren't going to kill you.”

Webb looked up. “I don't know man. The boss seems kinda pissed that these yahoos interrupted his Golden Girls marathon. I think he might actually do it this time.”

As Dink tied the rope around the mans arms he replied, “sho'nuff. He was mad enough to spit nails. How's that? Too tight?” He gently tugged on the ropes to inspect his handiwork.

The team-leader simply looked at him blankly. He spoke good English but he had no idea what these men were talking about. For the first time in a long time he was afraid.

Since the man didn't answer, Dink chucked as he said, “Looky here. We got us a tough-guy. You might be right about the boss. He might actually do it this time. I mean, he is a huge Bea Arthur fan and all.”

As he cinched the man's legs to the chair Webb chimed in, “well whatever happens, we're going to have a lot of paperwork.”

“Damn straight. Maybe it'd just be easier to feed this guy to the hogs. Those DHF-387 forms are such a pain.” Turning to the team-leader Dink continued, “Alright captain. We're going to leave you now. Big boss man will be along shortly.” Dink patted the man on the head as he walked past as if he were a common house pet.

As they walked towards the door Dink quickly spun around causing the team leader to flinch. “Dang it. I almost forgot my manners. Here's something to drink. You gotta be thirsty after that little adventure.” He walked back to a table and got a large glass of iced tea. “Hope you don't mind unsweet tea buddy.” Dink then gently raised the glass to the mans lips.

Predictably he didn't drink the unknown liquid. Sighing in frustration Dink took a drink to show that it wasn't poisoned. “Ivan, the lady who made this tea will be mighty agitated if you don't drink it. All of it.”

Realizing he was drinking the tea, one way or another, the team-leader proceeded to drink the entire glass in one nearly uninterrupted gulp.

He had been through mild torture sessions to prepare him mentally for what was happening. He had been given instruction on all the little interrogation techniques, all the physical discomforts he'd experience and all the tricks that would be used to break him.

Those classes were a long time ago. He suddenly wished he had paid more attention to the instructors.

****

As Dink and Webb exited the small shed, they pulled the door shut behind them and walked back to the smoldering remains of the office building.

Miller and Clarissa stood inspecting the destruction.

Hearing the men approach Miller asked, “you got him all comfy?”

With a smile Webb replied, “tied in the chair. Lights off. It's not hot but it's damn stuffy in there.”

“And he drank the tea to the last drop,” interjected Dink.

Clarissa, picking up the twisted remains of an office stapler and tossing it back on the pile asked, “so do you go in and beat the hell out of him now?”

Miller smiled. “Nope. We'll just have a little chat is all. It's not the physical violence that gets them to talk. It's the fear of physical violence that gets them to spill it. Get them scared, uncomfortable and create an ambiance of danger. That usually does the trick on amateurs.”

Clucking her lips, Clarissa, always the clever one, asked, “and if he's not an amateur?”

“Then we have to use some more advanced techniques, break him physically and mentally. That sort of stuff,” said Miller as if he were discussing gardening tips.

Seeing the skeptical look on her face, Miller added in, “worse comes to worse, we beat the hell out of him.”

“So what happens now,” asked the petite brunette.

Dink and Webb leaned in a little closer because they too were interested in the answer.

“We let him stew for an hour or so. As far as you are concerned, you're clearing out for a while like we discussed.”

“Well, I guess I get to stay with Grandma Klepper then,” said Clarissa somewhat dejectedly.

Seeing the look on Dink's face Miller explained, “he's taking Clarissa to his Grandmothers house in Alabama until this thing blows over.” Turning back to Clarissa he continued, “Its for the best. We don't know how this is going to play out. You can't come with us and you don't want to be here if they come back.”

Klepper was a friend of Miller's and a genius with radios and most things electronic. He had helped Miller's resistance movement many times in the past and played a role in most of their biggest efforts. He was one of the unsung hero's, like Clarissa, who played critical roles behind-the-scenes and on whom he depended.

Kicking at a piece of debris, Clarissa said, “I know but I'd really like to help put that bastard away for good.” Looking up at Miller with tears in her eyes Clarissa said, “I wish I could be there when you nail him to the wall. I guess this is the end of the road for me eh?”

Miller knew she'd wouldn't be joining them on this part of the mission. It was too dangerous and chances were they might not survive. His actions had already caused her to sacrifice her family home, her business and her father. He couldn't ask her to give more. Knowing that ClarMar was an essential part of the local economy, they needed a healthy Clarissa Donner more than Miller needed an extra set of hands.

“Come on,” motioned Miller. “Your stuff's in Webb's truck. He'll drive you to Klepper's place and Klepper will take you to Alabama. Dink and I will take care of this guy and then lock up the place. This will all be over before you know it. Then you come back, and take off again. You clearly have made things happen in the last two years.”

As they climbed in Webb's truck and prepared to drive off Clarissa called out to Dink, “been nice knowing you Mr. Dink.”

With a slight bow Dink said, “darlin, the pleasures been all mine.”

Shutting the door to Webb's truck, Miller leaned in the window. “Don't worry. We'll get him. I'll let you know when he's gone.”

Wiping the tear from her cheek, Clarissa said, “dammit, I didn't want to blubber like an idiot.”

Leaning in a little more, Miller gave Clarissa a light kiss on the cheek. “You are by far the bravest woman I know. None of what we accomplished could happen without you.” As he gently wiped a tear from her cheek he added, “and sorry about the office building. Seems like we're always tearing up your farm.”

With a forced smile, she replied, “it's ok. I've wanted to remodel that dump for years.”

Laughing out loud, Miller nodded to Webb who started the engine and slowly drove the truck down the long driveway.

Watching it fade into the dark Miller turned to Dink, “she'll be fine. I think this little escapade, however brief, stirred up all of the emotion from the previous adventure.”

“Ya well,” said Dink in his drawl, “she's a tough one.”

Nodding in agreement, Miller said, “Alright, let's go through the script one last time and then we'll go break this hump.”

Shaking his head Dink jabbed, “you forget I was a Sheriffs Deputy. I've done interrogations.”

Patting his friend on the back Miller said, “there's a wee bit of difference between talking to a kid who stole a pack of gum and what we're about to do. Come on.”

“It's not like I've never beat the hell out of anybody,” muttered Dink as they climbed the stairs into the house.

[bacpacker]

Excellent!

[piranha2]

can't wait for the next one.

[The Stig]

The captive team-leader didn't realize it, but Dink's insistence on drinking the tea was nowhere as nefarious as it seemed. It was not laced with poison or other drugs. Miller wanted the man to experience the diuretic effects of the tea while he was being questioned. The effect of a full bladder can add a surprising level of urgency to someone already under duress. Miller had seen grown men reduced to tears for fear of pissing all over themselves.

He had not been blind folded, but kept in the pitch black shed to disorient him. The air was thick and uncomfortable, and the ropes served to cut off his circulation causing blood to pool in awkwardly in his body.

Slamming the door open, causing a loud bang, Miller suddenly strode into the small shed with a bright flashlight pointed directly at the team-leader's face. It may have been straight out of a Hollywood movie scene, but the effect of not being able to see clearly added another layer of discomfort to the man's situation. He flinched and turned away momentarily to avoid the harsh beam.

Letting a large notebook slam down onto a workbench, again causing the man to flinch, Miller grabbed the other chair, spun it around, and faced the team-leader. Staring at the man for nearly thirty seconds, without saying a word, Miller finally spoke in a calm, metered voice.

“Your team is dead. Your mission has failed. You have two choices. Go back to Kirilenko and face the consequences. We all know how that ends.” Pausing for a few seconds, he then continued, “or you cooperate with me, tell me what I want to know, and you go free.”

The team-leader blinked as Miller mentioned the word free but remained silent. While he wanted out of the chair, and had to go to the bathroom, he knew he could hold out longer.

Continuing on, retaining control of the conversation, Miller continued, “You may be surprised to learn that I know your boss. Hellofa a guy.” To add emphasis he described Kirilenko's imposing size and physical appearance.

Seeing that the man wasn't thrown by the revelation, he pressed on. He wanted to keep the conversation flowing at his pace and not get bogged down. Loosing the flow of an interrogation inevitably emboldened the one being question. Miller would then be forced to essentially beg the man to say something. The second you did that, you failed. The goal was to strip them of all their comfort, make them understand they had no leverage, and make the decision to share information easier than staying quiet.

Standing suddenly, and eliciting another flinch, Miller began pacing around the trapped man. “I see you are a smart man. A tough man. You don't believe things without proof. That's good. Let me give you proof of what I say.” Miller proceeded to give the team-leader a five minute oral history of Gegory Kirilenko. It started from his role in saving Yeltsin to the present day.

While the team-leader was surprised to hear such intimate details from this stranger, and the urge to urinate was gathering strength, he continued to say nothing.

Leaning in sharply from behind the man, Miller pressed on. “Ah! I real pro. I like that. I respect that. That's good.” Miller laid both of his hands on the man's shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. Feeling the tension pulsating through his muscles, Miller knew the man was scared.

“You know, I'm being rude. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm John Miller. That guy is a man we call Dink. Silly name, I know. His parents were clearly insane. But you already knew all that right? We found the dossier on us in your truck. I assume your boss told you a few stories about me then?”

The man nodded. Miller glanced briefly at Dink and walked towards him. He motioned at Dink, who had been standing in the shadows and who silently handed Miller the notebook.

Taking a seat again, almost casually, Miller could see the beads of sweat on the man’s face in the harsh beam of the flashlight. He knew the man's will was starting to crumble. Miller noted him tensing his arm muscles to attempt to slack the ropes. His toes tapped up and down in an effort to move blood. Most telling was the fear in his eyes.

“The freedom option is still on the table. Tell us what we want and you are free to go,” said Miller as he dangled the carrot of release and waved his arm at the door in a sweeping motion. “I’m sure that tea has really kicked in ya?”

The man nodded but maintained the valiant effort to be strong. But the physical discomfort was getting excruciating and Miller’s control of the situation completely disconcerting. He remained silent thinking, “How does this man know all this?”

“Ok, you aren’t ready to answer yet. So let’s review; we know who sent you, you know who we are, that just leaves…..you. Our mystery guest.” Miller smiled and turned towards Dink. “Any guesses?”

Rubbing his chin in mock thought, Dink replied, “Ivan Bittertittyoff?”

“How bout it?” said Miller to the team-leader. “Do we have a winner?”

The team-leader remained mute.

“Sorry Dink. I don’t think you’ll take home the prize this time”. Pulling his chair even closer, Miller said, in a low tone, to the increasingly more miserable man, “You know I don’t blame you for not caving. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? It’s not like we know anything about you right?”

The man, quickly realizing the direction Miller was heading, locked eyes with his questioner. The sudden look of doubt flashed across his eyes. “Surely this strange man knows nothing about me,” he thought.

Looking down at the notes Miller looked up, and spoke as if giving a lecture; “Borislav Stahovskiy. Born 1978 in Kiev. Joined the Russian Army 1996. Showed promise as a young solider and did time in both Chechen wars and Georgia. Despite crappy conscripts and equipment rose through the ranks. Recruited into the GRU intelligence branch and went to work for Gegory Kirilenko nine years ago. Mostly assassinations of low level players and other assorted dirty jobs. Looks like a string of surveillance gigs and background work too.”

Miller flipped the notebook shut and again stared at the man. Miller could see in the team-leader's eyes that he was thrown off balance by the information Papa had been able to provide. It was a rush job to get the information in the short time since he’d been captured, but Papa always seemed to have someone owing him a favor. Within minutes of getting the cell-phone picture of the team-leader’s fake drivers-license, Papa had the information in the hands of people who could identify the team-leader and provide a background on him. Miller got lucky that a dossier existed on him and the computers found it so quickly.

Pausing again, Miller let the man stew on the situation. His mission failed, his men dead, he was captured and being interrogated while this strange man seemed to know everything about him. On top of that, his muscles ached and the pressure on his bladder intense.

Miller, sensing the man was starting to fold, went for the hammer-blow. Speaking in Ukrainian, Miller said, “you performed adequately for Kirilenko but never really gained his full trust. Your missions remained lower level priorities and mid-level targets. Then you are part of an operation that goes bad. It's a huge embarrassment for Kirilenko and even though you were just a support person on the job, you are further tainted with the stink of failure. But then fortunes change when he brings you to America and you get your shot to get back into his good graces. I bet Kirilenko made that point abundantly clear as he gave you the assignment to kill us. How am I doing?”

Sweat pouring down his forehead, to the point it stung his eyes, the man nodded. “Yes. You are correct.”

Continuing on in the team-leaders mother language. “What do you think is going to happen here? You’ll drive back to headquarters, tell the most feared man in the GRU that you lost your entire team, and by the way, I failed the mission too?”

Letting the words sit in the air, Miller waited as he watched small dust particles float through the flashlight beam. Turning suddenly to Dink, Miller said, “this guy thinks Kirilenko will give him a pass on getting six men killed and failing the mission.”

Whistling softly through his teeth, Dink uttered, “If he was my guy, he’d be sent packing.”

Remaining turned away from the man, effectively ignoring him, Miller countered, “Kirilenko doesn’t tolerate failure, especially from guys outside his inner circle. Being over here, away from Russia, he’ll just as likely kill him. Send him to an infantry unit at the very least.”

“Sounds like a hard sunofabitch to me,” declared Dink.

Standing up, and turning his back to the team-leader, Miller told Dink, “Story I hear is that he once killed a subordinate outright for failing a mission. Just pulled out his pistol and shot the guy. No chance to explain, no excuses. Just BLAM. Dead.” Miller slapped his hand on the workbench and nearly shouted the word “blam” to emphasize his point.

“I had a boss once that liked to assign you to third shift if you blew an assignment,” said Dink with a nonchalance of describing wallpaper colors.

Continuing to face Dink, and ignoring the team-leader, Miller pressed on. “Man, third shift isn’t anything. Nother story I know is true. Meeting at a command tent at the height of the second Chechen war. A junior officer blows an important meeting with an informant. Kirilenko packs up his senior staff and the kid in a truck, drives the whole lot of them to a town known to be full of insurgents, and handcuffs the kid to a tree. Puts a huge sign on him stating that he was the Russian officer responsible for killing several local children a few days earlier.”

“That’s cold,” replied Dink.

“Drives off, kid is never seen again,” continued Miller. “I’m telling you, the guy does not like it when people can’t get the job done. Very hostile work environment.”

Motioning towards the door. “You know what, I’m starved. Let’s go eat something.” As they approached the door, Miller stops. “Wait, I have another one. Can’t believe I forgot this one. Kirilenko dispatches a team to Moscow to deal with a Russian Air Force officer who is believed to be passing secrets to dissidents. The meeting was supposed to go down in a local park. Next thing you know, Moscow Metro Police are swarming the area, sirens blaring, arresting everybody. It was a total circus.”

“STOP,” yelled the team leader causing the two men to turn back towards him. “Stop it,” he continued in a normal voice. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Glancing at each other, Miller and Dink returned to the broken team-leader. “We’re listening.”

“Please. I need to use the toilet.”

Nodding to Dink, who started to release the man, Miller said, “you chose wisely my friend.”

****

As they pulled out of the farm in Webb’s truck, Dink continued to recount the details of the interrogation. Blow by blow he retold the story in such detail that Webb felt as if he was in the room.

“Think he’s telling the truth?” asked Webb.

Cocking his head to the side and lifting his shoulders, Miller replied “only one way to find out. I don’t think that guy is sophisticated enough to feed us false intel to set us up.”

“Yea, Miller had him sweating like a whore in church,” opined Dink. “Miller, I gotta say, that was pretty impressive.”

“I guess us Yankees are good for something after all,” said Miller with a smile.

“Let’s not get carried away,” teased Dink. “So now what?”

Webb and Dink both glanced at Miller in the rear-view mirror. “We head north. If Kirilenko is in running his operations out of Cincinnati, that’s probably where Donovan is. We find Kirilenko we find Donovan.”

“Boy, you realize that means we’re going behind enemy lines right? Saw a report on TV before we left the hotel, saying that a stalemate of sorts had developed along the Ohio River.” Dink was never one to back down from a fight, but active military operations was whole new level.

“I don’t think the man is going to hang out at your local mall do you?”

Webb, turning to Dink, chimed in, “he makes a good point.”

They drove on in silence as they made their way back to the state highway that would lead them north. Getting comfortable in their seats for the long trip, each man contemplated what the next step in their journey meant. So far it had been dangerous, but now they were actively planning on crossing enemy lines in a war zone.

After nearly twenty minutes of silence Dink asked, “that story about the Air Force Officer and the Moscow Metro Police. Do you think the ole boy cracked because he had enough, or was there something in particular about that story?”

“He was on the surveillance team sent to the park. His team-leader was taken out and shot the next day,” came the somber answer from the back seat.

Thinking for a few moments, Dink then asked, “did you pull that from the man’s dossier?”

“No. I’m the one who called the Moscow Police.”

[bacpacker]

Stig you are a very good writer. Just sayin!

[The Stig]

“How much ground do you think we've covered,” asked Reynolds in a low whisper.

So far they traveled a respectable distance given their limitations and desire to remain hidden. They were just over halfway to rally point Delta and making good time. Using the protection of the woods they moved silently for much of the time, Lowry making occasional course corrections after consulting his map.

Glancing down again at the map to ensure they were not heading off-course, Lowry replied, “looks like just over two miles. Half way to go. We might make it to Delta with a couple hours to spare before daylight.”

Reynolds nodded and took a cautious sip of his water reserve. Both men had scrupulously avoided drinking anything to conserve the precious resource. They wouldn't have time to stop and filter fresh water, even if one of them had a water filter.
Continuing on, Lowry said, “for the most part we stay in the woods but we do have to cross this big ravine here,” as he stabbed at the map. “There's a big road bridge that is too open to cross and we won't have time to deviate too far around it. But it looks like the ravine is deep enough that we can cross the creek at the bottom and downstream far enough to avoid detection without going too far off course.”

If they had more time, they'd go a good half mile out of their way to avoid any chance of detection, but given the time constraint it was just a risk they'd need to take. They wanted to reach rally point Delta with enough time for a chopper to land while it was still dark. They couldn't afford another outcome like the previous attempt to extract them.

“Let's take two and then get going again,” ordered Lowry.

Reynolds nodded in agreement as both men silently listened to the nocturnal noises of the woods. If there weren't men looking to kill them it would be a beautiful scene.

****

“Miller, there has to be more to that story,” said Dink with a laugh. He knew a juicy tale when he heard one.

Webb, also anxious to hear the details, chimed in, “yea Miller. You never share the good ones with us.”

Turning around to face the back seat, Dink continued prodding. “Hell, how'd you know that good ole boy was on that mission. You said he was just a support goon. You can't have remembered his name from that long ago. Papa must have filled you in.”

“No, I only got the name and basic info from Papa.” Sighing in mock frustration, Miller began. “Ok. I didn't remember his name until we got talking and the more I looked at him. But the timing was right for him to have been there. And him to have worked for Kirilenko that long and not being doing bigger jobs means he was an also-ran. So it fit.

Webb, concentrating on the road, looked at Miller in the rear-view mirror. “So he would have been a support team, basic surveillance guy, not a heavy hitter.”

Miller, with the light from the occasional passing car illuminating his face nodded. “Yea. So I took a chance and mentioned something about a mission gone wrong being the source of his carer derailment. He confirmed it, and that Moscow deal was a huge fiasco for Kirilenko so it wasn't a big leap to put two and two together.”

“Still son, that doesn't tell us much,” pushed Dink. It was clear he wanted more detail.

Knowing Dink would be unrelenting for the remainder of the trip, Miller told them the story.

“Me and my buddy Mack had been working this Russian Airforce officer who was a liaison to Kirilenko's HQ. Usually we worked much further south, and rarely in Moscow itself, but the situation dictated it. We turned the guy and he started feeding us some really good intel. Real ditch-digging stuff about operations. Times, locations, strengths, the whole schmear.”

“Sounds valuable,” commented Webb.

“Yea,” said Miller thinking back to the man he hadn't thought about in years. “He was a good guy. We used that info to play a lot of fun and games with Kirilenko's ops all over the place. Needless to say that didn't sit well with the old guy and he starts turning over rocks trying to figure out why he can't seem to run a mission without it going tits up. Soon the spotlight turns on Air Force guy.”

Dink, said, “that doesn't sound good.”

“It wasn't. We kept him on ice for a couple days before word came down to pull him out. Being associated with Kirilenko and the Russian Air Force made him too valuable to burn. Somehow between getting the word to clear out and the meet at the park, his cover gets fully blown. Mack was supposed to make the meet and bring him to a flat we had rented. He spots the surveillance team in the park and figures the game is up. He calls me and....well....I improvised.”

Webb could see Miller's faint smile in the mirror. “So what happened?”

“We needed a diversion and Kirilenko's guys were too smart for anything slick. I figured he had a bunch of guys in the area, so I went with something big. Really big. Called the cops, told them something about a Russian Mafia drug deal in the park. They had been on a big push to clear the Mafia out of the city, so next thing you know there's blaring sirens, dudes in black jackets and those funny wool caps and guns everywhere. They assume the surveillance team is Mafia muscle.”

“Creative,” was Dink's only comment. “So how the hell did you get out of that?”

“Never underestimate confusion as a cover,” intoned Miller. “The cops arrested the surveillance team, who right away start trying to explain and pointing at the heavy-hitter's team. Soon they're looking down the barrel's of the cop's gun and all hell breaks loose. We made our escape and Mr. Russian Air Force lived to spill his guts to every acronym government agency you can think of. Think he lives in Nebraska or something.”

Silence fell in the truck's cab as Dink and Webb digested the story and Miller replayed the events from years ago over in his mind. Finally Webb broke the silence, “How did his cover get blown?”

Miller thought for a minute, and then replied from the darkness of the back seat. “Never did figure that out. Best I can figure the Russia Air Force guy slipped up somehow.”

“I would think that it'd be easy for an amateur to do something dumb to get himself caught,” stated Dink.

“Yea. You could think that,” said Miller. But he knew the explanation was nowhere near as simple as that. The real answer had haunted him for a while.

****

“Kirilenko,” shouted Donovan as he stormed into the office. Ignoring that it was the middle of the night, or that Kirilenko was discussing a situation with a bleary-eyed aid, or that it was generally unwise to speak to him in such a manner, Donovan charged ahead.

“Am I to assume that your men failed again?”

Looking up in disgust, Kirilenko motioned the aide out of the office. “Mr. Senator, it is late. How can I help you?”

Donovan, without the courtesy of asking, sat down across the large desk from Kirilenko. “I'm guessing that because you haven't given me an update, and it's the middle of the night, that your team in Mississippi failed.” Clearly pleased with his own cleverness, Donovan sat back and awaited a response.

Taking his time, and purposely delaying his answer, Kirilenko reached into a cigar box and fished out a fresh one. Without offering one to his guest, he went through the process of preparing and lighting the cigar. It was only after it had been lit, and several large billows of rich smoke wafted into the air, that Kirilenko bothered himself with replying to the interruption.

“Mr. Senator. You are correct. We have lost communication with the team sent to the farm. One can only assume Miller intercepted them, and most likely killed them. Is there anything else you would like to know?” The faux-courtesy dripped in his voice and barely masked his disgust with the overly tan, slight man with polished teeth across from him.

“Yea, when are you going to figure out how to run this operation and get the job done? I can't believe Crutchfield has you in charge of this.” blurted out Donovan. The insinuation was clear that Donovan was either going to, or already had, contacted Crutchfield about the setbacks. What he didn't know was that Kirilenko had been monitoring all the calls and was already aware of the communications.

