Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 37

  Nick nodded.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Nick said. “I know my back’s killing me, but I’m not some diesel, former linebacker. Tell you what, before we move out, let’s make sure all of us take eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen to kill the pain and help keep us focused. I know Truck’s probably starting to feel that busted knee about now, too.”

  Truck had reinjured his knee five months earlier -- an old football injury that had never fully healed -- but it wasn’t just Truck. All four men were nearly twice the age of most military men, and they’d all been banged up over the years in training or various scrapes.

  In truth, all of them were a bit old to be doing this kind of work. They certainly lacked the qualities of younger fighters, but no amount of youthful vigor could make up for the decades’ worth of experience among them.

  And there was no question that Nick would always choose seasoned, accomplished fighters over young bucks still trying to prove themselves. Besides it wasn’t like his unit was into parachuting, diving, or any of the other crazy feats elite units had to be capable of doing.

  Nick groaned as he pushed himself off the large rock and slipped back to Red’s position. Red was breathing easier and sweating less, the break already doing its trick.

  “Ready, Nick?” Red asked.

  “Sure,” Nick said.

  Red pulled a poncho liner out of his pack and draped it over the two of them. Inside it, they both produced small flashlights, covered by red lenses.

  They compared each other’s pace count and azimuth, confirming their location on the map. In the day and age of the GPS, neither man used one. Both had learned that when you relied on GPS, you checked your azimuth and pace count less frequently. And in turn, you paid less attention to your land navigation.

  GPSs were a serious crutch that were all too easy to become reliant on, but GPSs broke. Batteries died. Satellites were sometimes not available for accurate triangulation. Armies had made it for centuries without GPSs, and neither of the two veterans wanted to break tradition and chance risky gear. Not to mention tote an unnecessary device and its required batteries.

  After determining their position, Red put the poncho liner up and Nick hunched over as he crept back to his pack to rest a few moments. His legs and back ached to the bone and he caught himself guzzling more water than he should.

  Part of the thirst came from the fact he was anxious. Nick hated to admit it, but it was true. It was one thing for two scout snipers to sneak into a foreign country, as Nick had against the Soviets numerous times in the ’80s, but quite another to take four heavily weighed down guys. Two men could sneak and hide better, but four required larger hiding places. And larger hides were more obvious and limited. And more likely to be searched by the enemy if they ever detected your presence.

  Even now, if the Taliban discovered them, just three miles inside Pakistan, they would be screwed. If one man got hit, it would be all they could do to fight their way back to the border while carrying a man. And even then they’d have to get by the Pakistani army on the border, who would be more alert this time.

  Shut up, Nick, he thought to himself. This is how missions fail. You start thinking about all the things that can go wrong, and then you lose your confidence. Before you know it, you lock up with fear. Get in character.

  The sound of Marcus approaching broke him from his thoughts.

  “Here are those pills,” he said, before handing them to Nick and moving on to the next man.

  Nick shook the pills in his hand, placed them in his mouth, and swallowed them with a large gulp of water. He braced himself for the next hour-long leg of the mission. On the bright side, this was physically the hardest it should be. Their packs were heavily laden with water and food, so with every drink and snack consumed, their packs would grow lighter.

  Ounces count, Nick thought as he rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen them up.

  After everyone was watered and medicated, the team continued on its trek, inching deeper and deeper into enemy territory.

  Chapter 3

  Hour after hour, the S3 team pushed on. Following one hour of movement, they’d take ten minutes of rest, reorient themselves to their maps, and pick up again.

  Although the routine was the same, it now felt like every step was a battle, both physically and mentally. This mission was already much more difficult than any of the men could have anticipated. The realities of their situation and the high potential for failure or even death was quickly sinking in. That realization, in addition to the growing fatigue and unrelentingly harsh elements, had them all headed in a downward spiral of self-doubt. And despite each man’s desperate desire to disguise it all, the wear and worries were starting to show though.

  Truck worried whether his knee would hold up. The pain continued to worsen, and when Nick wasn’t looking, he found himself beginning to limp. On breaks, he’d check the swelling when he knew no one was looking.

  Red worried about his senses. A nagging fear had been growing that he really had to do more than see the enemy first. Even a successful firefight without casualties would mean mission failure, since it would alert the enemy and attract more fighters. Therefore, he needed to not only see the enemy first, but see them so far away that none of the team could be discovered. And in worrying about this, Red failed to realize that his pace had slowed.

  Marcus continued to psych himself up, mentally preparing for whatever would come. He was easily the biggest man on the team. Easily the strongest. And he wasn’t toting a machine gun, as Truck was.

  Without question, if someone was hit or killed, it would be Marcus carrying him out. And with so much weight already on him, this was something Marcus wasn’t looking forward to. His pack was already testing his limits, and so he took deep breaths and told himself over and over, “This ain’t shit. Nothing can break me. This ain’t shit. Nothing can break me.” Inside this mental repetition, Marcus maintained his stride in rhythm with his words.

