Hell and gone, p.1
Hell and Gone, page 1
Hell and Gone
Henry Brown
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2010 Virtual Pulp
All rights eserved.
Cover art by Logotecture (Fourth Edition)
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For SFC Bob Krahn
A leader good soldiers gladly followed.
1
0948 13 AUG 2002; NUBIAN DESERT, SUDAN
CAMP ALI
(Taubah, Sura 9:5)
Fight and slay the infidels wherever you find them,
and seize them, beleaguer them,
and lie in wait for them in every stratagem of war.
Fifteen-year-old Bassam Amin breathed slowly and deeply through a plastic straw. He'd become oblivious to the burning, itching discomfort of being buried under hot sand for hours. His secret was meditation.
Bassam's meditation had nothing to do with the Koran, nor the teaching of the holy men. He concentrated, instead, on remembering the belly dancer he'd seen on Egyptian television two years ago. His mind painted her every contour, her every expression, her every mesmerizing motion. Every smile, every wink, every toss of her hair. Every jiggle of flesh and every wag of the hips. He rotated her image to view her at all angles, stripping away her costume and dressing her back up again.
He'd never met the woman. He'd never met any woman who wasn't married, betrothed to another, or of too high a station to concern herself with an impoverished Palestinian bastard. With the changes happening in his body and mind over the last couple years, the wonders he'd never tasted became all the more alluring. Females were all he could think of sometimes.
Besides killing infidels and liberating his homeland.
Whump! A trainer's foot stomped on the sand over his chest.
Bassam exploded out of the ground, spitting out the straw and sand from his lips. He hyperventilated while sprinting at full speed, eyes not even open until he brushed the sand from them on the run. He risked tripping and injuring himself this way, but it would get him off to a quick start.
His eyes stung. The structures of the obstacle course appeared as translucent outlines against the blinding white light of the day. His skin itched terribly all over but he dared not slow down to scratch.
As he approached the rope, he planned out the trajectory of his jump--the higher he caught it, the shorter the climb and the less time it would take. He measured his stride so he wouldn't need to slow down. He hit the log and sprang into the air. If he missed the rope at this speed and angle, he would hit the side of the pit hard enough to break something.
He didn't miss. He caught the rope high and his arms took over as his legs now hung limp. Here's where the hyperventilating paid off--his muscles had plenty of oxygen. If he used his legs on the way up, he'd be penalized thirty seconds.
Hand over hand, he pulled himself toward the thick beam from which the rope hung, back muscles popping painfully. At the top, he held on with one hand while his other felt around for the knife he knew should be lying on the beam. His fingers closed around the blade of the bayonet and he put the handle between his teeth so both hands were available to suspend his weight.
Now his arms and shoulders ached, but he knew the longer he waited the weaker they would grow. He hyperventilated again, then reached out for the first monkey bar.
The bars were fastened between two shipping ropes extending, at a shallow angle, diagonally out and down from the wooden beam. The structure bounced and swayed crazily. Cautious trainees gripped the bars with both their hands, then waited for the swinging to stop before moving to the next. Bassam swung straight from one bar to the next but couldn't help breaking rhythm due to the dangerous undulations of the hanging bridge. Now his wrists and forearms ached, too.
The last bar hung over a narrow plank atop a fence eight feet high. He waited until the swaying of the bridge positioned him directly over it, and let go. His feet hit the plank and his legs bent to absorb the shock. He struggled to gain his balance, gasping for breath.
He had to pause a moment--his lungs were burning and he felt light-headed. Trainees who'd made good time up to this point usually fell here, too exhausted to maintain their balance.
Bayonet still in his mouth, now dripping with his saliva, he held both quivering arms out at shoulder level and walked the plank.
The fence made a sharp left-hand turn ahead and Bassam slowed to a snail's pace before he got to it. He almost lost his balance making the turn, anyway. But he stayed upright, regained control and picked up speed.
At the end of the fence a tire swung back and forth from a rope tied to a horizontal pole with a sand-filled duffel bag on the other end. The pole balanced atop the notched end of a swiveling fulcrum. A thick, round rubber slab filled the center of the tire. Bassam took the bayonet from his mouth and wiped the handle on his pants, then gripped it and watched the swinging tire. He had to strike hard and accurately, or the knife wouldn't support his weight.
As the tire arced across his front, he swung downward with all his might. The blade sunk into the rubber slab only about an inch-and-a-half. It would have to be enough. He stepped off the plank, the one hand still clutching the bayonet, his other hand grabbing his wrist. This was Bassam's favorite part of the course. His momentum made the fulcrum pivot while his weight gradually overcame the weight of the duffel bag at the other end of the pole and he was eased forward and down to earth.
He wrenched the blade loose and fell upon a straw dummy, his legs wrapping around the torso. The bayonet slashed against the straw neck while his free hand squeezed what would be the lower third of the face. He half-severed off the head, but his weight and inertia were too much for the dummy. He and the dummy went down, its supporting post uprooted from the sand.