Leaning back in the comfortable office chair, once filled by a Federal Judge, Kirilenko released another aromatic cloud of smoke into the air. “Surely a man of your experience can appreciate Miller's skill in dealing with his adversaries in the most humiliating of ways. Now, I've never had the pleasure of being cornered by him while a whore serviced me, but I can understand how he can outsmart a simple hit-team.”

Donovan's eyes blazed with anger after the reference to his own embarrassment at Miller's hands. Pointing a finger at Kirilenko's chest, Donovan hissed, “listen here Ivan. I don't care who you are, or what you've done. As far as I'm concerned, Miller has run circles around you. If you don't get some results soon I'm going to call Crutchfield and request help from someone who can.”

“I will endeavor to increase our efforts to capture or kill your adversary,” said Kirilenko with a sarcasm that avoided Donovan's detection.

Standing abruptly, the Senator reached into Kirilenko's cigar box, and hurriedly retrieved one of the Cuban cigars, a luxury not often enjoyed in America. He then stormed out of the office without any further conversation.

Still leaning back in the chair, and enjoying one of the few perks of a relationship with Cuba, Kirilenko let out a long puff of smoke. The Senator's impertinence and arrogance bothered him little. His mission was much bigger, and with more impressive ramifications, than erasing the little man's embarrassment from history.

Ignoring the oily and well tanned politician was also made easier because Kirilenko had already decided, when the time was right, to kill him.

[Grumpy Old Man]

Keep writing Stig! I'll be jonesing for another installment tomorrow!

[bacpacker]

Good Chapter. I can see Donovan dying very soon. Probably painfully if he keeps pushing.

[The Stig]

It was well into the early morning when Webb's truck pulled into the truck-stop. Dink and Miller had been dozing sporadically while Webb guided the big truck up the long ribbon of concrete. The gentle rhythm of the miles had started to pile up and he needed a break to avoid falling asleep. It was time to fuel up the truck anyway.

As Miller and Dink groggily piled out of the truck, Webb attended to refueling it.

“What do you want Webb? I'll get it and then take over driving so you can get a snooze,” called out Dink.

As he and Dink walked into the store, Miller made his way to a payphone while Dink sought out the snacks and sodas for the remainder of the trip.

Punching the numbers into the phone from memory, Miller dialed the number printed on the index card Papa had given him. The arrangement was surprisingly simple. A computer generated a list of phone numbers constructed from random digits. Agents would call the first number on the list when they needed to contact headquarters. Computers would route, and reroute the signals through thousands of connections, traditional and otherwise, until it finally reached it's destination. The pattern of connections changed daily to further aide security.

After the number was used, it would be scratched off the list and never used again. Even if the list fell into enemy hands, it would take thousands of hours of computing time to weave through all the electronic connections and dead-ends. By the time they navigated all the phone switches, internet connections and satellite relays the connection pattern had changed again rendering the search useless.

After the non-nondescript computer generated voice answered Miller read the last number on the phone list, which would then too be discarded. Reciting the numbers triggered yet another series of connections which ultimately resulted in Miller reaching his intended party.

Miller laughed when he considered how many billions of dollars went into constructing the phone system. “Probably could pay off the national debt for what was spent setting up this up,” he thought to himself.

“Go,” came the booming voice at the other end of the phone.

“Papa, it's me,” Miller announced as if he were calling an old friend to discuss sports scores.

“Good to hear from you son. What have you been up to?”

“Another group of visitors the farm. We greeted them warmly just like old times. Looks like our old friend is in Cincinnati. We're on the way there now. I'm figuring our friend is spending time with his new buddy so we'll take care of both things at once,” said Miller in a straightforward tone.

Miller had always eschewed fancy codes and spy-speak. He'd always been successful being general and vague about his intended subject matter while trying to remain as conversational as possible. Spies who said “the wolf howls at the moon” tended to stand out like a sore thumb. But anybody listening in to this conversation wouldn't be able to determine much of value and may even find it innocuous enough to ignore it.

He and Papa had conversed so many times like this that it became second nature for them both.

“It's been a while, say hello from me.”

“Sure will. I'm working out how I'm going to find their new house, but I have to find the neighborhood first.”

Miller could hear the rustling of paper on the other end of the phone. “Listen son, I thought you might be headed there for a vacation so I did some digging for you on the internet. I have someone I think you should meet. He can help with directions.”

The call when on while he and Papa enjoyed some general chit-chat. Some of it was mission oriented, but mostly it was legitimate small talk. The truth was Miller missed talking to the man.

“Oh one last thing. When you connect up with the guy to get directions, you'll see another old friend there too.”

“I'm assuming it's who we talked about before?” asked Miller.

“Yes. He's up to speed on your progress.” There was a booming laugh from the other end of the phone before the line went dead.

Glancing down at his watch, Miller did the mental calculations. They'd get to their destination in time for an early dinner.

Call over, and snacks purchased, the men piled into Webb's truck, Dink behind the wheel. Webb gratefully piled into the back seat and was asleep before the truck returned to the highway.

As Dink got comfortable behind the wheel, and adjusted his seat, Miller thought through his plan for how to deal with crossing the river into Ohio and making entrance into Kirilenko's headquarters. The team-leader had told him about the Federal Courthouse downtown that had been taken-over as a military complex and that Kirilenko had secured the top floor for his operations. The hard part would be getting there and ultimately into it.

Miller watched in the side-view mirror as the gray sedan pulled out from it's spot across the parking lot and followed them onto the highway.

****

After the titanic earth moving project caused during the ice age the ravine separating Lowry and Reynolds from rally point Delta was more akin to a gorge. As the two men stood near the lip where horizontal transitioned to the vertical, they could see nothing but inky blackness below, even with the aid of night vision devices.

“Ok, in we go,” encouraged Lowry. “We gotta keep moving. This is going to take a while, but if we can get through it, Delta is less than a mile.”

Reynolds silently nodded his head and began carefully carving out his path into the descending hillside.

They were nearly two hundred yards down-stream from a large bridge. This bridge served as a critical thoroughfare to move men and material closer to the river. There were other routes, but the bridge was the most direct. Most of the assault forces during previous invasions of Kentucky had crossed that very bridge on the way to their destruction. Crutchfield's men had been smart enough to set up a position to protect it, and between them and the Peacekeepers nearly twenty men guarded the structure at all times.

DeMetrie's men had given the bridge a wide berth anytime they passed through the area on previous missions, in some cases going as much as two miles out of the way to avoid any possibility of detection from the small garrison. Between the distance and the gorge itself there was little chance of being spotted.

Lowry and Reynolds didn't have the same luxury on this occasion. Every minute on the ground risked detection and capture. They could not afford to be reckless, but at the same time they needed to push forward towards the rally point, and in general the river, to minimize their exposure. So they found themselves carefully winding and picking their way down the hillside, careful to avoid tripping or making undue noise. The best case scenario was a helicopter extract from rally point Delta, and the only chance for that happening before daybreak was traversing the gorge as quickly as possible and pushing on.

Neither man wanted to spend another day on the ground.

****

For nearly thirty minutes Reynolds and Lowry carefully wound their way down the steep walls of the ravine. Each twig they stepped on, and each rock that slid out of place, seemed like a cannon shot in the still night air. There task, made somewhat easier by the lack of heavy gear, was still taxing. Their muscles ached and screamed in protest as each step was followed by another step.

Lack of food, water and proper rest did not aide their cause.

Still they were nearly fifty feet from the bottom of the lightly wooded ravine. Some parts of the large gorge were thickly wooded and covered in underbrush, while others were more sparely covered with vegetation. The ravine floor, punctuated by a shallow creek, was only lightly covered in trees.

Reynolds, exhausted from the previous time in the field, wearily forced himself to take his next step. As his boot came down it planted on loose, lightly packed and flat stones. Even without his full combat load, the weight of his body, on the smooth surface of the stone, caused the rock to suddenly shoot forward painfully dropping him on his coccyx. Combat experience or not, the shooting pain caused him to exclaim suddenly.

Worse yet, the sudden lack of purchase caused him to slide forward down a steep portion of the hillside, covered only in lightly packed dirt, leaves and stone. Lowry watched as Reynolds descended the remaining forty feet of the hillside on his backside, landing awkwardly on the valley floor.

While being pelted by the falling sediment that continued to rain on him, Reynolds was smart enough to curl his body and face away from the bridge. This would minimize the amount of exposed skin and maximize the amount of camouflaged materiel of his clothing. His skin and face, while dirty and almost nearly covered by helmets, night vision goggles or gloves, would radiate like a beacon should he be spotlighted by someone on the bridge.

Immediately recognizing the danger they were in, both men froze in place. Even to the point of employing square-breathing to minimize the rise and fall of their chests, they knew that the slightest motion increased the odds of discovery.

Seconds went by, ticking off over what seemed to be an eternity. First a couple, then nearly fifteen of them as both men waited for the wail of sirens or clatter of men responding.

As the seconds reached twenty Lowry began to believe Reynolds fall may have gone unnoticed.

That notion was dispelled as the spotlight suddenly illuminated the entire valley.

[piranha2]

Oh hell...............

[The Stig]

“Shit,” swore Lowry as the blinding flood of white light bathed the valley. There was no siren, no blaring klaxon like a World War II movie, but the sounds of soldiers yelling orders and springing to action was clear.

Calling down as loudly as he dared, Lowry instructed Reynolds, “don't move a muscle unless I say to haul ass.”

Although Reynolds couldn't see it, Lowry turned cautiously to watch the beam of light slowly pass from left to right across the gorge, first closer to the bridge and then further out on each successive pass. Before long a second beam, from the west end of the bridge fired up and completed turning night into day.

“How many damn lights do they have?” thought Lowry as the beams began methodically sweeping, inch by inch and foot by foot, up the gorge.

Flattening his body against the ground as much as possible, Lowry quickly glanced to both sides to access any possible escape routes. Their best bet was heading down the gorge, away from the bridge and to the south. This would get them away from the bridge as quickly as possible, and more towards the river.

It also moved them further away from rally point Delta.

There was no other direction for them to go. Forward, up the far side of the gorge would leave them exposed. Soldiers from the bridge would be at the top of the gorge long before they climbed out. Back up the side they just slide down didn't make sense either, and there was no way they were moving closer to the bridge.

Glancing back again, Lowry estimated that the searchlights had moved out about seventy-five yards from the bridge as the operators slowly swept back and forth. The two beams moved to just the right angle that he could make out several soldiers at the edge of the bridge. Silhouetted against the night sky he could not see any details but he didn't need them. They would be peering into the darkness, either with night vision goggles or thermal devices.

Meanwhile, he was sure there were at least five to ten men preparing to sweep through the ravine to hunt them down. There was little doubt that the squad would be under orders to not stop given that two enemies might be in the area. It's what Lowry would do if the roles were reversed.

If they stayed where they were they would only survive if the soldiers somehow missed them. Counting on their incompetence didn't seem like a good plan. If they moved out, as fast and quietly as possible, they at least had a head start and a slim chance of evading their pursuers.

Again calling down to Reynolds, Lowry asked, “can you move?”

“Yea. I think so.”

Lowry kept weighing the odds that would give them the best chance of escape. Sitting still and hoping for a miracle just wasn't his style.

Taking a couple of deep breaths to load his lungs with oxygen, Lowry took one last quick glance towards the bridge to see that the light was almost half-way up the valley towards their position.

Lifting his body up slightly, he shuffled along until he reached the area of loose dirt where Reynolds had originally fallen. After scooting a short distance, he allowed gravity to take over and let himself slide down the hill.

“What are you doing?” whispered Reynolds as Lowry slid next to him.

“Come on,” said Lowry. “No sense waiting here to be captured.”

Reynolds nodded in agreement. “Help me up,” he asked of his friend.

With a little effort he grabbed Reynolds by the back of his jacket and heaved him forward. Soon Lowry and Reynolds were scampering down the ravine floor, following the winding creek and trying to step as quietly over the rocks as possible.

Lowry had been right. A small squad of Peacekeeper's had just reached the ravine floor almost directly beneath the bridge and soon began patrolling forward.

While they had a two hundred and fifty yard head start, to Reynolds and Lowry it seemed like mere inches.

****

“What part of this program aren’t you getting Lieutenant?” yelled DeMetrie at the hapless young pilot. DeMetrie, normally composed and able to express himself with colorful vocabulary and restrained volume, exploded in anger.

The helo was still unable to be launched with safety. Or, more accurately, the aircraft could fly, but there would be no assurances that it would remain safely aloft once launched and the pilot had grounded it. While the concern was understandable, given the circumstances DeMetrie was more interested in action than excuses. For his part the young pilot grew suddenly cautious given the poor outcome on the original extraction attempt and had refused to guarantee the aircraft would be ready to launch when needed.

“Sir,” the pilot uttered meekly. “It’s not that the helicopter won’t fly. It will. But with the damage in the rotor section I’m not sure it’s safe, I have to consider the safety of my crew.”

While the young aviator’s concerns were valid, this was no time for equivocation.

DeMetrie fumed as the pilot continued his defense of why he wasn’t allowing his aircraft to fly. “We should have parts by mid-morning. The repair is easy and won’t take long. I’ll have the bird ready to go ricky-tick Sir.”

Trying a different tact, DeMetrie motioned the young pilot to come closer. Putting his arm around the young man’s shoulders in a fatherly manner, DeMetrie guided him away from of the rest of his crew and assembled men.

“Lieutenant,” he asked softly. “With the exception of the past twenty four hours have you seen combat?”

“No sir.”

“Have you lost any men?” continued DeMetrie.

“No sir.”

As they continued walking further away from the aircraft the Captain pressed on with the informal interrogation. “So you’ve never had to watch one of your men die? Write the letters home? Attend a funeral and watch a wife and kids whose lives are wrecked because Daddy didn’t come home?”

Hanging his head lower, the pilot replied, “No sir.”

“Let me assure you it is heartbreaking and rips your guts out. You ask yourself a lot of questions. Did I do right by my men? Did I make the right choice? Could I have done something different? Should I have done what I ordered them to do? You tracking with me?”

Continuing the pattern, the pilot replied, “Yes Sir.”

DeMetrie didn’t let up, “So I’ve got two men out there, trapped behind enemy lines, on the run and only ten or twelve clicks from safety. They have no food, probably no water and likely limited ammo. They are cold, tired and they’ll never admit it but scared shitless. A good twenty or thirty enemies are hunting them down. You still with me?”

“Yes Sir”

“Now my two men, decorated war heroes, are scurrying around and I’m standing with my cock in my hand trying to convince you to go get them. Can you see why I’d be a wee bit miffed?” DeMetrie’s tone had remained calm and even throughout the one-sided discussion.

“Yes Sir, I can understand your frustration.”

Looking up to ensure nobody was within range of hearing, DeMetrie stopped, turned to face the pilot and grasped both his shoulders. With a smile he said, “Then you’ll grasp why I’m about one second from stomping you into the ground and rat-fucking you. You may belong to another unit but your ass is mine for now. If my men don’t come back I’m going to personally destroy you. After you shit out pieces of your teeth you’ll go visit the family members of those men and explain why they were left to die. Each and every relative. You can explain how they were only ten miles from safety but you didn’t want to take a chance to bring back American soldiers. When the little girl cries you can cite regulations and procedures to help dry the river of tears. Sounding good so far?

The young pilot didn’t know what to say. That DeMetrie was speaking in even, level tones made the threat that much more real.

“Since you don’t grasp the importance of bringing home our soldiers you’ll be sent to fly every combat mission out East we can dig up. The riskier the better. Furthermore, you’ll fly every resupply of a forward base that’s within range of an anti-aircraft gun. If there’s a gun or missile, your ass will be there. Not exactly a textbook situation but a fine young officer like you, I’m sure you’ll adapt and overcome. If, on the off chance your ass happens to pull through that, I’ll make sure you’re transferred out to Afghanistan when this little mess in the States is over. You know, because all the equipment over there is one hundred percent good to fucking go.”

Without taking a breath, he bore on, “You ever fly into a hot LZ at ten thousand feet, when you can’t find the friendlies and every stinky on the hill takes pot shots at you? It’s not fun. And for extra shits and giggles, because we know what a warrior heart you have, you’ll be stationed at a forward base high up in the hills. Hope you like hitting the privy at 03:00 in twelve degree weather and blustery winds.”

The young pilot, about to protest was shushed into submission as DeMetrie held a finger to his lips.

“I’m not done Lieutenant. You’ve got two choices here. One option is you give the bird the green-light, keep working on fixing it and assure me you’ll go get my boys when the time comes. No hesitation, no waiting to be sure. The call comes in, you remember those are soldiers out there that you have a duty to bring back, and you go. The other option is you pack your bags and prepare to travel to your new unit in the East.”

Letting his words hang in the air for an excruciating fifteen seconds and he staring unblinkingly into the pilots eyes, DeMetrie finally continued. “Have you come to any conclusions son?”

“Sir,” said the Pilot. “We will go get the men the second we’re told to. Whether the bird is one hundred percent or not you can count on us.”

“Outfuckingstanding.”

Turning the pilot around and walking back towards the assembled group, DeMetrie said, “Son, I was scared shitless after my first dance too. Terrified really. Wondered what the hell I had gotten into or if I could hack it.”

“How did you deal with it Sir?”

“A Sergeant of mine reminded me of my duty to my country and my men. I owed it to them to give my all so they could go home.”

DeMetrie thought back to the day the crusty old Sergeant had taken him aside to counsel him after seeing the fear in DeMetrie’s eyes. It broke DeMetrie’s heart to present a flag and his country’s deepest thanks to the man’s wife later that year.

“Thank you Sir. You can count on me.”

[cwconnertx]

This might be the best installment yet!

[bacpacker]

I agree, out of the 4 stories to this point.

[piranha2]

Awesome.

[The Stig]

“Miller.....you awake?” asked Dink as he reached across the console and tugged at Miller's arm. “Wake up. We have company.”

Groggily, Miller slipped from the dream world to the real one. “Gray sedan?”

“Not sure of the color, but definitely a sedan, ya.”

Snapping fully awake Miller asked, “What got your attention?”

Glancing in the side view mirror, Dink replied, “didn't notice them at first but they crept up on us real slow like, hung in maybe two hundred yards back, and then drifted back again. They stayed planted there for the last twenty miles.”

Thinking for a bit Miller weighed the options. There weren't many. How far to the next rest stop?”

“Luckily for you, there's one just up yonder.”

Turning around towards the back seat, Miller poked at Webb's leg. “Wake up sleeping beauty. We have work to do.”

As Webb awoke from his slumber the men crafted their plan.

“Is it just me,” asked Dink, “or have we been slapping together a lot quick plans lately?”

****

They were exhausted. They'd been moving for several hours. Constantly moving forward while trying to maintain a hold on what was happening around them. All the while, they had their weapons at the ready and desperately tried to minimize how much noise they were making. It was grueling.

They'd traveled down the ravine for nearly two miles. Only occasionally could they hear the sound of the soldiers looking for them. The advantage of being able to keep moving without the burden of searching for people kept suitable distance with their pursuers. The enemy troops weren't afforded the same luxury.

“Damn man, I'm beat,” said Reynolds with heavy breath.

Exhaustion clear in his voice too, Lowry replied, “man up troop. Sun will be up soon. We have to find somewhere to lay low and find it now.” Pointing up to the sides of the ravine, he continued, “the ravine has gotten pretty shallow, let's head up the side and cut back east. We'll never make Delta in time for a landing, but at least we're moving closer to the river.”

Nodding in agreement, Reynolds cut to his left and began ascending the steep wall of the ravine after securing his rifle. Grunting as he lifted himself using a tree, he began the process of climbing out of the gorge.

“Once you get to the top, you better radio the boss,” called out Lowry.


****

As the truck pulled into the rest stop, Dink allowed gravity to slow the truck naturally and then idled slowly toward the last parking spot before the ramp to get back on the highway began. Angling the truck so he could pull straight-ahead instead of having to back up, Dink and Miller quickly hopped out of the truck and began walking towards the toilets.

Pretending to be discussing something of importance, to appear unaware, they watched the sedan enter the the parking area and slow rapidly.

“Looks like showtime,” muttered Dink as they walked casually towards the small bathroom building. Because they parked so far to the end of the parking lot, the sidewalk was angled sharply towards the bathroom building. The far end of the parking lot, where the sedan appeared, was only forty-five degrees to their right making watching them, without looking like they were watching, far easier.

Watching as the gray car slowly pulled into a parking space, Miller replied, “yea. We seem to have attracted a lot of attention this time around.”

“Webb ain't ever going to let us back on the ranch.”

Miller replied, “he'll let me in, but I think he's pissed that you always drink his beer.”

They were only twenty yards from the building, and Miller glanced over one last time before they entered. Because the rest-stop was deserted, they planned to lure whoever was following them into the small building where an ambush would be easier. Webb stayed in the truck and would rush the building as soon as the unknown men entered.

It wasn't an elegant plan but they hoped it would suffice in the heat of the moment.

As Miller and Dink reached the small series of stairs leading to the building, they were shocked when a gun, fired from inside the sedan, rang out several times. Without hesitation they both dove behind a large decorative flower planter, landing nearly on top of each other.

As they attempted to untangled themselves it rapidly became obvious that additional shots were not forth coming.

“What in the hell?” exclaimed Dink, adrenaline pumping fully.

Equally confused, Miller replied, “beats me.”

Gingerly glancing around the flower planter, Miller squinted at first but then, under the yellowish glare from the overhead lights, he could make out someone exiting the sedan from the back seat. The person moved slowly, with purpose. Making no sudden movements he was sure to make obvious his hands were empty.

The windshield appeared to be covered in blood and tissue and both front seat passengers remained motionless, slumped forward at awkward angles.

Glancing back at Webb, he gave a motion signaling him to hold his fire and remain in position.

The mysterious back seat passenger, slowly opened the front door of the sedan to reach in and turn off the engine. Then, equally slowly, and with his hands clearly visible he turned to face the building.

Miller, still not sure of what was happening, kept his hand in the butt of his gun. It would be a lengthy shot for a pistol but he was taking no chance. He glanced back to see that Dink had secured a perch at the other end of the flower planter. He already had his pistol drawn but kept it pointed downwards while they accessed the situation.

“Something about this is weirder than putting catchup on macaroni and cheese,” quipped Dink.

Before he knew it, the back seat passenger called out, “Miller, how many more times am I going to have to save your ass?”

Dink, looking over at his friend, asked, “this old boy knows you?”

Miller, recognition sweeping over his face, quickly stood from behind the flower planter. “I'll be dammed,” was all he muttered.

****

They cleared the top of the ravine and moved several hundred yards to the east. Reynolds had radioed DeMetrie to let them know the change of plans. DeMetrie was going to radio back with suggestions once he and his team could craft a plan now that the rescue would be more complex.

“We better find somewhere to crash soon,” said Reynolds. Both men knew that trying to stay on the move in daylight greatly increased the chances of being detected. The last thing either one wanted was a running gun battle.

Soon they found themselves at the edge of a treeline that separated a small rise from a small picnic area of a park. Only two or three acres in size, the open area had several picnic shelters, some swings, a walking path and ball field. It was a typical suburban park shoved into the woods to let yuppies feel like they were communing with nature.

They scanned through the darkness but couldn't see much even with the mercury light casting it's pale light over a small section of the parking lot.

“Hold on a sec,” said Lowry as he flipped his night vision goggles down into position. Slowly scanning left to right across the field he looked for any sign of trouble, any sign of Crutchfield's men or the Peacekeepers.

Reynolds, realizing Lowry hadn't said anything looked over to see a full smile on the Sergeant face. Even in the darkness of light it was clearly visible.

“What is it?” inquired Reynolds.

Turning to his friend and brother in arms, he replied, “you gotta be shittin' me.”

Flipping his own goggles into position, he looked towards where Lowry pointed. As the dark night was transformed into green-gray it was clear as day. Directly opposite them, it had been tucked back against the woods on the far side of the ball field far from the weak reach of the mercury light on the picnic shelter.

Last time they had seen one was half a world away in a much hotter and drier city: a M1126 eight wheeled armored vehicle troops called Stryker.

[piranha2]

NO, you Cannot stop now - give us more.

[bacpacker]

Very good, you just made Izzy's day!

[izzyscout21]

Now.....this is gonna be fun!

[The Stig]

As Webb's truck rolled up the highway, the adrenaline of the situation at the rest-stop started to fade and its occupants settled into the rhythm of the highway. Dink and Webb had watched in quiet confusion as Miller and the mystery man had exchanged a quick embrace once Miller recognized him. Now they listened quietly from the front as Miller and the mystery passenger from the gray sedan exchanged barbs.

The group decided it was wise to not stay around the rest-stop and risk a response from the police. Trying to explain the two dead men in the sedan would be difficult and cause a delay they couldn't afford.

“Miller,” said the man. “You know, I'm getting tired of pulling your chestnuts from the fire.”

Smiling, Miller said, “When you do all the heavy lifting, things happen.”

Turning his attention to his friends in the front seat, “Boys, this is Mack. We've worked together before. Mack, this is Dink and Webb. Both are rock solid.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Mack. “Papa filled me in on the mess you've gotten yourself into.”

After outlining the basic situation to Mack, Miller asked, “So, you gonna fill us in on what happened back there?”

“Ever since Kirilenko was brought in under the guise of being a Peacekeeper, Papa has had me trying to infiltrate his organization. Kirilenko wasn't able to bring all his people over, and he had to use some regular solider types and even some of Crutchfield's goons for his dirty work. Between you wiping out two full squads and the guys at the truck stop, and other attrition he's doesn't have many teams for field work.”

“Times are tough,” mused Miller.

Continuing, Mack said, “Yes, Georgi's star has fallen and this American assignment was punishment, pure and simple. The power brokers in the Kremlin had enough of his antics and maneuvered to get him sent over here to get him out of the way. Word on the street is he has something big planned to get back in their good graces. No idea what it is yet.”

“The gray sedan?”

Taking a drink from the bottled water offered by Dink, Mack said, “so I positioned myself as local talent and got the call with those other two bozos to keep tabs on an old friend from the past. Since you had resurfaced, and Donovan was pulling the strings, it didn't take much brain power to put the two together.”

Dink chimed in, “pardon me for asking, but how long have you been tailing us.”

“No worries mate. We were part of the team sent down to hit that farm. Kirilenko didn't trust his team-leader so he wanted a little extra muscle just in case. I guess I said the right things because me and those two goons got the call. We were on the main road from the farm back to the highway so we just waited for your truck and fell in behind.”

Miler asked, “So what's the situation north of the river?”

Taking another long drink, Mack replied,” Not good. Crutchfield's strength in the area, augmented by the Peacekeeper's is growing. The main action is in the East, there won't be another invasion south from Ohio from what we've gathered. But he's got enough men and material in the area to keep our forces in Kentucky in check. Our side sends raids over, their side sends raids over. It's a bunch of tit-for-tat but nothing decisive. That's the military side.”

“And the other side,” asked Miller referring to the clandestine activities that he and Mack had invested so much of their lives.

A smile flashed across Mack's face, “I told Papa you couldn't stay out of the game long. Like I said, Kirilenko's up to something big. Not sure what yet. In the meantime he's been working on setting up a network in the area and holding Donovan's water while the old fart tries to get back at you.”

“What do you think Kirilenko is up to?” asked Miller.

“Tough to say, some seem to think it's a ploy to grab a slice of power here in the states should Crutchfield pull off his revolt. Others have even money that he's going to parlay something over here into reestablishing his power in Russia, although exactly how is unclear.”

“But in the mean time, the old boy is stirring up trouble over here,” interjected Dink.

“Yep,” replied Mack. “Not clear how extensive his network is but it can't be too big yet. That said, you know he's going to dig his claws in deep. And in the meantime he's running errands for Crutchfield and Donovan, mostly Donovan for now.” Turning to Miller, “so what's the plan?”

Miller organized his thoughts while taking a drink of his own. “I've got something worked out but first we have to cross the river. How did you get in?”

“Oh it sucked. Commercial air travel from any of the remaining states is blocked. Flights from Canada, Europe, and Asia are trickling into Boston, Chicago, places like that. But that's it for air and there aren't too many of those anyway. I had to connect through a bunch of countries and ultimately fly back into Chicago. Bolivia is a shithole for the record. Then moving from there to Cincinnati, where Kirilenko is headquartered, was a real picnic. Took nearly a week.”

“That's out,” replied Miller. “We don't have time for that. Papa mentioned someone in the area that I think might be able to help us.”

“This is why I like Miller,” said Mack, directed to Webb and Dink. “He plays everything close to the vest,” he said with a smile. “He knows the plan and we know jack.”

[The Stig]

“This ain't good Captain,” declared Saxon. “The two teams we sent over to move towards Lowry and Reynolds didn't make it two miles before getting bushwacked. Seems that Crutchfield's men have moved into the area near the river as a blocking force. Suddenly its crawling with enemies.”

“It doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out which way the boys are headed. What about the teams?” asked DeMetrie. He was tired. It was 5:00am and he'd been up most of the night.

Looking down at his notes, Saxon replied, “Between both teams three KIA. Couple of injuries. They were pushed eastward along the river well beyond our normal landing points. They've set up a defensive perimeter and are awaiting instructions.”

Tossing the papers in his hands down in frustration, DeMetrie thought for a minute. After reviewing the map he resignedly said, “pull them back across the river. Use the normal method. We can't have them being chewed up in hopes the boys make it to them.”

“Sir,” replied Saxon. He didn't like it any more than the Captain, but he knew it was the right play.

DeMetrie continued, “So if they've locked down the normal crossing points, that's going to push them further east, making their trip longer. Maybe even pushing them beyond the range of our boats if they have to resort to those.”

The men had used rubber zodiac style boats to stealthfully cross the Ohio River on normal missions. While they were fine for insertions and short distances, they weren't made for long distance journeys up the debris choked river. Since they got the call from Reynolds that they wouldn't make Rally Point Delta in time for a helo extraction before daylight they kept the option of using a boat extraction as a fall back position.

But that assumed the men could actually reach the river, still a distant twelve miles away. It also assumed the enemy forces weren't concentrated along the river. Usually they weren't, they stayed more inland, but clearly that had changed.

There was still the helicopter but DeMetrie wanted to use it at night, if at all possible. It was the still the best, and quickest option. But they had to have a landing zone and night-fall for that to happen.

“Damn,” continued the Captain. “Ok. Radio the boys. Let them know the situation. Have them move to their east, towards these grid locations,” he said pointing to the map. Tell them to lay low during daylight but if they get jammed up we'll come get them. Otherwise, move to the first grid after darkness falls again later tonight. They should make it before day-break tomorrow. When they get there we'll try again with the bird. If they find something better on the way, radio in and we'll scramble the bird.”

DeMetrie's radio man nodded in understanding and left the room to follow the Captains orders.

“Saxon, we need to come up with something slick here. These guys might last another day but they are in deep kimchee and the noose is tightening. With the enemy forces strengthening here along the river,” he stabbed at the map, “boats are probably out either way. That means the helo, and that means night, if at all possible. That keeps them on the ground another twelve hours at least.”

He and Sergeant Saxon got to work crafting alternative plans and contingencies as they both worked tirelessly to return their men to safety.

The thought was already starting to form in DeMetrie's mind to have the bird insert him and a squad of troops and attempt to link up with Lowry and Reynolds. At least a larger fighting force would stand more of a chance of getting back.

That would be the least palatable option for a number of reasons. But it was in the Captain's back pocket if he needed it.

****

“We gotta figure out something fast,” declared Reynolds. “That Stryker dumped out a squad somewhere. And it's going to be light soon. We gotta get moving to get around this park and back into the deep woods.”

Scanning the field and seeing nobody, Lowry weighed the odds. He didn't like them one bit. They had to get around the park, and back into the woods. Worse, there were a good twenty or thirty men moving somewhere up the ravine behind them and now there was squad somewhere in the woods around them. All the while minutes were ticking away towards daylight. If they weren't somewhere that could hide them before light broke over the horizon, they would be in serious trouble.

“Come on man, we have to roll,” urged Reynolds.

Still seemingly staring off into the distance, Lowry remained silent until Reynolds virtually pleaded, “Sarge. We have to make tracks.”

“Come on,” said the tired Sargent, “I've got an idea.”

Reynolds watched as Lowry started creeping down the small hillside and wondered what he had in mind.

[bacpacker]

Nice!

[The Stig]

“Senator Donovan,” announced Kirilenko's aide as the older, smaller and highly tanned man strode into the GRU General’s office. Kirilenko was enjoying a simple breakfast of yogurt, figs, eggs and a small glass of Vodka.

Waving the man over to his table, “Senator Donovan, please. Join me for breakfast.”

“I’m not here to eat Kirilenko. You wanted to update me, so do it,” said Donovan venomously.

Motioning again, Kirilenko said, “Please, sit down. It does not suit you to be so angry. I’ll have food brought right away.” Snapping his fingers, his aide disappeared, ostensibly to retrieve breakfast for Donovan.

Kirilenko, used to getting his way, resumed eating as if the Senator did not exist. Pacing impatiently, Donovan finally capitulated and took a place across the table from Kirilenko.

“Listen here Kirilenko,” blurted Donovan but he was cut off by the wave of the hand by the General.

“Please. Senator. Here comes breakfast for you. Before we talk business, eat.” With a nod of his head he motioned the uniformed man with the kitchen apron over. “There. We do this on full stomach.”

Relenting to the eerie hospitality of Kirilenko, Donovan raised his vodka glass in a shallow toast and took a drink.

With a broad smile Kirilenko asked, “So Senator. I trust the brunette that came to your room last night was satisfactory?”

Taken off guard, Donovan looked up sharply. “What did you say?”

“Senator, we are both adults. I know that you enjoy the company of women. There is no shame.”

Eyes narrowing, Donovan shot back, “I don’t know how you knew that, but I’m not here for the sex police. I’m here for your update.”

“Please Senator. Do not be upset, you must be calm to appreciate the yogurt and figs.” Kirilenko then preceded to share various mundane details of various operations he had in motion while the Senator finished his breakfast.

“There, you are done no? More vodka?” The General offered to pour the Senator a drink, which the Senator declined. “Ah yes, I forget that you Americans shy away from alcohol in the morning.”

Suitably calmed by the filling breakfast Donovan stated, “General, I want an update on the Miller situation. The last I heard he destroyed yet another one of your teams but now you are saying you have good news.”

Leaning back in his chair, the General eyed the Senator. He had evaluated thousands of men in his life. Some weak, most not willing to fight beyond a certain threshold, others true warriors. Fighting me. Men born to excel at combat. Miller was a man who he held in begrudging regard as a fellow warrior. There were others over the years but they were few and far between.

In some perverse ways, Kirilenko actually enjoyed the cat and mouse game between he and Miller. But in Donovan he saw weakness. Nothing to be admired or copied. He saw a bully. A talented bully for manipulating situations, but a bully none the less.

“Yes Senator. I do have good news. But first I need your assistance on a small matter.”

Sighing deeply, the Senator replied, “you are supposed to be helping me. What do you want?”

With a smile Kirilenko continued, “I would like your assistance to help capture Miller.”

Tossing his napkin down in disgust, Donovan said, “I’ve given you locations, known associates, what more do you need?”

“It would appear our friend Miller is headed right to us,” began Kirilenko. “I have reason to believe he is going to attempt to kill us both, and do it in this very city.”

The Senator, shocked by the confession replied, “how do you know this?”

Waving his hand and ignoring the question, Kirilenko said, “Will you assist me?”

Testily the Senator replied, “I’m not an idiot. I’m not agreeing to a plan I haven’t heard.”

Laughing at the imitation bravado, the General leaned back as he took another scoop of yogurt and a quick drink of vodka. “I know Miller for many years. He's a worthy adversary, one to not take lightly. Given his meager resources,” said Kirilenko as he waved at the spacious office, “he's not likely to storm this complex.”

“I would agree,” said Donovan despite not having any real idea of what Miller would or wouldn't attempt.

“So I propose we lure him into the open. At that time our teams will move in and eliminate the problem.” The General said this as if he were describing a trip to the grocery.

Frowning, Donovan asked, “how do you propose to draw him into the open?”

Still reclined slightly in his chair Kirilenko said, “he wants to see you no? We'll arrange a meeting in a very public place. When he shows his face, our men will converge on him in force.”

“I'm not impressed with your track-record thus far. Why would I put myself in that danger?”

Leaning forward slightly, Kirilenko replied, “Because we're in our territory we don't have to be so reserved Senator. I can have hundreds of men in place ready to strike. Miller is good, very good, but the numbers will not be in his favor.”

“Go on”

Smile on his face, Kirilenko continued, “There are many empty buildings around this Square of Fountains, plenty for several sniper teams. There will be nowhere for Miller to run where he can not be seen.”

Donovan thinking over the proposed plan then asked, “How are you going to get Miller into that square, that open space?”

Again laughing as he took one last drink of vodka, Kirilenko said, “you leave that to me Senator. All I need to know is that I can count on you to take part once once the time is right.”

Mulling over a plan, as if he understood all the ramifications, Donovan finally said, “I'll do it.”

Standing, and with a broad smile, Kirilenko exclaimed, “Good. Very good. Now, lets go to this square to look it over.”

****


It took nearly thirty minutes to silently move around the perimeter of the open park and be able to approach the Stryker. Reynolds and Lowry finally maneuvered to within twenty yards of the back of the large armored personnel carrier.

“What are we doing,” asked Reynolds.

“I'm tired of walking,” said Lowry as he motioned towards the eight wheel vehicle.

Not understanding the gist of Lowry's thinking, Reynolds declared, “we have about twenty minutes left before sunrise. You best do some serious walking unless you want to get shot.”

“Wait here, I'll be back,” said Lowry. “Just stay here and be ready to bolt if we need to.” Before Reynolds could respond the Sargent stood walked directly towards the back of the vehicle. We could barely believe his eyes as he watched his brother-in-arms brazenly walk towards the enemy vehicle.

Thinking to himself, “This is about the dumbest thing I've ever done,” Lowry approached the back end of the Stryker as if he belonged to it. Counting on the late hour, tiredness or simply a lack of diligence, he strode forward until he reached it's large crew door.

“Here goes,” he thought as he used his rifle-butt to tap against the back of the entry hatch. He counted as nearly ten seconds passed before mechanical noises of the door unlatching were heard and the door began pivoting downwards.

Reynolds, still crouched watched in amazement as Lowry crouched down and simply walked into the crew area of the vehicle. Despite the subdued lighting Lowry quickly disappeared from sight.

Seconds ticked by at a glacial pace. Losing his nerve Reynolds stood and rapidly covered the distance to the back hatch of the Stryker.

Panting heavily, Lowry suddenly emerged, dragging the body of an enemy solider by the harness around the man's chest. “Come on,” he sputtered out. “Let's dump this chump and get the hell out of here.”

Reynolds, not knowing what to say, stood motionless.

“Come on man,” Lowry pleaded as the enemy solider was unceremoniously dumped out the back hatch. “You remember how to drive one of these things right?”

[bacpacker]

Awesome, steal a stryker!

[izzyscout21]

Yes!!!!!!!!!!!

[The Stig]

The M1126 Stryker is an eight wheeled armored personnel carrier that has been in service nearly ten years. The 350 horsepower diesel engine can propel sixteen tons of vehicle to a mind bending sixty miles per hour to deliver it's payload of nine fully armed soldiers with an eerie quietness prompting enemy combatants to nickname it the ghost. With controls like a standard automobile, learning to drive the Stryker was simple.

Festooned with anti-rocket propelled grenade screens and armed with a remote controlled .50 caliber machine gun, all defensively minded, the vehicle still presented an awesome offensive weapon, especially in the dusty urban environments of the middle-east. Troops could be dispatched quickly and safely to a specific location and their deployment would often catch the target unawares.

Strykers had even been used to ram into the sides of houses to allow troops to breach the wall and overwhelm the defenders.

But the the real strength of the Stryker vehicle, what allowed units using it to dispatch enemies with great vigor and violence, was the suite of electronics that allowed troops to see the location of other Stryker's on the battlefield as if in some real-life video game. This capability provided situational awareness unheard of in past conflicts.

“Come on,” instructed Lowry as he slid into the commanders turret. “Close that hatch and let's get the hell out of here.”

Reynolds slapped the large, red, mushroom shaped button in the upper right-hand corner of the hatch and was rewarded with the satisfying hum of hydraulic and electronic apparatus pulling the thickly armored hatch shut.

As Reynolds squirmed his way into the drivers seat, Lowry found and disconnected the electronics that would allow other units to see their location. While this could raise alarm, there was less of a chance of discovery by suddenly going off the grid than if other commanders could watch the lone vehicle as it made it's way south.

Studying the electronic display detailing the positions of other enemy troops, Lowry took in the information with some discomfort. There were approximately twenty five enemy soldiers coming up the ravine some two hundred yards behind them. The squad belonging to this Stryker was oddly some five hundred yards to the west and moving northward. Several vehicles, clearly traveling together, moving slowly from west to east some two miles south of them. Ominously, a thick line of vehicles and soldiers formed a thick blanket just two miles north of the river. It was clear the enemy intended to prevent them from returning south.

“Ok Reynolds, let's move east towards Batavia and the grid the Captain gave us. It looks like it will get us out of the immediate hot zone. From there we're only about ten miles north of the river. We can cut across some back roads and work our way south from there. Should be on the rivers edge lickty split.”

Reynolds re-familiarized himself with the layout of the drivers position. He'd only driven a Stryker once before when they had been working with another unit in Iraq. An Army driver had let Reynolds take the beast for a short drive as a thank you after DeMetrie and his men had assisted the man's unit after they had been ambushed. Reynolds and Lowry's squad had been instrumental in changing the course of the engagement. The man they all called Izzy was able to go home to his daughters instead of being a name on a monument and he let Reynolds and Lowry go for a joy ride to show his application.

Reynolds chose to forget how the act of thanks turned horribly wrong when he accidentally crashed into a latrine.

Flipping a series of toggle switches, the huge Caterpillar diesel spun to life quickly with an odd quiet. Instead of a deafening roar the large armored vehicle emitted more of a turbine like whine.

“Ok, I got it going, give me a heading,” asked Reynolds.

After giving him a heading and final grid location Lowry lurched forward as Reynolds accelerated too sharply and then slammed into a small sapling tree. Like a teenager with a standard shift car on a steep incline, the huge vehicle comically bounced and rocked causing Lowry to smack his head.

Uninjured but irritated, Lowry said, “you want to try that again sport?”

Reynolds eased the big wheeled truck backwards, spun the wheel and then moved forward again, all while missing the tree.

Smiling to himself, Reynolds called out, “see, it's like riding a bike.”

As he slowly accelerated away from the parking hide, he maneuvered the big vehicle towards the exit to the park.

Lowry called out, “Careful. Shitters one hundred yards to the right. Try not to flatten them this time.”

****


“They are doing what?” asked the Captain incredulously.

Saxon, not sure whether to smile or not, simply said, “They've...um...appropriated a Stryker and are heading to the grid coordinates you instructed.”

“If those two make it back I'm going to kill them. Or give them a medal. I'm not sure which yet,” replied the Captain. “So I guess they are going to travel, in broad daylight, and then act as if nothing is happening?”

“Sir,” replied Saxon, “I'm thinking that's exactly what they intend to do. “I'm just not sure why they aren't making a b-line to the river right now”.

Rubbing his eyes, DeMetrie suggested, “that's the obvious play but with the strengthening forces between them and the river it's too risky. Stryker or no, there's enough firepower consolidating down there to blow them to kingdom come. No, heading east first, then south is still the smarter play.”

“I guess being inside some armor isn't the worst thing in the world,” mused Saxon.

DeMetrie was less convinced, “against troops sure. If they run into anybody with an anti-tank missile, like one of those Vodnik's with the mounted array, they are going to hate life.”

The men poured over the maps they had already memorized to ensure they knew every small road, every farm track and every turn so they could assist their soldiers on return to safety.

****


It had been a long, excruciating day for DeMetrie. Lowry and Reynolds covered the distance to the small town of Batavia in just over an hour from sunrise. Finding a secluded spot in a heavily wooded area, the two had been holding out, nervously, for the rest of the day. They were waiting for nightfall before resuming their journey south.

Everybody involved had resisted the urge to aim the thirty-two thousand pounds of steel southward and jam the accelerator down. While they could have covered the entire distance in less than thirty minutes, the risk of discovery was simply too high. Even if they made the river, the chances of making a crossing to the far shore, under fire, were minimal. It also would put the support troops at risk.

They'd just have to continue diligently working their way south and make a stealthy return to safety.

As the sun was preparing to set, DeMetrie and Saxon remained huddled in the command room working out details of the various operations they had under way. Between the two teams that had returned from across the river, another team that had been freed up from a different operation, and his ready-reserve, DeMetrie had nearly fifty men to deploy. The question was where and how.

He could send them, en force, across the river and attempt to punch a hole through the defenses to reach Lowry and Reynolds. Even if they hadn't already moved further east, such an attack would guarantee casualties that he could ill afford. Another option would be to divide them into small teams and let them harass the forces nearer the city keep them in place and open an opportunity for the two lost troops to make their escape further east. This too risked large numbers of men.

Captain DeMetrie turned to Saxon, “Let's land the force upriver, further to the east than Batavia. Have them secure a beachhead, and then work their way north. They can link up with Lowry and Reynolds and then the entire thing collapses like a bag and they all come home.”

Saxon mulled over the idea. It had it's appeal. It kept troops further from danger and avoided a direct conflict. Not that either he nor the Captain were wary of engagements, but risking the men senselessly did not sit well with either solider.

“What if we...” started Saxon before he was interrupted by a strange voice from the doorway.

“Is this where I can find the Duke of Shelton?”

DeMetrie and Saxon, who's attention had been focused on the maps spread before them, spun around towards the sound of the intruding voice.

Captain Mike DeMetrie was shocked to see the face of an old friend and the two men exchanged a quick embrace.

“Captain DeMetrie, if I wasn't mistaken I'd say you are in your natural element.”

The Captain, still surprised, replied, “John Miller, if I wasn't mistaken I'd say you've finally come to your senses and decided to become an honest solider.”

[bacpacker]

Very AWESOME chapter. Nice touch.

[izzyscout21]

dude.......freakin sweet!!! I made it into Vengeance!! Take notes fellas....this is how you write a story.

[bacpacker]

Hey Izzy a little less head swell over that way :). J/K

Glad to see you made it

[izzyscout21]

Hey Izzy a little less head swell over that way :). J/K

Glad to see you made it

lol. couldn't help myself. I feel as if I've been immortalized.

[The Stig]

Been on vacation but I'm back and ready for more writing. Hope to have another installment up shortly.

I intended to do some writing on vacation but the situation just didn't present itself.

Anyway, just wanted to keep ya'll up to date.

[piranha2]

Thanks man, looking forward to it.

[The Stig]

They had the worst luck in the world.

Reynolds and Lowry had found a small wooded patch alongside a back country road to hide and pass the day before resuming their journey once night fell. Seeing the two acre tract of woods and a wide berm separating them from the road, they had chosen to pull the vehicle over and wait out the delay before the relative safety of night returned.

Figuring that tracks leading into the woods would invite suspicion, they attempted to hide in plain site by pulling over as far as they could but not actually going into the woods. If approached they'd have to improvise an excuse but the suspicion level would be far lower than if they were spotted after driving 600 yards into a dense forest.

They had made it several excruciating hours of part light-rest, part vigilance without detection. But what their fancy electronic displays and paper maps failed to tell them, what they didn't know, was that they were parked a mile from road from one of the largest shooting and gun clubs in the area.