He panted and cursed, looking around to see if he was disqualified. His eyes locked with a judge's. "Go! Go!" yelled the judge.
Bassam thrust the bayonet into the chest and left it planted there, reached down into the hole where the neck had been and extracted two training grenades. Holding one in each hand, he rolled off the dummy and crawled toward the concertina wire before him.
He flattened against the sand, turned his knees out and pushed with his legs, plowing a furrow in the sand with his cheek and ribcage. He pressed himself down as hard as he could, and still the razor barbs of the concertina tore at his shirt. He had to lift his head up several times to adjust his direction, and each time he did, the concertina pricked his head and neck.
Finally he crawled into open space. Here he struggled to work the pins out of both grenades. He let the spoons fly and cooked them off for three seconds, then sprang to his feet facing right. A mock building wall stood twenty yards away. He slung the first grenade through the window, transferred the remaining grenade to his throwing hand and whirled to the left. On this side loomed an open-top oil tank some fifteen feet tall. He lobbed the second grenade and dropped back to the ground between the banks of the crawling trench. He heard the grenade bounce off the side of the tank--his angle hadn't been high enough--and the pop of the fuses blowing to his right and left.
"Go! Keep going!" shouted one of the trainers.
Bassam crawled forward under more concertina. The trench dropped deeper into the earth. His cheek plowed sand again, so he couldn't see ahead very well. But the coolness and the stench told him the "swamp" lay just ahead. Rumor had it the trainers relieved their own waste into this water. It certainly stunk as if they did.
Now Bassam's hands were wet. He was at the swamp. He took a deep breath and slithered into it. The wire hung so low it touched the surface of the water--there was no possible way to avoid submerging oneself in the disgusting muck and still make it through the course.
The swamp was deep enough for Bassam to crawl a little more comfortably without getting snared by the wire. If comfort could, in any way, be associated with this liquid hell. At the bottom of the swamp, his hands closed on a heavy object of metal and wood. He scooped it up and kept going.
***
Khaled Ali found it a bit disturbing to see Jan Chin laughing. The portly Chinese advisor's normal expression was a scowl that made Ali suspect he was always on the brink of maniacal wrath and any little thing might push him over the edge. But watching a trainee's face prune up in disgust at the horrible smell of the swamp, then crawl through it, always delighted Chin.
Ali, too, enjoyed pushing the trainees beyond their normal tolerance. He'd seen and smelled death, mutilation and many things a weakling couldn't bear to think about, all without blinking. But to see Chin grinning made him squeamish.
The two men stood upon the wooden tower overlooking the obstacle course, from which every part of the camp--and miles of landscape beyond--could be observed. But neither the Nubian Desert to the west nor the Red Sea to the east commanded their interest just now.
The young trainee made it to where the concertina wire ended and rose out of the swamp, dripping with scum of unspeakable origins. He cocked the slimy Kalashnikov and opened his eyes. He fired a burst at the target to his left (a life-sized cardboard effigy of an Hasidic Jew), stitching a line of bullet holes cen
Ali clicked the stopwatch. Chin, scowling again, leaned over to look at the elapsed time.
"He failed to get the second grenade inside the oil tank," Chin said. "Penalize thirty seconds."
Ali snorted. They could give Amin three such penalties and he would still hold the record for this course. Ali descended the tower, walked over and kicked the exhausted trainee in the leg.
"Go clean that weapon and yourself," Ali said.
Bassam rose wearily and staggered toward the field showers.
Chin nodded at Ali. "He has the sort of motivation you want."
"Everyone here is motivated," Ali said.
"He didn't hesitate at any obstacle. He showed no fear. No concern for life or health."
Ali nodded. "I have found my volunteer."
2
0932 13 AUG 2002; LEUCADIA, CALIFORNIA USA
Dwight Cavarra snap-kicked against the current. With knee still raised, his planted foot pivoted in the sand while his hips adjusted for the follow-up roundhouse kick. His foot knifed through the water only slightly faster than slow-motion replays on ESPN. In the follow-through, he dropped his lead foot, satisfied with the timing: the undertow didn't catch him standing on one leg. His lead hand arced down from the high guard into a low block, then his other hand extended in a leopard-paw strike.
Lungs burning, he squatted on the ocean floor, then sprang, hands and feet propelling him upwards. When his head broke surface, the lungful of stale air exploded from his mouth.
He treaded water while catching his breath. After a few moments of mentally prodding himself, he dove down to execute one more kata.
Air had seemingly never felt or tasted sweeter when he ascended for the final time that morning, and swam for shore. Once his five-foot-ten body could touch the bottom with his head still above water, he waded the final stretch, fatigued muscles straining against the pull of the sea.
Just past the mark of the tide's farthest advance, he removed his weight belt before kneeling to pull a bottle of water from the knapsack he'd left there.
How many years could he keep doing this? At fifty-two, or sixty-two, would he still be swimming around the buoys at sunup, then practicing martial arts underwater?
Bunch of Zen ego-pumping. And I've got a masochistic streak—that's what it is.