The Peacekeepers and Crutchfield's men had appropriated the facility for training use, sending vehicles to it night and day. By tragic coincidence the men parked their Stryker on one the more popular routes their enemy traveled to practice their deadly skills.

“Lowry, look smart,” called out Reynolds with alarm. “We got company.”

Awake immediately, despite his exhaustion, Lowry spotted them out the commanders turret. “Shit. Looks like a Humvee and a Hilux.”

“Same, same,” replied Reynolds.

Both men watched as the two vehicles rolled to a stop twenty yards in front of them. A young Private popped out of the Humvee and casually approached them.

“Toss up your hatch,” said Lowry.

“Huh? What am I going to say to this guy?”

“Beats me,” replied Lowry. “you got any jokes about soldiers and loose women?”

Both men knew their banter was a cover for the fear that lingered in their souls. Pushing those thoughts out of his mind, Reynolds threw open the drivers hatch, which pivoted upwards like an awning.


****


“So Mike, looks like you have yourself a fancy setup here,” said Miller as he looked over the grungy room that served as DeMetire's office. “Lots of potential”.

“Well, us grunts don't get all the fancy cars and luxurious accommodations like you super-dooper spy types.”

Getting down to business immediately, the Captain asked Miller, “so what the hell are you doing here? Shouldn't you be on a ranch somewhere with your girls?”

“Well, ole Senator Donovan changed those plans a bit.” Miller gave his old friend the summary version of the attack on the ranch, Kirilenko and their trip north.

Miller asked, “so what's the sitrep on your end Mike?”

DeMetrie briefly explained their activities over the past year and the current situation with Lowry and Reynolds. “All in all, our op tempo has gone to nill till we can get them back. Every hand is on deck until I give the word. And now those two maniacs stole a damn Stryker and are using it to make their way to the river. I tell you, some-days its all just too much.”

Without hesitation Miller asked, “What can we do to help?”

“Well, my plan is to send my main force upriver, east of this town here,” said DeMetrie as he pointed out Batavia on a map. “Maybe just east of New Richmond. They are going to set up a perimeter and start working north till they meet up with the boys. Once they rendezvous they'll all make their way back to the river. We should be far enough east to avoid a head-to-head confrontation. We can't afford that right now.”

Looking over the map for a bit, Miller mused. “I think I have an idea that can help us both out.”

Rubbing his brow in mock anguish, the Captain stated flatly, “Why do I get the idea this is going to be another one of your cockamamie ideas using exploding cows or tornadoes or some shit?”

Miller smiled. “You've got exploding cows?”

****


“You guys going to the urban combat class?” called out the Private.

Not knowing what to say Reynolds replied as casually as possible. “Yea. Cept our gear went tits up and the Sarge wanted to wait for someone to come along for us to follow.”

“You can follow us,” said the Private. Reynolds watched as another solider exited the rear of the Humvee. Instead of approaching the Stryker, he stood to the side of his vehicle and surveyed the eight wheeled beast from behind the safety of the Humvee's armored door.

The Private was nearly back to his transport when Lowry called out, “shut that damn hatch.”

As he had done for so many years, Reynolds complied immediately.

Lowry continued as he watched the young Private spin around at the sound of the hatch slamming shut. “Once they hear our lame-ass story, any squad-leader with sense is going to radio back to HQ. It won't take much to figure out this is the Stryker that got jacked.”

Watching the Private and other solider dive back into the Humvee, and hearing their engine turning over, Lowry grabbed the joystick that controlled the Browning M2 .50 machine gun mounted in the small turret. Hearing the whine of the electric motors that controlled it, he centered the cross-hairs of the weapons station display on the lead Humvee.

“Fire this puppy up. We're going to have to haul ass.” he called out while his thumb mashed the red plastic button that activated the iconic weapon.

While muffled inside the vehicle, he listened to the distinctively deep thump, thump, thump of the gun as 619 grains of armor piercing ammo belched out the end of the machine gun, one after another.

The Humvee didn't stand a chance. Despite it's light armor kit the heavy round, fired from twenty yards away, bore into the metal and punched hole after hole in the windscreen. Rounds crashed through, passed through bodies and seats, and kept going through bodies in the rear seat. The Private was the last to die but he only outlived his comrades by mere seconds.

While the heavy machine gun finished off the Humvee, and the Stryker's diesel roared to life, Lowry watched the Hilux slam into reverse in an attempt to escape the destruction. Tires spun on the back country asphalt road sending up plumes of smoke.

The Peacekeepers would face the same fate as the men in the Humvee. Without stopping firing, Lowry swung the turret and watched as pieces of the Hilux immediately began separating from the truck under the impact of the heavy copper and lead rounds.

The driver, panicking in the face of the onslaught, turned the wheel too sharply and tipped the truck on two wheels. As the lightly armored truck disintegrated under the unrelenting pounding of the M2 the vehicle completed its upending in a pile of dust and flying bits of sheet-metal.

For three more seconds, an eternity, Lowry pumped rounds into the truck. It didn't matter, it's occupants were already dead.

He called out, “go, go, go. Get us the hell out of here.”

Reynolds mashed the accelerator and felt the inertia as the huge vehicle launched forward. With the flick of the wheel, the Stryker jumped back onto the road as it accelerated rapidly.

“Where we going?” asked the driver.

“Head to the second location we noted on the map,” said Lowry referring to the preplanned location they had chosen as their next hide should they have to leave this one in a hurry.

Without a pause he asked, “Is it wrong that the Ma Duce gives me a boner every time I hear it fire?”

[bacpacker]

Another good Chapter Stig. Hope you had a great vacation.

[izzyscout21]

great one, brother. i'm digging this story

[The Stig]

“You sure this is a good idea son?” asked a clearly concerned Papa. He had always trusted Miller in the past, and with good result, but this was a big pill to swallow.

“Best I can come up with in short notice Papa. If it works it solves a bunch of problems. Plus I owe this Captain DeMetrie. He's a good man and his men need the help.”

“You sure do like to make my life miserable. But I agree that this will solve a lot of problems on many levels. I'll start working the phones and have word to you by 17:00 about the equipment you need. Standby.”

“Roger that Papa.”

“Miller, listen, I know you hung up your spurs, and I'm not one to go all soft, but you're helping out an old man and he appreciates it,” said Papa in a strangely soft and gentle tone.

“You can thank me if I pull this off.”

Papa tried to think of a witty reply but realized the phone line had already gone dead.

****

“Miller, I don't know about this. You're asking me to put a lot of my men in harms way,” said a clearly concerned Captain DeMetrie. “And I'm not sure the payoff is worth it.”

As he sipped on a soda, Miller looked across the small table at his friend, “Mike, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. But this is the best way. It gets Lowry & Reynolds back, gets me across the river and solves a few other irritating issues too.”

Drawing in a long, deep breath, DeMetrie thought over the ramifications of what Miller was proposing. He'd long respected Miller's original thinking and risk taking, but with DeMetrie back in command of a regular unit the chances for disaster loomed larger than ever. That it would impact more people didn't help matters.

“Ok, let's get to work planning this out. We only have a couple hours,” finally said the Captain.

“Looks like Butch and Sundance ride again,” said Miller with a certain satisfaction.

“Yea, something like that. I'll have Webb and Dink outfitted with gear and tell Saxon to get the men ready. In the meantime you better hope your friend can come through with the other equipment.” DeMetrie looked Miller deep in his eyes to gauge the level of confidence he held in Papa. It was clear that confidence was absolute.

“Do me another favor would you?” asked Miller as the Captain stood to summon his aide.

“Jesus, now what?” asked the somewhat exasperated DeMetrie.

Miller smiled and said, “let me brief my men. Keep the military stuff on your side of the house.”

It was DeMetrie's turn to smile, “and the super-secret exploding cow stuff on yours. Got it.”

****

“So we're not going with you?” asked Dink, somewhat surprised at the news Miller had just broken to him. Miller had just gone over the outline of the plan he and DeMetrie had crafted. It was rudimentary and many details still needed to be worked out, but it was enough of an outline to share with the men.

Webb and Dink would be loaned to Captain DeMetrie to assist with getting Lowry and Reynolds back to safety.

Looking at his old friend, Miller replied, “Captain DeMetrie needs another set of hands to help bring Lowry and Reynolds back.”

“Well, what are we going to be doing?” asked Dink.

Grabbing his friend around the shoulders, “He'll brief you on those details,” said Miller.

Frowning, Dink said, “Damn man. We've been with you all this way. Feels like we're being sent to the kids table at Thanksgiving.” Webb nodded in agreement.

Mack, who had been standing in the corner with his arms crossed across his chest, spoke up. “Dink. You don't know this Kirilenko fella like we do. Miller clearly trusts you, and your skills, but this is a whole 'nother situation. That guy is surrounded by security troops, military guys and is a general badass in his own right.”

“I hear ya boss, but it's not like we're country yokles either,” said Dink.

Miller, who wasn't in the mood for a debate, regained control of the conversation. “Look, DeMetrie needs help with rescuing two men, men I consider friends, from behind enemy lines. That's pretty damn important. If I didn't think you could help him you'd be coming with me. Fact is, he needs all the help he can get and you've both got the skills to get the job done.”

And after a slight pause, he added, “so you and Webb go with DeMetrie and Mack and me will deal with Donovan and Kirilenko.”

Dink, realizing there would be no changing Miller's mind, acquiesced. “Roger that. Sorry, guess all worked up over nothing.”

Mack, trying to be conciliatory, offered up, “if anything, if Miller didn't trust you, he wouldn't offer up your services.”

Dink and Webb both frowned but shuffled out of the room and headed towards DeMetrie's office.

****

“Pardon me for saying it Sir, but this seems crazy,” opined Saxon. “I mean, we've planned around avoiding an engagement and now you are saying we're going right at them?”

“No, you're job is harder than that,” said the Captain. “You'll take a bulk of your forces across the river in the usual way. You'll land here,” he said pointing at the map, “just east of the city, but west of the bulk of their blocking force. Your job is to create enough noise and distraction that you draw the blocking force towards the city without getting fully engaged.”

Whistling though his teeth, Saxon said, “Not that I get a vote, but wow.”

“Sargent, you don't get a vote,” said the Captain in a stern yet fatherly voice. “But if we stand a chance of getting Lowry and Reynolds back you have to pull it off. You have to get them moving westward. So let's get to work figuring out the details.”

[izzyscout21]

and the suspense grows.....

[The Stig]

“Ok, let's go,” said Miller and he and Mack pushed the heavy rubber boat off the shoreline of the River. One of DeMetrie's men had helped drive them to the far Western side of the city, beyond the downtown, to an old river crossing called McHugh's Ferry. During normal times a small ferry service operated on across the river, hauling eight cars across at a time to the far shore. The boats had long sense been abandoned but the boat landing was still operational and provided a convenient spot for a river crossing.

“So how's this going to play out Miller?” asked Mack as they both began silently paddling the boat out into the main current of the river. “ You didn't really outline a plan back there. You just going to stroll into the building where you think he is?”

Peering though the darkness, Miller replied, “aim to your right more, the current is moving us down-stream too far.” After a slight pause he continued, “We've got to draw Donovan into the open. We'll have more room to work that way and I don't think the two of us, no matter how awesome we might be, are going to storm the Federal Building Kirilenko is using for a headquarters.”

Starting to work up a sweat from the paddling, Mack replied, “makes sense. But how are you going to lure Donovan out, call him up and invite him for a beer?”

Chucking softly, Miller said, “something like that but I think he's more of a wine spritzer guy.”

Scanning the dark river, and straining to push the paddle through the river, Mack replied, “just like always. Miller plays it close to the vest.”

“Old habits die hard. I just have to figure out where to tell him to meet. On the map it looks like a big open market north of town might be good.”

After a short pause, Mack suggested something different, “I spent some time in Cincinnati before the war.”

Interrupting, Miller asked, “what was her name?”

“Very funny. And she was a very nice young lady. Anyway, there's a big open square right downtown. It's surrounded by a bunch of tall buildings on all four sides. Perfect for an ambush. You lure the old coot out to the open, I'll pop-him from a hidey-hole and we both skedaddle out of there. It's closer to the Federal building so Donovan's more likely to show up on foot and without an armada and with all the buildings there's plenty of places to exfil the area.”

Thinking for a few seconds, Miller agreed. “Sounds good. You were always the better shot anyway.”

****

“Are you sure you heard the message right?” asked Reynolds for the third time since getting their orders several hours earlier. “That sounds crazy”

Although surprisingly spacious inside, the confines of the Stryker had become more cramped as time slowly ticked by. The temperature had risen to uncomfortable levels but the men continued their vigilant watch for the enemy throughout the afternoon. Hidden away and further camouflaged by netting, their position would be difficult to discover. A vehicle could pass within twenty yards and not see them.

Still, there had been a couple tense minutes, one in particular, as a small patrol of Peacekeeper's passed through the area. After the incident outside the gun-club the enemy converged on the area and began a search the area. A large contingent had descended on the area in search of the two men and one of the patrols happened to stumble past their location.

“That's what the man said,” declared Lowry. “The Captain hasn't steered us wrong yet has he?”

Reynolds didn't reply because he knew Lowry was right. The Captain had always looked out for them and delivered.


****

“Sir, eat something. You have been on the go all day,” suggested the Captains aide.

Looking up from the paperwork on his desk, the Captain let out a long sigh, “Jones, some days you can have my job.” He looked at the plate and was suddenly realized he was famished. Within seconds he was eating the warm food.

Continuing on after a few bites he said, “Just like always there's a million things that can go wrong here. Every once in a while there's a place in a soldiers soul that questions their ability to get the job done.”

“Don't worry Sir,” the Private said softly. “The men always come through in a pinch.”

Glancing up DeMetrie, and suddenly thinking of a man who lay dying on a dimly lit country road, said, “Yes, Jones, but it's their leader I sometimes question.”

“Eat Sir, you have to be exhausted.”

****

Saxon's men landed on the northern shore of the Ohio River, and were soon three-quarters of a mile inland. Most of Crutchfield's men were one to two miles north of the river and were located several miles further to the east.

Soon his force dispersed into three separate teams. He led the less experience men, while some of the other teams, with extensive time in the field, were combined to form larger groups.
Whispering across the dark night, Saxon instructed his men, “Go to your assigned objectives. Once you get there, hit it hard and loud. Get as much attention as possible. Our orders are to get the blocking force westward and get the hell out of dodge. Don't get sucked into an engagement.”

The soldiers silently acknowledged the orders and moved their teams off towards the assigned objectives.

Looking back at his force of eight men, Saxon nodded his head forward and began the short walk to their first objective.

****

Despite the combat that raged in and around downtown Cincinnati, the main waterworks plant remained unscathed by warfare. Most damage to buildings took place to the row of buildings immediately facing the river while the waterworks plant was harbored in safety by geography.

Equally surprising was that Crutchfield's men chose to leave it lightly guarded despite it blissfully churning out millions of gallons of drinking water per day. Within an hour Saxon's men had successfully eliminated the guards and were busy placing large amounts of explosives in key areas.

With equal speed, the men cleared out of the building and back to a safe location behind an earthen floor wall.

Nodding at the man holding the detonator, Saxon watched as the green plastic lever was squeezed, sending an electrical impulse to the charge that would ignite the other, larger, charges.

The earth literally shook as the explosives mangled the inner workings of the waterworks facility. Steel, concrete and bits of equipment reduced the one hundred and nineteen year old building to a pile of rubble. Several surrounding homes, all abandoned, were also converted into steaming piles of debris by the high order explosives.

“That's it, lets move on to objective two,” ordered Saxon as the group quickly began weaving their way through the darkened streets before the dust of the destroyed waterworks began to settle.

****

Soon the operations center of Crutchfield's forces was inundated with radio calls of explosions, gunfire and other assorted enemy activities. Several of the few remaining gas stations open to the public had been destroyed and were left as blazing infernos. A water pumping station had been wrecked. Two small bridges into the area were blown into the water below while several highway overpasses met the same fate.

It was obvious that a major enemy action was in the making.

Within the hour, the bulk of the blocking force, along with the men pulled from the camp that was the original target of the failed airstrike, began moving westward. Some only had to travel a mile or so, while other units had to traverse a longer distance. There were forces in the city and northern areas, and they too began moving towards the sound of gunfire.

But by early morning the Miller's plan was working. Crutchfield's men and the Peacekeeper's were heading towards the city.

[piranha2]

Awesome, keep em coming.

[bacpacker]

Good Stuff!

[The Stig]

Shortly after the first explosion at the waterworks, which reverberated off the buildings like a sonic pinball, Mack and Miller made it to the large square. Mack was right; it was the perfect spot for an ambush. Lots of hiding spots meant it was indefensible against snipers. Anybody in the square would be a sitting duck from a hundred, maybe a thousand different locations. Windows, dark corners and open doorways littered the square on all four sides.

The square, which had served as a market and urban meeting place since 1871, was open save a large monument planted in the dead center of the cobblestone expanse. Other than inside the two foot tall wall that surrounded the monument, nothing offered someone in the area any form of concealment or safety.

A hotel flanked the square to the south, while an equally abandoned bank headquarters lay to the east. Behind their position, to the west, was a seven story building with shopping and apartments. Save a few homeless people, it too was uninhabited. All of these buildings were separated from the square itself by a street.

The building to the north however, was directly connected to the square. Three stories tall it had once been a restaurant; but it was reduced to shattered glass and overturned furniture. Any equipment and food-stores had long ago been ransacked. Along the front of this building, at the second story, was a large open walkway that was nearly ten meters wide. It ran the length of the northern building, turned south at the western edge and then slowly descended to ground level. Small businesses and food carts had once occupied this area in a happier time.

Lurking in the shadows of the open walkway to avoid detection, the two men, who had worked together for years all around the world, surveyed the layout of their proposed ambush site. With their expert eyes they both noted the danger the square posed.

“This ought to do,” said Miller. “Donovan will likely come from over there,” he said pointing at one opening to the square, “or from other there,” pointing at the other. Both openings lay to the east side of the square, the side with the destroyed bank headquarters.

Mack scanned the area as best he could from their limited field of view. “I'll take up a position on the second or third floor of the building behind us. That way he'll be walking straight towards me. As long as he doesn't make it to the lee of this walkway he'll be in sight.”

Nodding in agreement, Miller said, I'll find spot over here. That gives me somewhat of a crossfire, especially if he comes at us from the far opening. You take him out, and as many security as possible. I'll lay down distracting fire and take out what I can. We exfil to the west and make our way back to the ferry landing.”

“Roger that”

Looking back towards his friend of many years Miller said, “you sure you're ready for this?”

Smiling in the darkness, Mack said, “time to make your call and bring the old man out of hiding.”

****

The Clermont County Airport is a small local airport atop a short hill. Typical of most airports of it's size it had a small thirty-five hundred foot single runway and was uncontrolled, meaning their was no air-traffic control tower. Only a few sparse hangers, and wrecks of old aircraft, cannibalized for their parts, dotted the landscape.

Since the war started, the airport had been abandoned. There had been a short-lived effort to use the airport to stage raids against the President's forces across the river, but the exposure atop the hill, and proximity to the river, meant it was deemed too dangerous for operations. It could have easily been shelled by artillery from the other side of the river in addition to its exposure to air attacks.

In a wooded area nearly a mile off the end of the runway, Lowry and Reynolds sat in their parked Stryker. They'd been able to remain hidden though-out the day after navigating their way up the hilly service road without incident. Both men were surprised by the lack of enemy activity in the area.

“Ok, I guess this is it buddy,” said Lowry. “Go ahead and radio the Captain and let him know we're here.”

Without hesitation, Reynolds replied, “Roger that” and keyed his microphone.

****

DeMetrie hovered over radios in his communication center and listened in as the various units reported their progress. Referencing a map he issued a few corrections to a group that drifted too far east. Occasionally a radio transmission would be punctuated by an explosion. It was clear all the men were in the process of blowing something up, shooting at something or generally creating mayhem.

Glancing at his watch he realized the men had been across the river too long. The northern most group, the one that drifted eastward, had already engaged an advance element of Peacekeepers coming in from the large University just north of of downtown. If the blocking force hadn't been lured westward yet it wasn't ever going to move. If they stayed on the north side of the river much longer they ran the risk of getting pinned between a force from the east and the blocking force from the rest.

Just as he began issuing the order to bring Saxon's men back the radio crackled to life. Despite a weak signal Reynolds voice was clear as day.

After the usual radio identification call and response, Reynolds said, “We're here and ready.”

DeMetrie, usually reserved, grabbed a headset off the operator. “Good to hear from you stranger. Stay put. We'll be there in one zero.”

The response was simple but packed with emotion, “thank you Sir.”

Turning to his radio operators he said, “get Saxon's men back to the river now.”

****

It was nearly two in the morning and Kirilenko sat quietly in his office. As he smoked a cigar and sipped a small glass of Vodka, he reflected on his long running feud with Miller. They had been harassing each other in a game of cat and mouse for years. While a butcher and ruthless man, Kirilenko was not ignorant. Their dance over the years was part of a bigger picture of lingering animosity between countries that purported to be friends. It was the lingering aftereffects of the Cold War despite the changes of the 1990's and beyond. In a different time and place Kirilenko and Miller might have been friends, maybe even a worthwhile partnership.

But it wasn't a different time or place, and the cold reality was they were enemies.

Kirilenko was shaken from his contemplation as Donovan burst into his office.

“Kirilenko, you were right,” he excitedly proclaimed as he strode towards the Generals desk. “You were right. I don't know how the hell he did it, but a message was left with the security detail at my quarters. He wants to meet in ten minutes just where you wanted. He already planned on going there I guess.” Donovan was clearly excited at the possibility of evening the score with the man who had humiliated him.

Exhaling a long puff of smoke, Kirilenko snuffed out his cigar, stood and smoothed out his uniform. Grabbing the phone from his receiver, he grunted out, “Alert the security detail. We deploy now. I'll going to the lobby now.”

Turning to the Senator, he said with a smile and motioned towards his door, “By all means Senator. Let us go exact your revenge.”

As the elevator descended to the bottom floor Donovan turned to the General. “Listen Kirilenko, I know I've been a hardass. But this is coming together nicely. Once we get this squared away I think there could be a bigger role for you in Crutchfield's plans.”

With a smile Kirilenko said, “Let us end this first. Then we worry about the future no?”

[The Stig]

So far the extraction of Saxon's men was going well. From his hiding spot across town, Miller could hear the echos and explosions as the men fell back towards the river. So far they had been lucky. One man killed and one man slightly wounded. While the death of a man is never good, considering what they were attempting, the casualties were light.

Within thirty minutes of DeMetrie's order all of the troops, including the dead solider, were on the bank of the Ohio River. The rubber boats that had transported them across the body of water separating the states still tied safely where they had been hidden hours before.

They were on a small section of riverbank , slightly east of downtown, that was mostly shielded from view of the bank above. The skyscrapers of downtown hovered overhead and appeared to touch the sky from the odd angle at which Saxon viewed them. The rise of the shallow incline was punctuated by a small stone wall that separated a large urban park from the riverbank area. They hadn’t used the landing spot often in the past due to it's proximity to the city, but so far it had served as a convenient landing for this mission.

“Looks like we'll pull this off Sarge,” proclaimed one of the soldiers.

Looking back sternly, Saxon replied, “Let's not get cocky till we're across the river troop.”

For the next few minutes the men quietly boarded and relaunched the rubber boats and began paddling back to the safe side of the river. He listened to the sound of the plastic paddles as they dipped into the water and pulled the boats away from the bank.

Saxon and his team had crossed in two boats. Soon one of his boats was twenty yards from the shoreline and quickly disappearing into the night. Half his team was on its way back to safety.

Whispering as loudly as he dared, Saxon said, “Alright that's everybody. Into the boats boys.”

As the men piled into the boat Saxon turned to scan the skyline. While enemy troops had been flowing into the area, it appeared that Saxon's force was going to escape just before Crutchfield's men fully saturated their escape route. That was one of the many risks of the plan. If the Peacekeeper's responded too quickly Saxon might not be able to escape the area before he was engaged in force.

He was just about to step into the boat when the rifle shot rang out.

****

As he listened to increasing gunfire echoing off the downtown buildings, and whispering into the radio-microphone that Captain DeMetrie had provided them, Miller alerted Mack to the presence of Kirilenko's men and Donovan.

“Look sharp. Movement on the far south-east corner.”

“Copy that” came Mack's terse reply.

Miller's intuition, like usual, was on the money. He first picked up movement on the far side of the street as a security detachment, wielding AK-74s, briskly made it's way towards the south-east corner of the square. They had just cleared an abandoned car outside the building when they came into view. Donovan had done exactly what Miller had predicted: he and the security folks rushed from the Federal Building to the square.

The men moved forward cautiously, but without delay, as they attempted to provide the appearance of security for Donovan and their real boss, Kirilenko. Trying to maintain cover while moving quickly, it was apparent that Donovan was urging them forward much faster than they cared to go. In a normal situation they would have waited to storm the square in force, secure it fully, and only when the “all clear” was given would Kirilenko or Donovan been allowed to approach it.

Leaning forward slightly Miller quickly scanned the square for any other signs of life. Seeing nothing he again keyed his microphone. “Lead elements crossing the street now. Secondary core coming into view.”

“Copy that. I got em.”

They would allow the group to march fully into the square before opening fire. A standard ambush procedure.

Glancing up and down the buildings, Miller peered into the darkness for any sign of enemy counter-snipers or soldiers. The last thing he wanted was to open fire then get mowed down once his position was compromised. On occasion he'd see a flash reflected in the windows of the higher floors of the hotel to the south.

Peering again across the moonlit square he saw who he was looking for: Senator Donovan. The small man boldly strode across the street as if he were MacArthur returning to the Philippines. As was usual, his desire for revenge, and emotions in general, caused him to act before thinking. Even in the darkness Miller could see the man's erect posture as he crossed the street and approached the square.

“I have the target,” came Mack's whisper.

The lead element of two men entered the square. Walking briskly, slightly crouched and weapons at the ready they moved to the either side of the monument. Their heads twisted from side-to-side as they scanned horizontally and vertically, vigilant for any signs of danger as they took up positions at opposing sides of the square, on the edge of the open area. The man on the north side was a mere twenty-five yards in front of Miller.

As the lead element settled into place, the secondary element entered the square and plowed straight forward. With Donovan close behind they marched to the monument itself and took up positions to the front and rear of the large bronze statute that once welcomed visitors with fountains of water.

Donovan stopped just to the north side of the monument and he too began peering into the darkness looking for any sign of Miller. Hands on hips he seemed oblivious to the danger that surrounded him.

Rifle fire continued to rattle in the distance, while a single shot, much closer to downtown, suddenly boomed out. Bouncing off the buildings the sound added an eerie soundtrack to the otherwise quiet scene.

Scanning to his right, Miller decided he'd take out the advance element man to the north first, given that he was closest. As he quietly adjusted his rifle, he scanned the square for the hundredth time in the past few seconds. Across the street from the square, off in the shadows, Miller made out the feint silhouette that he recognized immediately.

Kirilenko and several security men appeared to loiter across the street from the square, just in front of the hotel to the south. It was as if something were preventing them from entering the square itself.

Glancing around one last time, Miller whispered into his microphone, “Take them”.

[Thor827]

Cliffhanger!!!!!!!

[bacpacker]

I love reading cliffhangers and this is a very good one!

[The Stig]

Instinctively, Saxon began moving at the sound of the rife crack. The bullet had already long since passed him and impacted harmlessly into the water by the time he heard it but he knew that finding some form of cover, immediately, was paramount. The shooter, realizing there were multiple targets on the riverbank was momentarily frozen by the choices, which provided Saxon and his men the sliver of time they needed to react.

His men, to their credit, also exited the small boat, some gracefully, some not. Soon two of them were returning fire on the unknown target while moving to the small area of protection afforded by a tree that had washed ashore.

While they were all soon behind the scant safety of the tree, their respite was not long lived. Several more enemy soldiers gathered behind the stone wall at the top of the hill. Because of the angle of the incline neither side had a good shot at the other.

“Hotel 5 Actual this is Bravo 1, over” he called over the radio. His voice was restrained but even over the digitally transmitted signal the concern in his voice was palatable.

He wasn't surprised when DeMetrie himself answered. “Go ahead Bravo 1,” came the calm, reassuring voice. DeMetrie could hear the gunfire in the background.

“Hotel 5, under fire. All but five on way south. We are pinned down and unable to exfil. Support requested.” Saxon knew there was no support to be offered. DeMetrie had no airpower or artillery at his disposal and was unlikely to instruct the returning troops to row back into the firefight. They'd be sitting ducks for the enemy on the hill.

“Hang tight for zero five minutes. Support is imminent.”

Ducking after a bullet whizzed through a thin section of the tree and impacted the mud several feet beyond him, Saxon replied, “Copy that. Zero five minutes.”

Saxon didn't bother to sign off as he rolled back into the fight and fired several quick shots. At this point his men were using slow, well aimed fire to keep their attackers head's down. So far it was working but as soon as they found a way to flank Saxon and his men they'd be torn to pieces.

As he ducked back into cover Saxon thought to himself, “support? What support?”

Just then the first grenade landed fifteen yards short of their tree and buried itself in the mud before exploding. The earth helped absorb most of the explosive force and shrapnel but the men were pelted by a shower of tiny mud-balls.
The men were just far enough down the riverbank that their opponents would have to forcefully exert himself to cover the distance with a grenade. The constant stream of 5.45 x45 rounds sailing into, and over, the wall also prevented the aggressors from effectively launching or aiming their explosive devices.

“Keep their heads down,” called out Saxon. If they can really launch one we're going to be in deep shit.”

He knew better. It was going to be a long five minutes.

****

Miller aligned the faintly glowing red dot of his rifle sight on the solider who had inadvertently taken a position nearly in front of him. He had instructed Mack to open fire on Donovan and he awaited the first shot before pulling the trigger of his own weapon.

Exhaling slightly he steadied himself and placed the dot on the man's chest. Taking as much slack out of the trigger as he dared, without actually firing it, he mentally prepared to engage the enemy. After shooting the man to his front several times, in rapid succession, he'd move to the men in and around the monument. They would have likely sought cover after Mack's first shot but Miller would shoot any that remained exposed.

In a fraction of a second he also reviewed his escape plan. Running it though his mind, actually picturing it, he made sure he knew and remembered the details he had so carefully crafted. The long drive from ClarMar Farms to the north provided ample time to plot his moves.

As the seconds ticked by the silence remained deafening as Donovan and the men remained stationary in the center of the square.

“Send it,” he whispered into the microphone, again urging Mack to shoot. His voice barely audible to avoid detection from the closest enemy guard.

Forcing himself to remain calm, he quietly adjusted his stance to train his rifle on Donovan. If something had happened to Mack he'd have to improvise a solution. That would change the dynamic of the ambush since Miller would no longer have the advantage of a sniper perched above. The reduction in overall firepower by fifty percent didn't help either but his options were limited. If Donovan left the square he'd likely never be drawn into the open with such ease again.

If Mack didn't fire in the next three seconds, he'd make the shot and engage on his own.

One, one thousand. Nothing but rifle fire rattling in the distance.

Two, one thousand. Donovan remained standing.

Three, one thousand.

He exhaled slightly, confirmed his sight picture, and began to squeeze the trigger.

A fraction of a second before the rifle fired Miller was surprised by the sudden illumination of the entire square. In an instant the entirety of the open area was bathed in lights hung carefully to both turn night into day and avoid detection before doing so.

Miller blinked as his eyelids, programmed by millions of years of genetics, slammed shut to protect his vision. Forcing them open, by shear will, the blurry image of Donovan jumping to cover behind the monument appeared as if he were looking through a thick piece of plastic. He strained to react but the blinding wall of light was overwhelming.

“Miller!” boomed out the voice of Kirilenko over a bull-horn. “Old friend. It is good to see you again.”

Confused, Miller blurted out, “Mack, where the hell are you?” into his microphone.

The answer, which came from ten feet behind him, soon laid bare the situation. “Uh, we have a problem Miller.”

Turning quickly, he was confronted by the image of Mack standing, restrained and weaponless, with two guards at either side and one directly behind. All wielded AK-74's making it clear that Kirilenko was taking no chances.

****

Disarmed, and bound, Miller stood side-by-side with Mack in the middle of the square. Kirilenko and his men surrounded them while Donovan preened around like a peacock.

“Miller, it would seem that this time you're options are very limited,” pronounced Kirilenko.

“Yea, well. Another day at the office I suppose,” came the blithe reply.

Punching Miller in the stomach with what force he could muster, Donovan shot back, “listen here fucker. Its about time you learned a little respect.”

Kirilenko chuckled, “It would appear your gift for pissing people off has had it's usual effect on Senator Donovan. Without looking in his direction, he continued, “Senator, you will find that Miller's ability to frustrate you is only matched by his ability to turn situations to his benefit. I know of this first hand. I suggest we return to my headquarters immediately.”

Taking another sucker punch, which split Miller's lip, Donovan replied. “Sure thing Ivan. But when we get back I'll take first crack at him.”

Bowing slightly in a mock gesture of respect, Kirilinko said “as you wish.” Snapping his fingers a large dark SUV suddenly appeared on the street, as if it had magically materialized. Upon yanking his head to the side, the men began guiding their two prisoners towards the transport.

As Miller passed Kirilenko leaned in and whispered, “do not worry old friend, the Senator will not lay a finger on you.”

Miller, simply nodded as he contemplated his latest predicament.

[bacpacker]

Oh shit!

[piranha2]

Not looking good..........

[The Stig]

The situation was getting desperate on the river bank. The attackers kept up the pressure on Saxon's men, but generally held back as they assembled more and more strength. Once they got enough men, they would concentrate their firepower and attack.

After expending much of their ammo during the actual assault, and using more to defend their position, many of Saxon's men were running dangerously low. As soon as they ran out of ammunition the attackers would overwhelm and kill them all.

“Stack up your grenades so you can throw them quickly,” called out Saxon. Short of affixing bayonets they had no other options. There was nowhere else they could move.

They would have to defend their position to the end.

Just then one of his men called out, clutched his throat, and fell in a heap. Bright red blood sprayed across the night sky as the man's life quickly drained from him. A comrade quickly sprang to his aid, yanking the body back to the safety of the tree.

As he quickly scanned the horizon he saw an enemy solider attempting to scamper from the wall to a small rock outcropping further down the bank and to Saxon's right. It would be an ideal place to provide a crossfire on his men.

Rising quickly he shot the enemy solider sending him crumpling to the ground.

Again calling out on the radio, he said, “Hotel Five Actual, Bravo One. Where's that damned cavalry? Situation unsat. Need support immediate.”

DeMetrie's voice, calm and reassuring, replied without any delay, “Laze your target.”

Stunned by the order Saxon wasn't quite sure what he had heard. “Say again Hotel Five.”

DeMetrie, as calm as if he were asking someone to pass the gravy at Sunday dinner replied, “Laze the goddamned target.” The words came though his earpiece slowly and clearly.

Flipping back over, he activated the infrared laser aiming device on his rifle and contorted his body to be able to point his rifle at the center of the wall above.

“What are you doing,” yelled one of his men.

“Just keep their heads down while I'm hanging out here,” came Saxon's reply.

Almost immediately, the deep thump of a 30mm chain gun erupted as rounds sailed across the river and into the stone wall. Soon it was joined by another and, almost in concert, began to dismantle the wall, piece by piece. Bits of stone, dirt and bodies spayed into the air in response to the projectiles.

Amongst the noise and confusion of the firefight neither side heard the approach of the flight of AH64D Apache Helicopters as they nimbly glided in from the east. Following the curvature of the river they had moved into position across the river and slightly to the east with both groups of soldiers remaining unawares of their presence.

As round after round of 30mm cannon fire decimated the contingent of soldiers atop the hill, the Peacekeeper's suddenly panicked. One solider stood and foolishly attempted to return fire in the face of the tungsten and copper onslaught. He was neatly cut in two as a 30mm round transected his torso. Others attempted to scurry to safety and were also mowed down.

In the space of thirty seconds the solid wall of cannon fire simply erased the attackers from the battlefield.

****

“What the hell was that?” called out Donovan as the sound of helicopters and cannon fire erupted in the distance. Merely fifteen blocks from the scene of Saxon's firefight, the cacophony was clear as it echoed off the valley and building walls.

Kirilenko's men, and the General himself, were quite aware of the source of the sound. With the flick of his hands, he signaled the guards and they shoved Mack and Miller into the back of the SUV's.

He barked out. “Take them back to my headquarters. Hold them in my office. The Senator and I will return on foot. Go.”

Men moved in concert and within seconds the SUV squealed out of the area. The security contingent followed closely behind on foot. Trotting in near unison they too were soon gone.

Donovan turned to see Kirilenko's mouth moving but could hear no sound from twenty feet away.

After what sounded like a large zipper being slowly torn open, an aircraft whooshed overhead, barely above the tops of the skyscrapers. Pealing sharply to the south it disappeared. He ducked although the jet was nearly a thousand feet above his head.

Motioning the Senator closer, Kirilenko called out, “Senator, you are now able to exact your revenge on Mr. Miller” as the roar of the jet faded.

Standing erect, Donovan replied, “Good work General. Had me worried for a second but I'd say we got Miller jammed up pretty good now.”

Kirilenko busied himself with preparing to light a cigar. Without looking up he said, “Yes Senator. But with Miller things are never what they appear. Until we get him back to my headquarters, and secure him, we shouldn't think of him as captured.”

Smugly Donovan shot back, “Yes, well. I'd say Miller's time has run out. I know you're trying to get right with your superiors so I'll be sure to mention to Crutchfield your men's effort in catching him.”

Kirilenko, ignoring the next jet to fly overhead and repeat the pattern of turning to the south, replied drolly, “That's generous of you Senator.”

As he flicked open his lighter, and the flame danced up to light his cigar, a single shot rang out from an unknown direction.

Donovan crumpled to the ground with a loud grunt. The bullet transected his torso, entering in the front right shoulder at a high angle and exiting his lower left buttock. Multiple organs and swaths of tissue liquified as the 7.62x54R round punched its way though the Senator. His body twitched for several seconds as Kirilenko fussed with coaxing his cigar to life.

As the pool of blood formed around the old man's well tanned and wrinkled body, Kirilenko glanced up to the hotel room on the corner of ninth floor of the hotel. Turning his attention back to the remains of the one time used car salesman, he spat on the Senators Corpse and swore in Ukrainian.

He then turned and began walking back to his headquarters.

****

“Hell ya, get some!” shouted one of Saxon's men as the Apache's turned back to the east and disappeared from sight.

They watched as A10 Warthogs streaked across the sky from east to west, banking southward over the city center. Eight of the awkward looking aircraft, designed in the 1970s to defeat Soviet armored hordes, made pass after pass on the assembled group of targets laid before them. Some made runs with their gigantic Gatling guns belching long streams of depleted uranium rounds. The gun so powerful it actually slowed the forward momentum of the aircraft easily tore though the lightly armored vehicles. Smaller Humvees and Hilux's simply vaporized.

Others would drop seemingly benign pods that would split open unleashing hundreds of smaller bomblets. These bomblets would cascade down, like sand through across a pane of glass, devastating multiple football field sized areas. Entire acres of men were torn to shreds.

Although Crutchfield's and the Peacekeeper's vehicles were not aligned in a neat line, they were confined to several square mile area as they raced towards the havoc Saxon's men had created. They were close enough that the A10's could make efficient passes and erase cluster after cluster of men and vehicles.

In addition to bunching them closer together, Saxon's efforts kept the blocking force away from the camp to the north and it's air defenses. Miller and DeMetrie gambled that their enemy didn't have many air defense weapons at their disposal. As such, they would likely be deployed around the base that had been the original source of trouble instead of brought southward with the mobile forces on the prowl for Lowry and Reynolds.

That Crutchfield's commanders chose to take men out of the base to augment the blocking force was a bonus.

While the A10's weren't able to destroy the entirety of the enemy forces, they eradicated enough of them to deal the power of the enemy base fifteen miles north a large blow. With each pass of the tank busting aircraft, the operational abilities of the base were decreased.

As Kirilenko had noted, with Miller, nothing was as it appeared. Saxon's men weren't drawing the enemy away from Lowry and Reynold's escape route, they had been leading lambs to slaughter.

[The Stig]

Reynolds and Lowry were jolted to action by a sudden radio call from Captain DeMetrie.

The instruction to drive to the airport was unexpected. The instruction to take up a position off the end of one of the runways proved baffling.

“Orders are orders,” said Lowry as Reynolds once again fired the engine to the mighty Stryker and the diesel power-plant roared to life.

Mashing the accelerator, the Stryker once again lurched forward causing Lowry to slam the back of his head into the commanders turret.

“Dammit Reynolds,” he shouted. “I'm starting to think you're doing that shit on purpose.”

Smiling to himself, but not responding, Reynolds piloted the armored vehicle into the open field that separated them from the airport grounds.

Quickly covering the distance, the soon approached the chain-link fence that surrounded the small airfield.

“Think we should use the front gate?” asked Reynolds.

Chuckling softly, Lowry said, “nah. Let's use the Stryker gate.”

Mashing the accelerator to the floor, the Stryker accelerated swiftly, much as a sports car on the highway. Crossing over a small ditch the large vehicle bounced into the air and returned to the earth with a mighty crash. Shaken but uninjured, Reynolds continued to aim for the middle of a section of fence.

Rocking across a small blacktopped road, they again entered a grassy area before crashing into the fence. The galvanized and woven wire fence stood no chance and buckled out of the way of the large personnel carrier.

For good measure, Lowry belted out a rebel yell. “Yahhhhh hoooooo” as the Stryker knocked over a taxiway light and a pile of what used to be a small Cessna.

Coming to a halt near the end of the runway, Reynolds idled the engine, but left it running.

“Hotel Five Actual, this is Broadsword. We're at the runway,” Lowry announced into his radio with a mixture of excitement and curiosity.

The Captain's voice, displaying the slightest hint of amusement, “Standby Broadsword, your chariot approaches.”

“What in the hell is he talking about?” asked Reynolds.

“I don't know,” said Lowry, “but we've got company.

****

“Sarge,” blurted out of one Saxon's men. “Sarge. Did you see that shit. Fucking Apache's man.”

There was a sudden wave of relief as the men realized they had received a reprieve from a likely death.

Another solider asked, “Where did the Captain get Apaches? I thought there wasn't one within a hundred miles of here.”

“Listen up,” called out Saxon in his best drill instructor impersonation. “You ladies can hug an discuss your feelings once we're on the south shore. Until then, I suggest you gather up your gear and we get the hell off this riverbank.”

The celebratory mood was replaced with focused discipline as the soldiers responded to Saxon's instruction. Soon they had policed up their gear, gathered up the body of their fallen comrade, and prepared to return to their base for a warm shower and hot meal.

“Uh Sarge,” called out one of the three remaining soldiers. “We got a problem.”

Saxon turned to see what the solider was motioning towards.

The raft, which had gotten stuck on some partially exposed debris after the men hastily departed it, had not drifted out of the line of fire on the river's current. Instead it stayed nearly directly behind where Saxon and his men had engaged the enemy.

It was riddled with bullet-holes and stood no chance of supporting the weight of four men.

“Shit,” Saxon swore. “Ok, put Dobson's body on the raft and use what little air's left to keep it afloat. For gods sake, don't dump the poor guy in the river. The rest of us drop your gear and boots. We're going for a swim.”

****

Lowry watched as the Hilux vehicle entered the airfield grounds on the far side of the airport. Apparently not all of Crutchfield's men had been drawn into the killing fields closer to Cincinnati.

“You coordinate with the Captain, I'll take care of these hammerheads,” commanded Lowry.

“Copy that.”

Over the dull thud of the .M2 machine gun, Reynolds prepared to call the Captain. Glancing up to see the Hilux burst into flames, and bits of metal fly off the rear of the glorified pickup truck, Reynolds saw something else.

Something he couldn't believe.

Just out of the corner of the drivers position, Reynolds made out the darkened silhouette of a four engined propeller cargo aircraft as it approached the runway. Despite the dangers, Reynolds shifted forward and raised the driver's hatch.

As the fat, ugly, cargo plane passed over the roadway just outside the airfield, at the last second, the landing lights suddenly snapped on, bathing the runway, and the Stryker, in blinding white light.

“Cease fire,” called out Reynolds. “Cease fire!”. Lowry, responding to ingrained training, released the fire control and silenced the machine gun mounted above them. Reynolds had realized Lowry was shooting across the runway, and into the path of their rescuers.

The large plane touched down just after the beginning of the runway and with tires chirping, and smoke puffing, the pilot reversed the pitch of the propellers. The big C130 heaved under the sudden change and began rapidly decelerating. Both men watched as the rear clam-shell doors of the rear cargo area immediately began to open as the mighty aircraft slowed and approached the end of the runway.

“Ah, I think I see where the Captain is headed,” announced Lowry. “Tally ho driver.”

Reynolds, looking over at the large, black and completely unmarked aircraft, turned back to Lowry. “Say what white man?” he said in exaggerated jive.

“Drive this thing into the back of that plane,” said Lowry, pointing at the now fully open rear of the aircraft. Both men looked to see the cargo-master at the rear of the aircraft motioning at them.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Reynolds gunned the accelerator, and began aiming the Stryker right into the rear of the aircraft.

****

While audacious, to attempt to steal the Stryker for their own use, it was not going to be an easy task to get the C130 back into the air.

After the cargo-master guided Reynolds into the back of the aircraft, the crew began hurriedly securing the vehicle as best they could. While the parking brake had been set, the last thing anybody wanted was for the Stryker to pitch toward the rear of the C130 as it rotated for takeoff. The sudden change in the center of gravity would bring the plane hurtling back to earth.

While the men feverishly lashed the stolen Stryker into place, the pilots closed the cargo door, and increased the speed of the props only on one side of the aircraft to pivot it around. While not standard practice, they would take off back towards the direction they had landed; towards the south.

For what seemed to be an eternity, the plane sat at the end of the runway, engines running, waiting for the go-ahead from the cargo-master. Until he cleared them, they simply had to stay put.

The co-pilot glanced up to see another Hilux approaching the airport. This once came from nearly the same direction Lowry and Reynolds had approached. Moving slowly from right to left across the nose of the C130, but at the far end of the airport, both pilots watched in anticipation of what might happen. Should the Hilux open fire it's mounted machined guns would easily damage the aircraft and likely destroy it completely.

Into the intercom the pilot said, “Uh, chief. We've got company. We have to roll.”

As they anxiously awaited the cargo-master's reply, they watched as the Hilux slowed just outside the hole in the gate. While they had switched off the landing lights, there was no masking the four engined cargo plane a third of a mile across the airfield.

“Chief,” exclaimed the pilot again, this time with a degree of urgency in his voice.

The co-pilot watched as the Hilux inexplicably continued on down the road, slowly past the hole in the fence, and towards the main gate. The bizarre decision to go around to the main entrance would give the C130 a scant sixty seconds before the guns of the Hilux could be trained on them.

“We're gone,” declared the pilot. The co-pilot, not quite hearing the pilot turned to ask him to repeat himself. The movement of the pilot's arm as it pushed the quad mounted throttles forward, and the turbines turning the propellers suddenly increasing in pitch, made clear what had been said.