In younger days, he'd been impressed with a legend about a great master who fought a hurricane—punching and kicking into the deadly blasts of wind. He developed his own, safer exercise routine when fitness was almost a religion to him. He couldn't even remember that legendary master's name anymore, but Cavarra's tradition lived on.
Cavarra drained the bottle. He rose, slinging the knapsack and weight belt over one shoulder, and trudged inland.
Two early risers…attractive young women not yet warm enough to strip to their bikinis…unfolded lawn chairs next to a pile of umbrellas, towels, lotion bottles and paperbacks. They glanced at Cavarra as he passed, but the spark was dull: no magnetic head-turning; no nigh-unperceivable glow; no whispered comment or giggle to a girlfriend. Not that long ago, he'd taken for granted those primordial signals of superficial attraction from most of the women he encountered.
I'm disappearing off the female radar.
Another forty yards and he was out of the sand. He turned his back to the sun while slipping his sandals on. Instead of stealing another peek at the nubile beach bunnies, he studied his shadow.
It was a thick shadow. He no longer had a "powerful physique"—just a "stocky build."
Age was an ugly beast. His once jet-black hair was now salt-and-pepper. He avoided wearing hats lest his bald spot grow faster than nature intended. On the bright side, the morning cool didn't chill his wet skin much and the salt water irritated his eyes only moderately.
Cavarra turned back toward the sun and trudged on. He cut through parking lots and across asphalt roads, reaching his adobe house in less than ten minutes. After a quick shower and change, he shoveled himself a dish of fruit salad and sank into the swivel chair at his computer desk.
I'm gonna be brain-dead by noon, he thought, already growing mentally numb counting the email messages he had to sort through.
Then he noticed, buried in all the orders for ammo and gear, a message without a "Fwd" prefix. The subject line read: "Heads up, Rocco."
Cavarra's nose had been broken and set crooked, way back in ancient history. That and his cauliflower ears inspired the "Rocco" nickname his old acquaintances still used, because he resembled hired Sicilian muscle from some Prohibition-era gang. He opened the message.
Commander Cavarra:
Possible job for you. Real work. Respond A.S.A.P.
It was from a National Security Agency desk jockey he met years ago when assigned to Fort Meade. They'd kept in touch, mostly by forwarding jokes to each other. The humorless tone of this message was noteworthy. Plus, nobody addressed Cavarra by rank these days.
He clicked on "reply," typed "Wazzup?" and clicked "send."
He stepped outside and crossed the back yard to the huge sheet metal shed which served as both warehouse and workshop. Seagulls called, a neighbor's dog barked and a semi truck horn dopplered by from the highway. The salt air and sound of crashing waves carried by the breeze reminded him of the muscles still aching from the laps and the underwater workout. They also reminded him of a hundred other beaches in a dozen different countries, which he'd ran or crawled or otherwise snuck inland from, usually at night and a couple times, when best laid plans got FUBARed, under hostile incoming fire.
Fort Meade, Maryland. Six years ago, when Cavarra was ordered to leave his command position and his beloved Pacific Ocean to play glorified secretary for the pseudo-civilian spooks there, he was not a happy camper. Now he looked back on the leisure time, booze, golf, and sharing of war stories fondly. Maybe college would have been that way, had he not gone to Annapolis. Meade was a pleasant epilogue to his career. In fact, he'd gladly trade this civilian atrophy for another tour in Spyland.
He sighed, entered the shed and began assembling orders for shipping.
The E-mail must be some sort of prank.
He filled orders on auto-pilot, packing boxes with Ching-Slings, brass-catchers, scope mounts and Skin-So-Soft. Then the suspense grew too much to bear. He marched back to the house and checked for new E-mail.
A response awaited him in his "in" box. Now he felt that familiar old thumping in his veins.
Keep a phone with you today.
You might be called soon.
3
2321 13 AUG 2002; MCLEAN, VIRGINIA USA
"LANGLEY"
The activity level at headquarters was higher approaching midnight than at most office buildings on a Monday morning. Lights burned from every window. The security officers were far too busy screening people to be in danger of falling asleep at their posts. Coffee pots were never washed out, it seemed; just refilled. This was normal, though, in the intelligence business.
Bobbie Yousko checked her hair as she stepped off the elevator. The Big Guy calling her in at this hour meant something reasonably important. And given the state of current events, Operation Hot Potato was the most likely topic.
Her flats clicked on the polished floor as she strode down the white, antiseptic corridor to her office. There was nothing on the outside of her door to suggest her room was in any way unique; but when she waved her key card at the lock and pushed the heavy door open, the clutter on display inside contradicted the methodically-earned image of an Agency planner. Drawings from her children, portraits of her husband and of her father in dress uniform surrounded an American flag pinned to the wall. A scale model of the cruiser her father once commanded rode waves of backlogged paperwork atop the scarred desk. Bobbie collected the decoded messages from Crypto, a small stack of dossiers and a DVD-ROM into her laptop bag, and hustled back into the hallway toward the Big Guy's suite.