The co-pilot then yelled into the intercom, “Chief, we're moving whether you are ready or not.”

Already the big plane had started to shake side to side in syncopation with the engines. The pilot held the C130 steady with the brakes while the engines revved to full power. It was a smart move, he would need nearly every inch of runway to coax his heavily laden aircraft into the skies.

As the Hilux, still oddly moving slowly, approached the main entrance, it's headlights suddenly turned and dimly illuminated the darkened aircraft. The vehicle stopped suddenly, as if it's driver didn't know what to do.

Seeing this, the pilot released the brakes, allowing the C130 to lurch forward like a horse bolting from the starting gate. The big aircraft began gathering up speed, slowly at first, but with each passing foot, it increased.

“Hit the lights,” commanded the pilot. Obediently, the copilot flipped the bank of switches that powered the array of landing lights.

The aircraft had used up nearly half the runway and was approaching eighty knots. In an unloaded state, this would have been the bare minimum to allow flight. With the weight of the Stryker, they needed an additional twenty knots to generate the lift needed for safe flight.

The pilot, eyes glued to the instruments, couldn't see the Hilux as it rapidly accelerated, belatedly responding to the obvious threat before them. The co-pilot could see momentary flickers of light from the top of the cab, and what could only be the flash of the machine gun as it fired. Once again the crew of the Hilux had chosen poorly. The sudden rapid acceleration made aiming the machine difficult. Had they stayed in position, the machine gun could have torn the big plane to shreds.

With scantly a quarter of the available runway remaining, the co-pilot once again queried the cargo-master. “Last chance chief. It's now or never,” he called out.

Finally the cargo-master's voice called out from the belly of the mysterious C130, “You're good. Go. Go. Go.”

With that the pilot gentle pulled back on his yoke and rotated the aircraft. Sufficient lift had been generated and the plane's wheels separated from the earth. The cargo plane raced past the end of the runway, and the inept Hilux crew, as the plane passed through one hundred feet.

“Holy shit,” exclaimed the co-pilot. “Let's never do that again.”

The pilot, sweat dripping from his brow, and still fully engaged with climbing to a safe altitude, nodded in agreement. “Sometimes this secret agent stuff is a real pain in the ass.”

[bacpacker]

Good one!

[piranha2]

Just keeps getting better.

[The Stig]

“So now what?” whispered Mack as her and Miller stood in the middle of the Kirilenko's office.
Looking around the office, and evaluating the guards, all Miller could say is, “Gotta roll with the punches for now.”

Miller was right. Kirilenko had left them little room for action or escape. The two men stood in the middle of Kirilenko's massive office. Six men, all armed with automatic rifles, surrounded them. Standing at attention, and out of arms reach, all stood ready to shoot the prisoners if need be.

Not that there would be any need. Miller and Mack were both in leg chains and handcuffs.

The large office contained a large wooden desk at the far end of the rectangular room. Sundry file cabinets and related furniture were found on this side also. The rectangular conference table, also large and wooden, was pushed against one of the long walls, while the opposing wall was filled by four floor to ceiling windows. The main entrance to the office was on the wall opposing the desk, while a secondary entrance was found just behind it. The room was rendered dark and ominous by the dark woods, carpets and leathers that adorned the furniture.

Smiling back at the guards, but speaking under his breath to longtime partner in crime, Mack said, “looks like you're right. We are screwed harder than the town mattress.”

Despite their bravado and tough exteriors, both men flinched when the door flew open and Kirilenko stormed into the room.

“Gentleman!” he said exuberantly as he strode briskly across the floor. “My delay must be excused. A minor tactical situation needed attention.” Nodding at his soldiers they quickly looked at their team-leader before slowly shuffling out of the room.

Before the team-leader left, Kirilenko called out, “Please, unshackle our guests. No reason why they must be inconvenienced.” The team-leader again hesitated, but thinking the better of defying Kirilenko, he quickly complied. Again glancing back in his leaders direction he then saluted and left the room pulling the door shut behind him.

“It would seem, my friends, that some military activities on the edge of the city have caused my guards some unease. They became somewhat, disorganized, in my absence but that is no concern right now. What is a concern is our reunion.”

As he gave his small address, the General had placed his cigar in a thick ashtray and poured three small glasses of Vodka.
Miller and Mack were savvy enough to know they had no choice but to play along with Kirilenko's odd brand of civility. While they knew they could jump the older man, the six guards outside the door with automatic weapons would shoot them dead before they could do much else.

“A toast comrades,” said the General handing both men a glass.

“Permit me General,” said Miller playing the game. “To what do we toast?”

With the slightest trace of a smile Kirilenko said solely, “To the end of a colossal....” he searched for the word. “A colossal jackass I think you would say.”

Recognizing the men's lack of comprehension, he added, “Donovan is dead. He is of no consequence to us now.” He then flamboyantly raised his glass and drank it one quick gulp. Miller and Mack, still unsure of themselves, followed suit.

Kirilenko continued on with his strange performance. “He was not like us. He wasn't a warrior, wasn't part of our brotherhood. He had his chance for power and he squandered it. Squandered it!” he said with emphasis. “And on what? A woman?.”

“Don't equate us to you Kirilenko,” uttered Mack.

With a smile the General said, “on the contrary, we have much in common. We all follow orders and fight for the best interest of our countries.” He thought for a second and then added, “or for the politicians.”

Moving across the room, and speaking as if he were giving a collegiate lecture, Kirilenko said, “Face it comrades. Our masters use us for their gain, and we are sent to do their bidding. We work for different countries, maybe have different ideals, but we use the same methods and get the same results. In the end, we are brothers.”

Mack nearly spit on the floor, “brothers my ass. We don't kill innocents. We don't slaughter people wholesale.”

“Now my friend Mack, let us be calm. This is no time for arguing. Please, have another drink.”

With an indignant tone Mack continued on, “we don't slaughter villages. We don't kill subordinates. Hell, on this caper alone you sent teams to kill Miller's family, his friends at that farm. We are not butchers.”

Miller reached over and gently pulled back Mack's arm as a signal to calm down. “Mack, this may not be the best time for an impassioned speech.”

“Ah Miller, always the rational one. Please have a seat,” he motioned to several chair by the conference room table.

As the men shuffled to the seats, Kirilenko poured himself another Vodka without offering more to Mack and Miller. He let silence fall for many long seconds.

“Since the pleasantries are over,” he said with a frown towards Mack, “we must discuss some more uncomfortable subjects. I would be remiss if we didn't spend some time with you both to cover certain, sensitive matters. It will be cliché, but we can do this easily here, or move to perhaps more, conducive but uncomfortable surroundings.”

Recognizing plainly Kirilenko's intent, both Miller and Mack remained silent.

Sighing, Kirilenko stood and declared, “I had hoped we could afford each other more respect. As you wish, we can do it as you say, the hard way.”

****

Saxon was exhausted. After the long mission and the adrenaline of the firefight, he and his men had to swim across the width of the fast flowing Ohio River. Somehow they had managed it without anyone drowning or losing the body of their comrade.

As the four men, breathing heavy, legs and arms on fire, and covered in grime, emerged from the water, they stumbled into the shallow bank of the south shore. Amazingly they were relatively near the spot where they had entered.

One of the men bent at the waist and vomited. All of the men, lost in their own thoughts, panted and attempted to collect their breaths and a strange haze hung in the air. The expended cordite and explosives rained on Crutchfield's men had slowly moved south. They were in a cloud of the afterglow of destruction.

“Take five boys,” said Saxon to confirm the obvious. The reality was they'd likely rest for much longer. He had radioed Captain DeMetrie just prior to crossing back over the river. He found it odd that the Captain said their transport back to base would be delayed but right now he didn't give a damn.

He and most of his men were back safely to the south bank of the Ohio.

As time passed and the men began chatting more and swapping stories about the events of the past hours, a sense of relief passed through the group. They had done their jobs and completed their mission.

Finally one of the men asked, “so Sarge, how the hell do we get back to base. Cause I ain't walking.”

Saxon gave him a stern look. “You'll walk if you have too.”

“After all that? I'll just quit.”

Another man joking piped in, “you can't quit the Army dumbass.”

Saxon let the taunting go. It was time for them to unwind. After some time, and plenty of ribbing, he stood and declared, “Ok boys, looks like our ride has left us. We'll hump it back to base.”

“Damn Sarge, that's like fifteen miles.”

Saxon turned and prepared to encourage his man, in typical gentile military fashion, to start walking. Before he could, however, they were startled to hear the sound of a large diesel powered vehicle approaching at a high rate of speed.

“What the hell is that?” asked one man.

“That can't be ours. Damn, we don't have any rifles.”

Panic briefly started to overtake the small, weary, group of soldiers as they looked around for cover or even makeshift weapons.

“There's no way that can be one of Crutchfield's,” thought Saxon.

As the four men crouched in the darkness, as if that would provide them any protection, the silhouette of a large wheeled vehicle emerged out of the hazy darkness. Suddenly, a large spot-light flipped on, blinding them all. Reflexively, they raised their arms to cover their eyes and the panic blossomed into fear. They were unarmed, exhausted and nearly naked.

As the big truck, that glided to a stop twenty yards from them like a ghost floating over the riverbank, they could hear a heavy metal turret hatch flop open and make it's distinctive metallic clunk.

“You ladies need a ride,” came the familiar voice.

Saxon and his men looked at each other in confusion.

Flipping the light off to restore their vision, the picture slowly came into view. Saxon looked up to see Lowry sticking out of the hatch of a Stryker personnel carrier.

“The Captain thought you might need a lift,” said the prodigal solider with a smile. “And you lads better not get my new ride dirty.”

****

“Kirilenko,” called out Miller as the General reached to pick up the phone and summon the guards back into the office. Miller's adversary, somewhat surprised, looked up sharply. Miller continued, “you may be right, let's chat here for now.”

Smiling the General placed the receiver back in it's cradle. “Excellent. You do understand that others, with more particular skills, will need to join us at some point.” As Miller nodded his accent, Kirilenko guided his large frame back into his office chair and ran his hand across his bald pate. “But for now we talk.”

After taking a long draw on his cigar, and then exhaling, he asked, “we start easy, what was your mission?” A smoke cloud billowed into the air around him.

Miller answered simply, “to kill Donovan.”

Chuckling, Kirilenko responded, “It would seem I accomplished your mission for you.”

Raising his glass in a toast, Miller countered with, “For once, I appreciate your skill in such matters.” Both men laughed aloud in genuine amusement.

Turning to Mack, he asked, “and after you killed that irritating man? What was your next step?”

Shaking his head, Mack said softly. “I honestly don't know. Miller wouldn't tell me. If I had to guess it would be to kill you. Maybe even kidnap you and bring you back to face justice of some sort.”

“How about that Mr. Miller? Is that accurate?”

“Partially,” said Miller nonchalantly.

Clucking his tongue, Kirilenko replied, “That is a shame. I would have hoped Papa to be more creative. To have his two best agents come all this way, I'd like to think he'd have planned something more....interesting....than that.”

Miller tossed his head to one side. “Yea, well. Budget cutbacks and all. Besides, not every one can be a home run.”

Ignoring the quip, Kirilenko continued, “It would seem that Papa is interested in continuing our relationship. I would be correct in assuming you have other teams working in this area?”

Mack, Miller and Kirilenko were all experienced enough that there was no reason employing typical interrogation tactics. Should the General have broken out the thumbscrews his two adversaries would have gone into survival mode and shut down completely. So by asking straightforward, direct questions there was a chance that one of them could slip and share some sort of useful information.

Kirilenko would bring out the more physically demanding interrogation techniques later.

Mack responded, “no idea. My guess is yes, but you know Papa, he keeps it all compartmentalized.”

The questions continued for a short while and the answers continued to be vague and evasive. Mack did most of the talking, but Miller would chime in on occasion with share false, deceptive and mostly useless information. Kirilenko quickly sensed that the discussion had yielded all it would ever yield.

Standing abruptly, he announced, “I believe we need more traditional settings. We will move to a different location and bring in some new faces I think.” Tugging his uniform jacket into place, he walked to his desk and placed his cigar into the thick ashtray.

“While I enjoy our time together, I think there is important business at hand.” Sitting on the edge of his desk, facing back towards the main entrance to his office, he said, “unless you gentleman would like to share anything more substantive.”

Miller, as casually as a friend would ask for a beer, responded, “we've been doing this thing for years now. Grant me this Kirilenko; how the hell did you get the drop on me? You've been a step ahead of me since I left Wyoming. I mean damn, I must be slipping because no matter what I did your men seemed to know right where I was. Maybe I shoulda stayed retired.”

The room fell silent as Kirilenko contemplated his answer. He had never had Miller in his grasp before. There had been close scrapes before. Times where his men had corned Miller; even had him in custody but he'd always managed to escape before actually being under Kirilenko's direct control. They were all in uncharted territory.

Smiling, the Ukrainian replied, in an almost fatherly tone, “Miller, do not doubt your talents. I am not ashamed to say that your services would be most welcome in my organization.”

Looking back, Miller continued, “Thank you. I've always respected you also,” with faint smile. “I know I shouldn't admit that but there it is. We've had our times over the years haven't we?”

Nodding his head, Kirilenko softly replied, “Yes, we have.”

Shaking his head, Miller said with a chuckle, “I mean, I must really have lost my touch. You just had my number. It's probably just as good that this is the end.”

Shaking his head slowly side-to-side, Kirilenko replied, “do not take it so hard friend. Your skills have not eroded. Do not forget that you defeated every team I sent.” He waived his finger in the air to accentuate the point.

Mack softly asked, “Miller what are you doing?”

Miller, suddenly lowered his head. “That doesn't seem to balance it all out. I can't believe I'm saying all this.”

Kirilenko paused for a short while. As the sound of the wall clock clicking filled the office, he finally said, “Do not doubt yourself. I will confess a little secret. I did not do this all on my own.” He paused and leaned in towards Miller. “Your friend next to you is not as good as friend as you may think.”

[piranha2]

And the plot thickens.

[Stg1swret]

It would appear the body count is about o go up.

[izzyscout21]

oh snap.

[The Stig]

Silence hung in the air after Kirilenko's revelation. It was as if a bombshell had exploded.

After many tense seconds, Mack turned to Miller. “Miller, are you going to listen to this guy?”

Miller remained silent inducing Mack to continue on, “Seriously, after all we've been through? Com'on man, It's clearly a ploy by this schmuck. I don't know what sort of game he's playing, but it's a game.”

Miller remained silent.

“I'm telling you Miller,” said Mack, his voice rising an octave. “Don't let this bozo pull mind games with you.” Mack continued to look at Miller in a silent plea of support.

“Miller!” Mack exclaimed, clearly panicked at Miller's lack of response. “What the hell are you doing. Kirilenko is bluffing you. After all these years, all the times you've bested him and you are going to fall for one of the lamest tricks in the book?” The tension in Mack's voice was clear. They had played games like this before on various missions, but it was clear something was different in Miller's attitude.
Kirilenko leaned forward, mouth turned down in a frown as finally Miller spoke, “Too many things not adding up.”

Exasperated, Mack asked, “Like what?”

Miller remained silent, he stood and moved towards the conference table, away from the General's desk. Kirilenko and Mack's eyes remained trained on him as he moved. “Just too many things.” He shook his head from side to side as his voice trailed off.

Angry, Mack demanded, “you can't name a single thing. You really think this buffoon in an usher's uniform turned me?”

Out of the corner of his eye Miller saw Kirilenko's face turn scarlet red.

“Moscow. That Airforce contact. His cover was blown? Right before we're going to pull him out and his cover mysteriously goes up in smoke? That never sat right with me.”

Mack's brain, searching for answers, finally spit out, “Miller, that's a hundred years ago. I don't know how he got burnt. Maybe he panicked? Maybe he did something stupid? Maybe he tripped himself up? Beats the hell out of me.”

Still across the office, towards the main door, Miller simply repeated, “just not sure how he was discovered. And right at the last minute? Too coincidental.” Again his voice trailed off.

Arms outstretched, palms up, Mack replied, “Miller. For christ's sake, what the hell is wrong with you. That's history. Who knows? That Airforce guy was an amateur. He was in over his head and out of his league. Maybe he turned himself in?”

Indignant, Kirilenko fired back, “or maybe I bested Miller by turning you.” It was clear Kirilenko felt his accomplishment had been diminished as the conversation unfolded. He stared daggers at Mack, “He did not accidentally give himself up. He did not, as you say, panic. It was my hard work that convinced you to betray your country! It was I who turned Miller's friend against him! Right before that final day at the city park you and I met and I finally convinced you to turn!”

“We had our suspicions about the Airforce officer, but it wasn't until I turned you and you gave him over to us that we knew for sure.” He pointed at Mack as his eyes narrowed with anger.

Turning to Miller, Kirilenko continued, “Search his financial records, there will be a mysterious $100,000 appear shortly after that incident. You might also want to track down how he came across so many shares of stock in various Russian operated oil companies. I think you'll find ties to all sorts of Ukrainian trading companies that will easily be traced back to me.”

Silence filled the room as Kirilenko sat back on the edge of his desk, flush with pride for setting the record straight. For nearly a minute nobody moved or spoke. Sensing that it was time to once again restrain his two adversaries Kirilenko leaned over his desk and reached for the phone. “I think it is time we bring others into our conversation. This has gone on long enough.”

“Hey partner, I think you might not want to do that,” came a voice from the rear entrance to Kirilenko's office.

Mack and Kirilenko's both spun towards the door to see Dink, sound suppressed M4 rifle in hand, casually leaning against the door-frame.

Kirilenko looked deeply into Dink's eye's to gauge the seriousness of this strangers intentions. Sadistic butcher or not, he was smart enough to recognize that complying was likely the safest choice. There was no doubt that Dink would shoot him dead. He'd have to wait for a more opportune time to act.

Webb, walking into the office from behind Dink, crossed the room, careful not to walk between Dink and Kirilenko. As he reached the phone, a knife appeared, seemingly from nowhere. As he cut the cord he looked at Miller and smiled.

“Miller, what the hell is going on here?” demanded Mack. Confused, looking at Dink and Webb, “You two were off rescuing those soldiers!”

“Oh, I might have stretched the truth about that ,” said Miller, all traces of his portrayal of a doubt-riddled man gone. “There's a reason why I didn't want DeMetrie sharing any of his military plans in front of you. Besides not wanting you to tell anything to the bad-guys, I needed you to think Webb and Dink were out of the picture.”

As Miller stood he said, “Webb, secure the general. Dink, go barricade that other door.”

Kirilenko couldn't help himself and blurted out, “how...how did you get in?”

Miller quickly responded, “Never underestimate confusion as a cover.”

Mack started to ask for the second time what was happening. Miller turned towards him, eyes narrowing. “Say another word, raise the slightest alarm, and I'll fucking slit your throat right now.”

Mack, thinking the wiser of responding, said nothing.

“Put the General in his office chair,” he directed Webb. “Once you're done with him, tie up this fuckstick too, toss him on the couch. Make sure he can't make a damn sound,” he said jerking his finger towards Mack.

“So you were right about this guy?” asked Dink.

Nodding his head in affirmation, Miller said, “I've had doubts for a long time. Ever since Moscow but never had any proof. It really haunted me when I retired but I pushed it out of my mind. So when Donovan resurfaced this whole mess provided the opportunity to nail it down one way or another.”

“You knew?” exclaimed Mack before Webb gagged him.

“Like I said, I wasn't positive but our friend Kirilenko kind of removed all doubt didn't he,” said Miller with a smile. “You've gotten sloppy anyway,” he commented. “So it was a matter of time.” Kirilenko, in the background, sighed realizing the mistake of outing his turncoat.

“Oh,” said Dink. “By all means, do tell.”

“He really dropped the ball when he commented on that team that hit us at the truck-stop in Louisiana.”

Trying to say something through his gag, Mack attempted to refute the charge. Webb quickly cuffed him across the back of the head.

“He's going to say Papa told him. Little problem with that, I never told Papa. Between the truck-stop and meeting up with Mack, we only talked twice and neither time did I mention the truck-stop. Only way he could have known about it is if Kirilenko told him.”

“Ouch,” said Dink. Prodding further, “Come on, don't hold out on the juicy details”.

Smiling slightly as he adjusted the sling of the short barreled M4 rifle Dink had handed him, Miller continued. “He told us he convinced Kirilenko that he was local talent and was sent down as part of a team to kill us. Kirilenko, for all his faults, isn't an idiot. If he didn't already remember Mack from our time in Europe, he damn sure wouldn't trust a complete stranger on an important op to kill his longtime nemesis.”

Dink, pouring himself a glass of Kirilenko's vodka, commented, “makes sense. Go on.” He was clearly enjoying himself.

“It always sat funny with me that it was Mack who suggested the square we used to meet with the Russian Airforce officer I mentioned. Was rather insistent about it. Then, after we crossed the river earlier tonight, he immediately suggests another location, this Fountain Square place, and wouldn't you know it, Kirilenko's there in force. Georgi didn't have time to hang lights and put teams in place after we contacted Donovan. There was only ten, fifteen minutes tops. Kirilenko had to have known that's where we'd be before hand.”

Dink casually commented, “what are the odds that the one place Mack suggests just happens to be the prepared trap?”

Mack again looked up and attempted to protest and was rewarded with another smack from Webb.

“Tough guy is going to say it's all coincidence. Can't prove anything. Blah blah. But you want to know what the final hint was, the big clue?” asked Miller.

Quickly downing his vodka, Dink said, “Oh yes. Please share.” He then promptly poured himself a second glass while Kirilenko glared at him.

“Let me ask you genius,” he said directly to Mack. “If you had infiltrated Kirilenko's organization under the guise of being a gun-for-hire, and had the old guy fooled, how the hell did he know your real name? ”

Mack, thinking back over the conversation realized it immediately. Kirilenko had addressed him as Mack during their conversation. Kirilenko too recognized his blunder.

“So your routine was just baiting Kirilenko into admitting Mack was a double agent?” asked Webb. “Heck, allowing yourself to be captured and brought here, sending me and Dink away, the hole deal was just a big hoax.”

Nodding. “Yea. Even with all Mack's slip-ups I wanted it nailed down for sure for his treason trial. What better witness for the prosecution than the spymaster who turned him against his country?”

“Miller,” said Dink solemnly. “Remind me never, and I mean never, to piss you off.”

“Yea, well, took me long enough to figure it out,” said Miller. Glancing down at his watch he said, “Enough chit-chat. Webb, please notify our taxi-service that we'll be at the rendezvous in fifteen minutes and we need an extraction. We'll have two other passengers with us.”

Dink, standing and adjusting a piece of gear, asked, “We're not going back over in a damn boat are we?”

“Boat?” said Miller. “Hell no. Hammerhead over here probably ratted out all the nearby launch spots.”

As all the men rose, and Webb and Dink prepared to maneuver their captives, the doorknob to the office suddenly turned.

In near perfect unison Miller, Dink and Webb all said, “shit”.

[bacpacker]

Keeps gettin better

[larbhills]

Stig, I look forward to your updates every day. Man, you are good at this!

[Grumpy Old Man]

You have a serious talent for making plot twists! This is getting more convoluted and twisted with every new chapter! Keep them coming please.

[The Stig]

“Captain, it was a thing of beauty I tell you,” proclaimed Lowry. “I sees this Stryker sitting there and I say to my self, ‘self, you want that. Go get it’. Now you have to understand Sir, Reynolds here was reluctant to do anything. I mean, he doesn’t want to get in a jam over stolen government property and all.”

“Oh no, never!” called out a solider. Reynolds rolled his eyes.

The assembled group of men, DeMetrie, Lowry, Reynolds, Saxon and a host of others
huddled around the Captains desk in his office. They were dirty, tired and hungry but they couldn’t help but take a few minutes to gloat over the successful mission and return of two popular soldiers.

Reenacting the scene for all to enjoy, Lowry continued, “so I go creeping up to the back of the Stryker, tippy-toe up to the commander’s turret and there’s my foe. My nemesis! The man standing, well sleeping, between me and my new ride.”

Deadpan, Reynolds said, “So Lowry bored him to death with one of his stories.”

Ignoring the quip, Lowry continued. “So I present to you Captain DeMetrie, loyal leader of this band of merry mirth makers, a new set of wheels. I have to say Captain, swiping the get-away car was pretty inspired. I’m impressed.”

Smiling, DeMetrie said, “Can’t take credit for it. It was Miller’s idea. Actually pretty much all of tonight was Miller’s idea.”

“Where is he Sir?” asked Reynolds.

Looking at his watch, the Captain said, “by this point….aw…who am I kidding. Hell if I know. You know how he can do things sometimes.”

The stories, the banter, the good natured teasing continued for a good ten minutes while the men decompressed from the events of the previous few days. DeMetrie was proud of his soldiers. They had fought well, and hard, in an odd situation. He mourned the death of those he lost, as he always did, but overall they had banded together and were now all safely back across the river.

“Alright boys. Glad you’re all back but there’s a war on. Saxon, make sure all the teams are fed, rearmed and resupplied. We’ve got to get teams back in the field. Get with all the team-leaders and figure out how to get back on the rotation schedule. Report back when you’ve got it.”

Saxon nodded, and patting Lowry and Reynolds on the back left the office.

“The rest of you, go get cleaned up, get some shut-eye and report in to your team-leaders at 0:630. Good work tonight.”

As all the men shuffled out of the office, congratulating Lowry and Reynolds on their return, DeMetrie sat behind his desk. After the office cleared, he let out a long sigh.

“Boys, I’m glad you’re back safely. But next time you pull a stunt like this, I’m leaving your asses behind enemy lines. I’m getting too old to keep you two out of trouble.”

Lowry and Reynolds both mumbled a “Sir” in response to the comment.

“Ok, go get cleaned up, get some chow, and get your gear together. Wish I could give you more time, but we’ll go back at it in the morning. We’ll have to shuffle some men around to compensate for personnel and we’ll tackle that first thing.”

Both of his soldiers, men he truly loved, stood, and in best military form, saluted the leader that moved heaven and earth to bring them back.

DeMetrie was exhausted. He was right, there was a war in progress, and there would be no time to celebrate. The fight would continue. The raids would still be launched. Men would die as the country continued to rip itself apart. As he mulled over the personnel matters one fact kept nagging at him.

They’d dealt the strength of Crutchfield’s forces a significant blow. They would be weaker and less effective for sure. But the camp to their north, the one that had been the source of all their attentions, remained unscathed and operational.

****

First the knob to Kirilinko’s office door turned. Then it was turned, in rapid succession from right to left in a futile attempt to open it. The door had been locked from the inside. Loud yelling, in a foreign language, erupted as the General’s men realized something was wrong.

Within seconds, someone attempted to bash through the door, which only resulted in a deep bruise and sore shoulder. Dink has moved two large pieces of furniture across the opening to further prevent it from opening.

Turning quickly to his men. “Dink, you take the General, Webb take Mack. Make sure they can’t make a sound.”

As Webb and Dink began the process of rounding up their captives, and hoisting them too their feet, Miller dug though a small knapsack that Dink had brought along for just such a circumstance. Kirilinko’s eyes widened as he saw Miller pull the explosives out of the fabric bag.

Dink leaned forward, “No worries boss, that will hardly leave a mark.” While Dink chuckled as his humorous quip, Kirilinko frowned and was not equally amused.

“I assumed you barricaded the entrance to this stairwell so his men can’t get in,” asked Miller nodding towards the rear staircase. Papa had used his vast resources to secure plans to the building, which helped his men to craft their plan.

“It’s wrapped up tight,” replied Webb. “They can’t get into the stairway, but we can get out to the street.”

“Ok, go. Get the hell out of the building,” advised Miller. “If either one of them make a sound, or try to escape, blow their heads off.”

Dink and Webb nodded and forcibly manhandled their charges towards the door.

As the men on the other side of Kirilinko’s office recovered from their confusion, the pounding on the office door continued. It was clear they had recovered sledgehammers, or were using rifle butts to impact the door. While it was stout, it would not last long under the assault.

Calmly, Miller placed the small charge of explosives at the base of the shelving unit and other furniture Dink had carefully placed over the doorway. Pulling out a small length of wire from the device, he attached it to the side of one of the pieces. Once Kirilinko’s men breached the doorway, the wire would be pulled further from the explosive unit and detonate it.

Carefully flipping a small switch illuminated a red light indicating the charge was armed.

As the door continued to jump and bounce under the impacts, the stack of furniture had already moved nearly an inch. Miller carefully, and quickly, backed away.

Grabbing the knapsack, he retrieved another device, along with his rifle, and went into the stairwell of the rear entrance to Kirilinko office. Pulling the door shut behind him, he placed another explosive charge on the ground and then wedged the end of the wire detonator into the door jam. If the first unit failed, this unit stood as a backup.

Repeating the process of arming the charge, he grabbed up the rifle and began heading down the stairwell, two and three stairs at a time.

****

“Looks clear,” announced Dink as Miller rejoined the group at the bottom of the stairwell.

The small ten foot square area had two doors. One lead back into the first floor of the building and was locked. For good measure it also had a large board under the handle to pry it shut thanks to Dink and Webb. The other door, already open, led into the street. The bulb to the light hanging over the entrance, had been removed earlier in the evening leaving the area darkened.

Miller nodded. “Ok, get out of there then. I’m right behind you.”

As if to reinforce the direction, someone turned the knob on the door from inside the building into the stairwell. Without hesitation, a voice yelled out in Ukrainian before attempting to force this door much like the one leading into Kirilinko’s office.

“They know something wrong,” whispered Miller. “Go, get out of here.”

Without a word, Dink and Webb shoved their prisoners into the street.

Miller removed the final charge from the knapsack. Tossing the empty bag to the side, he placed the charge like the others.

When people face a sudden problem, an obstacle to their progress, it is human nature to suddenly focus on it. It becomes an obsession and the instinct is to solve the problem before moving on. It was this piece of genetically engineered human nature that Miller hoped would buy them time to escape. He figured in the confusion of the night, and without a strong hand at the control, Kirilinko’s men would follow this same pattern and focus on the locked doors.

All it would take would be one savvy leader, one man with experience, to send soldiers around the outside of the building and they’d all be dead.

He hoped he had gambled wisely as he exited the building and descended the short flight of stairs.

[The Stig]

Miller looked up to see Dink and Webb, along with their charges, disappearing around the corner of the building across the street.

They had to cover a number of city blocks to reach their destination, while transporting two prisoners against their will, though an enemy held city. Like much Miller attempted in his carer, this would not prove to be an easy task.

As he neared the middle of the street a jarring explosion rocked the top floor of the Federal Building that served as Kirilenko's headquarters. Glass and bits of masonry were hurtled though the air by the explosive Miller had left behind. It appeared that Kirilenko's men had breached his office.

“Hey, you!” yelled out a guard who rounded the front corner of the Federal Building just as Miller approached the edge of the same building where Dink and Webb had disappeared only seconds before. “Stop right there!” called out the man in some sort of surreal scene out of a B-grade Hollywood movie.

Miller, just before rounding the corner of the building, turned and fired his sound suppressed rifle. Three 5.56x45 rounds hurtled towards the guard and knocked him to the ground. Considering Miller's forward momentum and his snap response prompted by the sudden command, it was a striking feat of marksmanship.

Miller back-peddled and somewhat shuffled around the corner as he righted himself. Just as he did the explosive charge on the ground floor, the doorway he had just left erupted with a earsplitting roar. Despite being a relatively small charge the sound and fury were all directed through the small doorway and the concussive blast echoed off the myriad of surfaces of the surrounding buildings.

Stopping to get his bearings he spotted Dink waving at him from a doorway at the next block. Without hesitation, Miller ran towards the darkened entrance to a hundred year old building.

****

“Boy, we best get out of here fast. Colonel Sander's men,” said Dink jerking his thumb towards Kirilenko, “aren't going to be stymied by those little firecrackers for long.”

Miller nodded. “Did you set up the other distractions?”

Kirilenko and Mack both exchanged glances at the mention of distractions. In Miller-speak that was a polite euphemism for explosives. More succinctly put, Miller was a fan of using chaos to sow confusion and panic just long enough for him to accomplish whatever goal he may have at the time.

Webb, with a broad smile, replied, “of course.”

“Alright, hit them and then we roll. We've got less than ten minutes to cover six blocks” advised Miller. Without skipping a beat he added, “and you two best keep minding your manners.”

The anger in his eyes towards Mack was palatable.

***

The Universal Savings and Life building was a middle-aged building in the cluster of several hundred buildings that comprised downtown Cincinnati. There were many newer and more modern buildings that served as corporate headquarters and the lifeblood of commerce in the city. At the other end of the spectrum were the buildings that dated back to the early 20th and even late 19th centuries. Buildings that had been given extended life by renovations and improvements.

But like many cities in the industrial Midwest, there was a spate of buildings constructed in the era of Truman and Eisenhower and came to age before Kennedy was gunned down. These buildings represented the post World War II boom era in American history and stood as a monument to the commercial engine that propelled the world forward from the ashes of destruction.

The USL building, as the locals called it, was born in this time. At a relatively short nineteen stories, at least by skyscraper standards, it one stood as one of the taller buildings in the downtown during it's heyday. Gleaming in the mid-century architectural style when it first opened, the USL ultimately housed thousands of workers and a host of business, in addition to the flagship tenant, over the years.

In addition to all it's history, the USL building had one other feature that served Miller's purposes. It was an anachronism, a throwback to a different time in the history of corporate aviation.

The USL building, unlike any other building in the city, had a helipad.

[The Stig]

The command center in the ground floor level of Kirilenko's former headquarters was awash in confusion. The ranking officer was overwhelmed by the fast moving events and there didn't appear to be much hope of him getting ahead of the curve. What had started out as a slow evening turned into a fast paced swirl of shouted orders and quick responses.

After the men had returned from Fountain Square most of them retired to their makeshift barracks on the first floor. With the exception of the guards in Kirilenko's office most of the men stood down and tried to relax as best they could.

As the events changed, and it became clear that something had gone wrong in the bosses office, the men fought to catch up and react but it was already too late. The sudden explosions, on different floors of the building, including one inside of Kirilenko's office threw the entire security organization into a tail spin.

Within another minute, before the commander could recover and grab the reins of his command, reports of additional explosions, in several parts of the downtown area nearer the river, became flooding in from forward observation posts. What tiny shred of control the commander wielded melted away in an instant as simultaneous explosions demolished four different buildings, all of different types and construction.

Soldiers soon began moving to the rhythms of their own fears or experiences as the local commander floundered. What had been a calm and orderly command center hours before was reduced to yelling, shouting and near pandemonium.

Patrols would be sent out. Men from the regular army and even some of Crutchfield's men would augment Kirilenko's security staff to help secure the downtown area. Eventually order would be restored.

It would all be too late.

****

“How much further do I have to drag this guy?” complained Webb as they moved into the shadows of a building merely one block from the USL building. “He's fighting me all the way.”

Miller, without so much as a second thought, punched Mack in the face. Grabbing his shirt collar, he hissed, “If it were up to me your body would be in the river. I won't hesitate to end you, get it?”

Mack's eyes narrowed but wisely decided to remain silent. As the blood oozed through the fabric Webb had used to gag him, Miller leaned in closer. “All those lies. All those people you got killed. I don't know when you went bad, or how Kirilenko got to you, and don't really care. All I know is that one way, or another, you're going to pay.”

Kirilenko, oddly, had been compliant and made no effort to escape. It wasn't that he wasn't looking for an opening, he was. He was smart enough to recognize the right opportunity had not yet been presented. He would bide his time.

“Miller, I think we best get moving,” urged Dink after glancing at his watch.

Nodding in agreement, Miller quickly peered around the corner of the doorway where they had sought refuge. Looking up and down the street it was the tiniest movement that caught his eye . Sometimes it does not take large, flagrant movements to draw the attention of the human eye. Sometimes it is the little movements, fleeting as they may be, that give away one's position.

Further down the street, closer to the river, a patrol of Kirilenko's security force was moving across an intersection. Through coincidence they were en route to one of Dink's bomb sites and just happened to be crossing that particular intersection at that particular time. It was the cruelty of fate that led the patrol to set up camp in the intersection to await further orders.

And like soldiers the world over, they took advantage of the momentary break to grab a quick smoke or find an impromptu bathroom.

“Damn,” whispered Miller to himself. Their ride would be arriving in five minutes and they had to cross the street to the USL building.

The last thing they needed was an enemy patrol camped out on their doorstep.

[The Stig]

Despite the close proximity, there was a good chance they'd be able to cross the street unobserved. The building where Miller and his compatriots were hiding was slightly behind the crest of a shallow rise. Between the darkness and the geography they could possibly make the crossing without drawing the attention of the enemy group.

Miller was not a big fan of “possibly” but they were left with little choice. They could move back down the block but they had little time for course adjustments. They would plow ahead if they wanted to make the pickup.

Turning to the group he said, “We've got company down the street. Make sure you are in the clear and then make the crossing. Stay low, and hug the backside of the crest and you should be fine.”

Dink laconically asked, “you going to make a scene?”

Smiling, Miller replied, “Hell no. We don't have time for hijinks. You two go and I'll take up the rear. ”

Webb and Dink regained their purchase on their captives and prepared to guide or drag them along. Both of them reiterated how they'd be killed immediately should they try to signal the enemy.

Thinking for a few seconds, Miller turned back to Mack. “If you escape don't forget that I'll still have Kirilenko. I'll be able to spread whatever rumor about you I want to his men. You won't be able to sell your bill of goods to them and you damn sure won't be welcome in what's left of America. Think about that before you try to pull anything.”

Without giving Mack the chance to reply Miller turned back towards the street. Taking one last glance, turned back and nodded his head. “Ok, across you go.”

First Dink grabbed the General and shoved him out of the breezeway. Without saying a word the two men quickly crossed the darkened street. They moved quickly, with purpose, but without running. It seemed to take an eternity but they made the trek without incident.

As they cleared the sidewalk, and disappeared into the shadows of the entrance of the USL building it became Webb and Mack's turn to make the crossing. Miller nodded and soon the second pair began the same trip across the four lanes of asphalt and urban grime. Dodging an errant piece of trash that blew across the road, Webb quickly joined Dink in the darkness of the USL building.

Miller took stock of their situation. He checked the direction from where they had come to ensure they were alone other than the stationary patrol. There were no signs of any enemy activity other than the echos from blocks away. Glancing back towards the patrol they were stirring. The men were still milling around but they had all stood, were adjusting their gear and appeared ready to press forward towards some unknown objective.

“Why the hell did they have to pop a squat right there?” Miller thought to himself. Crouching down, Miller took a deep breath before stepping into the street. Putting one foot in front of the other he walked with the same steady pace as the other groups had. He didn't want to sprint and attract attention and clearly spending more time in the street than necessary wasn't a viable alternative.

Moving quickly and smoothly he was soon across the street and in the protective confines of the dark entrance to the USL building.

“I thought sure that was going to go tits up,” whispered Dink.

Miller smiled, “You clearly underestimate the skills of professionals such as ourselves.”

****

Giving themselves time to adjust to the darkened USL building, the men quickly consulted a floor-plan that Papa had provided. Having friends like him was proving useful.

Spinning around to survey the large and mostly demolished lobby, Miller said, “Looks like the stairwell is over that way, behind that elevator bank. Come on.”

Carefully navigating the debris and broken pieces of furniture, the men found the doorway leading to the stairwell. Once inside the stairwell, and shielded from being seen outside the lobby, all three men illuminated the structure with their torches. Seeing that the stairs were still in tact, they all breathed a small sigh of relief.

With the advent of war some buildings were torn to pieces by looters and rioters. Still others were destroyed by errant artillery shells and bombs. Surprisingly, a fair number of the buildings still were functioning and the businesses they housed fought to eek out a living. There was some chance the USL building may have been damaged or destroyed although all available intelligence suggested it remained unscathed.

But what the men didn't know about was the interior of the building. They very well could have found a wrecked staircase and no access to the heliport on the nineteenth floor rendering their carefully crafted plan a disaster. The stairs, wide and spacious, were mostly in tact. Some bits of the marble stair risers had been removed but otherwise they were fully passable.

“You boys ready for the StairMaster workout from hell?” asked Miller. We have about four minutes to climb nineteen floors.”

Dink and Webb sighed and began the process of fighting and dragging their captives up the staircase.

****

From the air the downtown area was mostly cloaked by darkness. With the advent of war the ambient lighting provided by buildings, advertisements and automobiles was gone and made for a startling level of darkness. Save the moonlight there was very little to be seen from the air, or at least from a low altitude.

Donning night vision goggles the pilots looked like space aliens as they piloted their craft along the river from east to west. The muted light inside the cockpit was just sufficient enough to illuminate their masks and provide a surreal hue to the scene.

The co-pilot, after flipping a switch, activated his intercom. “Looks like that repair is holding well. We'll be on target in zero three minutes.”

The young Lieutenant manipulated the controls to follow the undulating contour of the river as he labored to distinguish river water from the dark horizon though the green-gray tint of his night vision equipment. He kept the Blackhawk mere feet off the surface of the water to maintain the element of surprise as much as possible.

Replying back to his co-pilot, the Lieutenant said, “Look sharp everybody. Once the turn marker is called we'll do a steep climbing right-hand turn. I'll have to gain height in a hurry so hold on tight. We'll circle once to get a fix on the helo pad, dash in to get the troops, and get the hell out of dodge. Climb-out will be sharp and steep to the east at first, but as soon as we get enough momentum I'll dash back across the river. Copy?”

The co-pilot, crew chief and door gunner all affirmed the instructions.

Thinking to himself the pilot added, “and let's hope the bird holds itself together long enough to get us through this.”

****

As they reached the pre-planned marker where they'd bank to the north and climb, the co-pilot calmly but suddenly called out, “Marker, climb, climb climb.”

With as much speed as he could maintain without sending the craft spiraling into the ground below, the pilot smoothly yanked back on this controls and sent the Blackhawk skyward. To anybody watching on the ground it appeared as thought it leapt out of the river. The craft groaned in protest at the sudden change in direction but held together as it clawed it's way towards the heavens.

The co-pilot, monitoring the skyscraper's to their immediate right, noted, “good rate of climb. Keep it up. You'll clear those buildings.”

As they zoomed over the ruins of a baseball stadium the chopper continued to climb and roll out so that it was heading north. They were to the west of the USL building and would circle around it from the north side and come back in from the south to land. The Lieutenant would have preferred to proceed directly from the river to the helipad but the distance and height of the buildings surrounding it prevented this tactically sound plan.

With the addition of height, the view of the city changed dramatically. Visible were several fires that dotted the row of buildings just behind those facing the riverfront. One especially bright fire raged in a building almost directly north of them. They didn't know it, but the pilots of the helicopter had a birds-eye view of Kirilenko's headquarters, now fully engulfed in flames.

Although only those on the right side of the aircraft could see it, the fading embers of a host of armored vehicles were visible off to the east. Even under the oily smoke the flames of Crutchfield's armored force danced in the moonlight.

“You see the building yet,” inquired the pilot as he turned back to the east in a gentle rolling maneuver.

Glancing down from his vantage point, the co-pilot calmly replied, “negative.”

Several more seconds ticked by before the Lieutenant again asked about the status of the building. Again the reply was negative. Despite his effort to pick it out, and with the help of the memorized street map, the co-pilot simply couldn't find it in the darkness.

“We've cleared the eastern edge of downtown. I'm rolling back to the south,” advised the pilot. He had begun descending back towards earth again while completing the turn. If they judged everything correctly he could glide onto the landing pad at a gentle constant rate. This was much preferred to swooping down at a high rate of speed. In addition to the stress of slamming into the helipad, there was always the risk of impacting an unknown obstruction. Blasting into the landing pad only increased those odds.

The seconds eased by in excruciating agony. The plan rested on finding the building and zooming in for a quick landing. They could ill-afford making another pass.

“Come on guys, find the damn LZ,” instructed the aircraft commander.

The crew-chief had joined in the search and with the aid of night vision goggles, much like the co-pilots, he scanned the tops of the buildings. Looking down at the buildings proved to be a much different view than the non-nondescript street maps. The lack of light only added to the difficulties. Even counting the buildings was proving fruitless.

“I'm about to turn back to the west. I need to roll out somewhat on target and I don't want to make another pass.”

As he smoothly moved the control stick to the right, and continued to lower the cyclic control, the pilot was greeted with further silence.

“I got nothing,” announced the crew-chief.

Dejectedly, the co-pilot responded similarity.

Frustrated, the pilot ordered, “I'm rolling out back to the north in about fifteen seconds. Find the damn LZ.”

Finding the round pad, in the sea of buildings, at night, from a moving helicopter, was proving to be too much for the young crew.

As he turned back to the north, and continued to flair as low as he dared, the pilot called out in a flat tone, “We'll make a pass to the north and hopefully find it.”

Both he and the co-pilot were shocked when rifle fire erupted below them.

[The Stig]

“Holy shit,” exclaimed the co-pilot as the 5.45x39 rounds whizzed past the chopper while it descended into the darkness.

Pulling up on the cyclic control, while banking back to the right, the pilot attempted an evasive maneuver rather than continuing to descend towards the unseen landing zone. As the chopper banked the left side gunner briefly saw the muzzle flashes of the patrol that had planted itself in the intersection near the USL building. He let fly with a short burst from his machine gun in an attempt to disrupt the group and prevent them from continuing to shoot at their aircraft.

Because the enemy troops were at street level, the chopper quickly disappeared from their sight as the tall buildings blocked their vision.

“Everybody ok? Anybody hit?” called out the Lieutenant. The crew all murmured in response.

After a second the co-pilot called out, “It’s night, we can’t find the LZ and now there’s enemy troops in the area. Abort this thing and head back.”

The Lieutenant concentrated on flying and began to circle the chopper back around to make another pass and attempt to find the USL building.

“Did you hear me? This is a no-win. Come on,” urged the co-pilot a second time.

Without looking, and keying the microphone so only the co-pilot could hear, the Lieutenant calmly replied, “You’re right, this sucks and I’m scared too. But those are our troops out there and we’re not going to leave them behind. I’m not going to let them die because things got hard. We will find them and we will bring them home safely. If we don’t see the LZ this time, we’ll keep making passes until we do. You can either continue to co-pilot this aircraft, or you can get out of the bird….immediately.”

The Lieutenant hopped his co-pilot couldn’t see his hand shaking on the control stick.

Fact was he was terrified too.

After several long seconds the co-pilot finally responded, “Roger that. I’ll give you the call when to bank for the second pass.”


****


Miller and his group had just cleared the doorway leading onto the roof as the chopper circled searching in vain for the USL building. They had been navigating across the dark rooftop, heading towards the helipad, when the Blackhawk began it’s decent into darkness and the patrol open fire on it from the street below.

“Damn,” called out Dink as the chopper rolled to it’s side and banked sharply away from the rifle fire. “That’s gonna throw a kink in things.”

Even from the street below, the men could hear the enemy soldier’s as they excitedly responded to the brief encounter.

Miller reacted first, “They’ll be calling in for reinforcements. Dink, go to the edge of the building and keep their heads down. Webb, radio DeMetrie and let him know there’ll be a light beacon on the pad for their next pass. I’ll light up the pad so we get that chopper in before more enemy get here.”

Dink nodded and handed over control of his prisoner to Webb. As he navigated towards the short wall that represented the edge of the building, Webb called out, “For Christ’s sake don’t take a header over the edge.”

As Miller disappeared down the fifty-foot walkway to the helipad, located on the southwestern corner of the roof, Webb got to work contacting DeMetrie.

For his part, Dink got to the edge and took up a firing position that provided access to the street below. Peering over the lip of the building he involuntarily blurted out, “whoa” as the sudden change in perspective caused a momentary bout of dizziness. Regaining his composure he carefully steadied his rifle and started to pick out targets in the dimly lit street. While it was dark, and the street nineteen stories below, he was able to make out just enough movement to fire off successive rounds from his suppressed rifle.

Slowly, only a round at a time, he began peppering the street with enough bullets to disrupt the enemy soldiers.

He hoped it would be enough.


****

“Turn north now,” called the co-pilot as the big chopper gracefully banked back to the north. They were preparing to make another pass in hopes of finding the elusive landing pad. Using the same approach as before, they would head north while descending and progressively slowing the Blackhawk. If they found the LZ a slight adjustment to the controls would allow them to quickly land.

The pilot focused intently into the dark. Besides wanting to avoid crashing into a building, he tried to pick out the enemy soldier’s below while scanning for any signs of the landing pad in the distance.

He was so focused he didn’t hear the radio come to life.

The co-pilot reached over and physically tapped his arm.

“There’s going to be a light beacon this time. With the NVG it should light up like a Christmas tree” yelled the co-pilot into the microphone.

Simply nodding in acknowledge the message, he keyed the intercom, “Look sharp. Gunners do what you can but we’ll fly right over the enemy. We’re going in and should find the LZ straight ahead. We’ll make the pickup and haul ass.”

Straining out into the darkness the pilot looked for the beacon. Before he could focus his eyes, the copilot excitedly called out, “I have the beacon! I have it. Straight ahead about eight hundred yards and just off the nose to the right.”

“I see it,” calmly replied the pilot as he began what he hoped would be the final decent onto the top of the building.

****


Like a scene out of any number of Hollywood movies, Miller stood in the middle of the helipad structure, and with two flashlights slowly waved them above his head. Crossing his arms with each motion, the light beams were as clear as day to the pilots above. The noise of the rotors had been increasing as the chopper moved closer to them.

Glancing down and to his left he could just make out Dink as he continued to fire at the soldier’s below.

“Dink,” loudly called out Miller. “As soon as that thing starts to flare for landing, bust ass and get over here.”

Without looking back Dink replied, “Don’t worry. You ain’t ditching my ass this easy.”

Glancing back towards the chopper he could see that it was now over the first row of buildings facing the river. They were about five hundred yards from the building and the noise of the rotor blades suddenly increased in volume. The deep, pulsating thump reverberated off the buildings and soon masked the sound of the rifles below.

Making sure the pilot had a good bead on them Miller glanced back and his heart sank.

Keeping one flashlight pointing straight up, he pivoted slightly and used the other to illuminate the scene.

Webb lay sprawled out on the ground, face down and not moving. Kirilinko knelt next to him, with arms still tied behind his back. He looked Miller directly in the eye as if to communicate he was not a threat.

The General was frantically yanking his head back towards the stairwell.

Mack was nowhere to be found.

[bacpacker]

Man your cranking em out this week. Nice work I must say!

[The Stig]

As he knelt over Webb’s body, Miller wasn’t sure what to expect.

In the darkness he felt for a pulse in his neck. His hand shook slightly as he felt for the artery that would announce whether Webb was alive or if Miller had gotten another one of his friends killed.

As he scanned the rooftop for any sign of Mack, Miller sought out any sign that his friend was alive. With great relief he felt the pulse, surprisingly strong, as it coursed through Webb’s veins.

Rolling his friend over, and using his flashlight to inspect his body he could see no wounds or signs of serious injury. Pulling Webb upright, Miller continued his brief inspection until someone bumped against him.

Startled, he turned to see Kirilinko who was clearly trying to get his attention. Without thought Miller removed the gag over the General’s mouth.

Over the roar of the approaching helicopter, Kirilinko yelled, “The stairwell! He went down the stairwell. You friend will be fine but Mack has his rifle.”

Looking down to confirm the rifle was missing and not sure of Kirilinko’s motives, Miller glanced back towards the stairwell. Seeing no sign of Mack he turned back to check on the Blackhawk. It was nearly on top of the helipad, seconds from touching down. Its wheels strained to reach out and find purchase on the worn concrete surface.

As Miller struggled to lift Webb’s body he was quickly assisted by Dink. Not realizing what had been happening behind him Dink had continued to fire at the enemy forces below. As he turned to run to the chopper he saw the scene unfolding before him and quickly realized something was wrong.

“What happened?” yelled Dink over the thunderous pounding of the rotor blades. He took Webb’s unconscious body from Miller and prepared to drag his friend to safety.

Yelling back, Miller replied, “Get him on the chopper. Then come back for Kirilinko. I’m going after Mack.”

The massive rotor blades kicked dirt and debris into the air as fully settled onto the landing pad. The tail wheel barely fit onto the rear of the large round pad, and much of the tail and rotor hung over the edge, exposed to enemy fire.

Looking his friend in the eye, Dink said, “Let it go boy. He’s screwed without Kirilinko around. Last time old Ivan’s men saw Mack he was a prisoner.”

“He’s not getting away again. I let him go for too long already.”

As the crew chief from the Blackhawk approached them, Dink merely nodded and began hauling Webb to safety. Fighting the downdraft from the chopper, and Kirilinko’s bulk, Miller pulled the General to his feet.

He was surprised when Kirilinko yelled, “Your friend is right. Nobody knows he’s turned except me. My men will shoot him on sight.”

“Come on sir,” yelled the crew chief. “We took hits on the way in and a bunch of badguys were running towards the building from the north side. We have to get out of here.” The urgency in his voice and his gesturing towards the side of the building made clear he was not overemphasizing the danger.

As if to punctuate the warning, the machine gunner on the left side of the chopper fired a burst from his machine gun. Amazingly, he briefly saw some enemy soldiers far below despite the odd angle and the darkness. The machine gun burped out a stream of lead in a low rumble that was audible over the rotor blades.

Before Miller could push Kirilinko to the crew chief the General yelled, “There will be another day when you can finish this battle Miller. Now is not the time.” He looked directly into Miller’s eyes as an uncle might to a nephew.

Miller commanded the helicopter crewman, “Go, get him on board” as he turned Kirilinko over to him.

Turning back towards the stairway, Miller weighed his options.

While his desire was to hunt down his traitorous partner, and kill him, he quickly realized he had no real options. Chasing after Mack invited walking into an ambush. With enemy soldiers likely flooding into the building, his chances of staying alive long enough to find Mack were getting slimmer by the second. Worse yet, the chopper sat as a giant target atop the helipad. Leaving it hanging only exposed it to more danger.

Looking one last time at the stairwell, Miller realized his nemesis was right: he’d have to fight the battle another day.

He turned and ran to the chopper.

***


“Hold on,” announced the pilot as the crew chief gave him the signal to depart. After glancing back to ensure he had all the passengers, he continued, “This is going to be interesting.”

Revving the turbine engine to full power, he paused briefly and smoothly pulled up on the cyclic control. As the chopper first lightened, and then gradually climbed into the air, the engines ran to max power to lift the mechanical beast and it’s additional load off the USL building.

As the Blackhawk climbed high enough to begin forward flight, the scene below was quickly apparent to those in the cockpit. A mass of soldiers and several Humvee’s had gathered at the base of the building. Some of the troops were firing upwards, while some stormed into the USL lobby in a belated attempt to reach the captured General.

“Oh shit,” called out the pilot as tracers whizzed by the cockpit of the helicopter.

His consternation was further heightened when tracers soared by his windshield from right to left, instead of from below. The co-pilot quickly yelled out, “targets starboard side! Three o’clock in the doorway.”

Somehow a couple of Kirilinko’s men had raced up the nineteen floors in time and were firing at the chopper as it rose from the helipad and strained to gain momentum. They had arrived shortly after Dink fired his first shot and climbed the stairway in record time. Fortunately for Miller and his men, the heavy exertion caused the soldier’s aim to suffer. In their panic they fired from the hip and mostly missed the chopper.

None of the men considered the consequences of shooting down the chopper with their General inside it.

As the Lieutenant lowered the nose and allowed the Blackhawk to spring forward, the crew chief unleashed a long burst of machinegun fire towards the muzzle flashes of the enemy soldiers on the rooftop sending them scattering for cover. It was enough distraction to eliminate the danger from the rooftop.

“You’re clear of the building, roll starboard!” yelled the co-pilot as several rounds whizzed though the thin skin of the chopper.

Without responding the Lieutenant deftly moved the controls and sent the chopper rolling to the right while climbing. While the bullets and glowing tracers attempted to follow his aircraft, they quickly stopped when the buildings blocked them from view of the soldiers on the ground.

For nearly thirty seconds the chopper flew due east while it gathered speed. They were well clear of the downtown area before the pilots breathed a sigh of relief and turned their aircraft back towards the south.

They flew in silence as each man contemplated what had just transpired.

[bacpacker]

Large Pucker factor in the episode! Great story.

[izzyscout21]

when does the set come out in a hardback edition?

[The Stig]

“Devil Dog!” called out Papa as he strode across the brightly illuminated hanger.

The Blackhawk had flown directly to the remnants of the Greater Cincinnati International Airport. Mostly destroyed in the fighting that had taken place over the past few years, one runway was still operational as was one small hanger tucked into the back corner of a maintenance area.

Though his considerable connections, Papa had an advance team flown into the airport to power up the hanger, and then flown in himself on a commercial airliner that he had acquired years ago as a personal aircraft.

It was almost like a scene out of a movie: the twin engine jet, in ambiguous corporate livery, the four heavily armed men, with automatic rifles that stood in a semi-circle at the foot of the stairs. Despite the war that ravaged the area, floodlights bathed the hanger in bright white light. All of it emphasized that Papa wielded a considerable amount of power.

The Blackhawk had landed just outside the hanger, and while Miller, Dink, Webb and the General shuffled inside the hanger, the crew waited around the chopper, preforming post-flight tasks.

Without hesitation Papa walked directly to Kirilenko, who was still restrained, hands behind his back. “Hello Gegory. It's been a long time.” A smile crossed his face. The two men, both of immense physical proportions eyed each other up and down for the first time. After years of squaring off from across the world the two combatants took in their opposite number in person for the first time.

After several seconds, Kirilenko said, “Papa, it has been too long. It would appear Miller has gotten the best of me this time. Once again I have underestimated him.”

Miller, standing to the side, stated, “you being in our country made the logistics of nabbing you a little easier.”

“Don't take it hard Gegory,” said Papa. “it's not like you haven't gotten some over on us before.” He was clearly referring to Kirilenko's successfully turning Mack against his employer and country.

“Yes,” said the General. “But he is of no use to me now.”

Papa turned and nodded to the four men at the stairs of the jet. Without hesitation, and in unison, they walked forward and prepared to escort the General onto the aircraft.

Turning to Miller, Kirilenko looked deeply into his eyes. “I've always respected you Miller.”

Miller nodded but said nothing in reply. With that the armed guards politely, but without any question as to who was in charge, escorted the General onto the aircraft.

“What the hell was that all about?” asked Dink. “The man's been treating you like an old lost army buddy all night.”

Miller, watching Kirilenko disappear inside the airliner replied, “I don't know. He's up to something.” Turning to Papa, Miller continued, “He's got something big planned. No idea what, but he's playing some sort of game.”

“No worries Devil Dog,” replied Papa. “He's not going back to DC for a while. We're going to have a chat first. The man has a lot to answer for and I want it before those nimrods in Washington come in and screw everything up”

“That's good. He didn't make a single effort to escape or fight back. We had the drop on him, for sure, but it's almost like he wanted to be captured.”

Dink, interjected, “Miller, I can't believe you orchestrated that entire thing. I always knew you were a cheating, conniving, carpet-bagger but that was something.”

With a smile, Miller said, “Papa, may I introduce my friends Dink and Webb.”

“Excellent!” proclaimed Papa. “You boys have really helped out on a couple of big jobs. Let me know if you're ever looking for other work.”

Deadpan, Miller said, “Prepare yourself, this is the start of his recruiting speech.”

“Nonsense,” said Papa with a smile. “Seriously, good work and thanks for helping out Miller here. He needs a little special assistance now and again.”

“Yea,” replied Dink as he shook Papa's hand. “I've noticed that he needs us around to keep him out of trouble.”

“Alright, I've got to get back to the farm and get to work on Kirilenko,” announced Papa. “Miller, thanks for all this. I know it was hard.”

“I'm glad I know for sure about Mack,” replied Miller as he shook the big man's hand.

Leaning in, Papa asked, “You sure I can't get you to come back to work for me?”

Ignoring the question, Miller turned as Captain DeMetrie approached the group. He had driven Webb's truck, with all their gear, to the airport and planed to ride back to his headquarters on the Blackhawk.

“Papa,” said Miller, glad for the interruption. “Let me introduce Captain Mike DeMetrie.” Turning to the Captain, he continued, “Mike, this is my old boss. He helped line up some of the fireworks for us tonight.”

Reaching his hand out, DeMetrie said, “Many thanks Sir. I'm not sure how Miller can call A10's and Apache's mere fireworks, but I appreciate the help. Got my men back safely and kicked a big piece of Crutchfield's ass in the process.”

“Captain,” said Papa with a smile. “Any friend of Miller's is a friend of mine.” As if he suddenly remembered something, he asked Miller, “is this the same Captain DeMetrie that helped you down south?”

“One in the same. Truth is he carried the load while I ran around playing my games,” replied Miller.

With a loud laugh, Papa said, “Captain, if you ever get tired of the regular Army you've got a job waiting for you.”

“Thank you Sir. I think I'll stay with big green for now. They offer so many benefits. I'd hate to give up the fancy accommodations and fine dining.”

Papa's loud voice boomed out over the hanger. “Have Miller explain how to contact me if you need a favor.”

Looking at his watch, Miller's boss realized it was time to go. “Good work everybody. This is a big catch that means a lot both to the war effort and to me.”

Papa shook everyone's hand and said his goodbyes.

When he got to Miller he wrapped his big bear-like arms around his shoulder and guided him away from the group and towards the airplane stairs. “Don't blame yourself for Mack. He never could deal with being your second fiddle, that's probably how Kirilenko got to him.”

“You know Papa,” said Miller, “I've replayed all those conversations and times together over and over once I retired. He'd said things before that should have tipped me off that he wasn't happy. We were so focused on the missions that I don't think I heard what we was trying to tell me.”

Like a father would counsel his son, Papa turned to face Miller. His tone softened, “Miller, you one of the best at what you do. One of your strengths is not getting distracted by unimportant details and staying focused on the mission. Your job was the mission and that's what comes first. I failed Mack, that's my responsibility, not yours.”

Nodding his head Miller offered, “Not a lot of room for friends in that equation is there?”

Shaking his head no, Papa relied, “no room at all. Its hell, but its the job.” Papa paused for a moment and then asked, “you sure you don't want to come back to work?”

Miller smiled. “You've got a plane to catch.”

****

The men all assembled around the Blackhawk and engaged in small talk until the screaming engines made conversation impossible. Soon, the aircraft taxied off to the far runway and then men stood around, like kids waiting for a train to pass, while it prepared to take off. The first signs of daylight were streaking across the eastern horrizon.

As the big jet containing Papa and Kirilinko rotated for takeoff, and sprang gracefully into the night air from the distant runway, DeMetrie turned to Miller.

“Thanks for all your help. Lowry and Reynolds send their love.”

Shaking the Captain's hand, Miller replied, “them getting lost turned out in everybody's favor. I don't think we could have pulled this off without the distraction created by rescuing them. Are they liking their new wheels?”

The Captain replied, “Like kids on Christmas. Lowry says they're going to paint shark's teeth on the front and take it drag racing in the morning.” After thinking for a second he added, “shame they don't realize I'm making that Stryker my command vehicle.”

“What's the future look like for you and your men Captain?” asked Dink.

“For now we hold the line here. Crutchfield's been quietly feeding in more men to the area, and the Peacekeepers are a wild-card. Tomorrow we're back to running ops and trying to keep a full on invasion from brewing.”

“Hell of a task Sir,” said Webb.

“Definitively not easy. All the real fighting and material has moved eastward. I have to beg borrow and steel every little scrap of equipment and manpower I can get. But in the end it's all part of the adventure we signed on for right?”

“Take care Mike,” said Miller holding out his hand. “You guys stay safe out here.”

“Back to the shadows Miller?” asked the Captain.

With a passing smile, Miller replied, “it would appear that I keep getting dragged back into the thick of things doesn't it?”

“Maybe someone is trying to tell you something?” stated the Captain.

****

The atmosphere deep inside Crutchfield's headquarters was a strange mixture of luxury and wartime operations. In true Liberal fashion, Crutchfield had decorated his offices in lavish appointments despite the economic suffering of those around him. The rich leathers, deep hued woods, polished stainless steel and never ending food contrasted sharply with the plight of the people who by choice or circumstance resided inside the borders of his attempt at a new empire.

It was mid morning as he reviewed briefings on the state of his rebellion. Peering though his spectacles, he read line by line and absorbed the information. He was expected at a meeting with his generals any minute, but he found the flood of information oddly relaxing.

There was a knock at the big oak door, and frowning he called out for the person interrupting his reading to enter.

The aide covered the somewhat considerable distance to his desk, and stood, waiting to be recognized like a school boy in front of the principal.

With a sigh, Crutchfield tossed his glasses on the desk. “Yes, what is it?”

“Sir, there's an urgent bulletin from the Western Department,” announced the Major. He was one of hundreds of aides to Crutchfield and like most of the others, the leader of the rebellion didn't bother to learn his name.

“Go on,” he said clearly annoyed. As the Major began to speak Crutchfield leaned back in his chair.

“Mr. President, it would appear Senator Donovan has been killed and General Kirilenko has been captured. Our commander in the field reports that a small group of men, possibly commandos, somehow infiltrated Kirilenko's headquarters and kidnapped him. He also goes on to report a number of military items which have already been passed along to the proper commanders.”

Taking in the news, Crutchfield thought over the information for a few seconds. As the Major stood before him the silence soon became uncomfortable. It was clear that Crutchfield took great delight in making others uncomfortable.

Finally looking up he curtly dismissed the Major.

Waiting for the man to finally pull the large door to the office closed Crutchfield resumed reading over the reports and documents.

It was as if the information didn't effect him or his plans in any way.

****

They had been driving for what seemed to be a lifetime. They had to detour far to the south to avoid Illinois on the trip back to Webb's ranch. All of the men would be happy to return to their home and families.

Much of the ride had been made in silence as each man contemplated the events that had transpired. Occasionally conversations would boil to the surface, much of them related to improving security at the ranch or replaying details of their most recent adventure.

Somewhere in Kansas Dink finally declared, “Miller, you are a ruthless bastard. You really set all that up?”

From the backseat Miller muttered, “haven't we been over this already?”

Webb, who was in the passenger seat, apparently asleep, stated, “go with it, he won't shut up unless you indulge him.”

“Come on son. I know you're just a Yankee but that was pretty damn impressive.”

Sighing, Miller pulled himself upright in the seat. “Yes, that whole thing was a charade to draw out Mack, prove he had flipped and grab Kirilenko. That we eliminated Donovan was icing on the cake.”

Webb added, “and you helped DeMetrie get his men back and take a bite out of the enemy forces.”

After several seconds of silence passed, Dink prodded further. “You are really leaving a brother hanging here Miller.”

Miller continued, “Like I said before, I had my doubts about Mack but no proof. We'd worked together for a long time before Moscow so I didn't want to believe it myself. Once I retired and could think it over my doubts grew but what was I going to do about it?”

“I could see where that'd eat at a fella” stated Dink.

“Yea. Then this war came along and we've all been dancing around trying to stay alive. Next thing you know, a hit squad is blowing the shit out of Webb's living room and we found out Kirilenko is in the states. That's when it all came together. That opened the door for a real opportunity to nab him. We had to get to Donovan anyway to stop him so grabbing Kirilenko in the process only made sense.”

Pausing to take a drink out of his soda, he continued, “Papa already had Mack infiltrating Kirilenko's organization. He wasn't convinced Mack was dirty so he figured Mack would either do something to out himself, or under the assumption I was wrong, he'd have a solid asset. But basically he was giving Mack rope to hang himself.”

“Which he did,” said Webb. “So when Mack showed up at that rest stop, what was his endgame? Was he going to kill you?”

Letting out a deep breath, Miller replied, “Don't know. His hand was forced at the rest-stop either way. Papa would have a hard time buying that we'd been taken out like that. So Mack had to kill his team to make us think that was part of his plan. I think from there he was just making it up as he went, and followed my lead while he tried to maneuver me into Kirilenko's trap.”

“How did you know Kirilenko wouldn't just whack you out?” asked Dink.

Chuckling, Miller replied. “And pass up tormenting his nemesis? Nah, that was too big of opportunity to pass up. I was more anxious that Donovan might do something stupid, but I was reasonably confident that Kirilenko's would jump at the chance of capturing me while retaining Mack on his payroll.”

“And probably send Mack back to report the failed mission, the death of one John Miller and continue to feed Kirilenko information,” stated Webb.

“Yep. Kirilenko was just holding Donovan's hand while Crutchfield figured out what to do with him. Once Donovan was out of his hair he'd set up operations as normal and what better than an asset high up in Papa's organization to help him reverse his fortunes and find glory in America?”

“And Mack was in tighter than a tick on a dogs balls,” announced Dink.

“Classy,” groaned Webb.

Reflecting briefly, Miller said, “I really don't think Mack had much chance to pass along anything vital since Moscow. Kirilenko is a smart cat. He wouldn't have gone to that well too many times.”

Silence fell again as the miles ticked by and the rhythm of the road lulled them to sleep.

Hours later Dink finally broke the silence. “Here's what I can't figure.”

“Oh boy, here we go,” said Webb with fake disgust.

Ignoring Webb, Dink continued, “back at Kirilenko's office, what would you have done if me and Webb couldn't sneak into his office and save the day?”

Webb thought for a second before adding, “your chestnuts would have been on an open flame for sure.”

Miller, burst out laughing. “I was just playing the odds.”

“How do you figure?” asked Dink.

“Really Dink, you have to ask why I gambled that a redneck would know how to break into a building and lurk in the shadows while someone else did the work?”

As Webb spit his soda on the dashboard, Dink fumed in the front seat. “Southern Gentleman never get the respect they deserve.”

Miller leaned back in his seat and drifted off to sleep.

[The Stig]

So there you go folks. Hope you enjoyed Vengeance because I've enjoyed the creating the story. I can honestly say I've really had fun with this one. I think Awakenings has been my favorite entry so far, but this one was up there.

I feel that this was my most complex and involved entry due to the number of characters and the story line. We've bid adieu to some characters while developing some new ones along with continuing to tell the story of Miller and Crutchfield's rebellion.

Anyway, don't want to drag this out too far. Just wanted to express my appreciation to those who take the time to read my stories.

[ak474u]

awesome, ready for the next one. Like maybe a re-unification of the USA and the peacekeepers turn out to be the invaders

[Stg1swret]

Great read.

[Grumpy Old Man]

Well Done! I hope you keep exercising your talent.

[Thor827]

Thanks Stig. Another awesome entry to the saga. I can't wait to see what happens next!

[piranha2]

I have thoroughly enjoyed it. Thanks man.

[bacpacker]

Excellent read, as the others have been. You have a talent for writing and I lok forward to reading your future efforts.
Thanks for the hard work you've put into this group of stories, it's obvious that you enjoy your writing.

[izzyscout21]

I was particularly invested in this one. Nice job, man!