  Nick Woods fought the impending doom he could feel coming. It reminded him of the time he and his spotter had entered Afghanistan on what would be their final mission. The two had grown used to the dangers, but when they saw their target location had nearly a thousand troops, and not a hundred as they had been told, they knew they were in deep shit. And instantly, a nagging fear had risen up in Nick’s mind that the two men had been betrayed and sold out.

  This mission didn’t feel like they had been sold out, but it seemed fraught with things that could go wrong. It’d been so simple on paper back at the base camp, but now Nick grappled with the realities on the ground: how long it took to cover even a short distance, how far they were from assistance, how they had no means to contact reinforcements or air support, and how totally isolated they truly were.

  Aside from the threat of literally hundreds of enemy fighters in the area, the biggest thing eating at Nick was the distance and realities of how slow they must move to avoid detection.

  Nick realized that Red was moving slower than he had been, which was arguably needed. If they killed one man, others would soon know -- even if they didn't hear the silenced shot. And once they knew, the hunt would be on.

  Besides Red’s pace, Nick hadn’t fully considered that moving at night on such steep terrain would make the forty miles feel more like fifty or sixty.

  Nothing to be done about it now, he thought. Just keep pushing and dig deep, baby.

  Chapter 4

  Nick called a halt at 4 a.m. They needed to find a hide before dawn. The team gratefully stacked packs against each other and left Truck with his big RPK machine gun to watch them.

  Nick, Red, and Marcus pulled out compasses and headed off in opposite directions to search for a good position. The men had rehearsed this procedure back at base camp. One would go toward twelve o’clock, one toward four o’clock, and one toward eight o’clock. Dividing up would hopefully help them find the best position faster, plus give them more information about their surroundings.<
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  This search procedure was just one of about two dozen SOP actions, or Standard Operating Procedures, that the team had practiced hundreds of times. Hasty ambushes, break contact, reaction to direct fire (and indirect fire), and countless other tactical responses that might prove necessary.

  They knew how each man would react, they memorized where each man had stored every single item in each pack, and they had discussed and rehearsed every contingency they could think of.

  Twenty minutes later, Red, the last of the three, returned. They huddled in a circle and debated in whispers who had found the best position in as low of tones as they could speak. Truck kept his eyes outward while they discussed their finds.

  In the end, they went with Red’s position. He said he’d found a low spot in a gully between two draws. It would barely be defensible, but had the benefit of being almost perfectly hidden. Without another word, they broke the huddle, and the men slipped on their packs for what they hoped would be the last time today. Well, at least for another twelve hours.

  Ten minutes later, Red guided them into the place he’d found. Again, without a word, the team set up a hide as they’d rehearsed. Packs were stashed facing outward and low nets were pulled out and staked into the hard ground by boot heels -- the rubber was much quieter than shovels.

  Dawn found all four men under the low net, alert. After it was confirmed they were secure, they began two-man watches. Two on watch facing opposite directions, two sleeping.

  Nick and Red took the first watch, with Red looking down the hill and Nick looking uphill. Marcus and Truck laid down to get some much needed rest and sleep.

  Nick’s mind wouldn't stop racing. He had followed one of the truest maxims in the military: the KISS principle, or “Keep It Simple, Stupid.” Yet as the team lay hidden approximately 4.7 miles inside Pakistan, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d gone overboard on the KISS principle. After all, the team had only made it about three-quarters of the distance he’d planned for them to make.

  Perhaps they should have parachuted in. The CIA had offered to push them through an intense, mission-specific four-week course, but Nick had ruled it out. It held too many dangers, as it was hard to keep the team together. Gear often got separated. Ankles sprained. Legs broken. As a general rule, Nick thought that if you had to parachute in, you should find another way.

  Yet there were other options besides parachuting. They could have tried to take a 4x4 truck past the Pakistani army. They could have taken money and tried to bribe their way through a checkpoint, or snuck past sleeping guards. Option three, which Red favored, was killing the guards and making it look like the Taliban had done so. “And if that leads to some Paki-Tali killing afterward, so much the better,” the short man scoffed with a sick grin.

  They had also considered silenced, souped-up four wheelers, but that brought up all kinds of possible gear malfunctions, fuel requirements, and possible toolkit needs. Even studying it for a few hours made Nick’s head spin with the possibilities of everything that could go wrong.

  Bottom line, Nick was used to walking, and he’d walked into Afghanistan too many times to count back in the day, so walking is what they’d do. And it’d be a hell of a lot of walking before they were done.

  Nick tried to shut his mind down and focus on the ground up the hill, looking for any form of movement. He had three of America’s greatest warriors with him, and they were completely committed to one of the riskiest missions in the world. And in the end, the boldness of the plan would either soar or come crashing down on top of them.

  Chapter 5

  The various watches passed without any major drama. Despite finally making it into a more heavily populated area, the team’s resting position high up in the hills continued to go unnoticed. It was clear that this far into Pakistan, the Taliban had little to no concern about using the roads and open areas as they pleased. And if there was any fear of coalition forces, either air or ground, it certainly didn't show.

  All throughout the day the team observed loads of beat-up cars, a couple farm tractors, and lots of foot traffic pass on the road below. Still no one stopped to even glance up into the hills. The Taliban's confidence must have been contagious as it appeared that even the everyday man had no reason to question their safety.

  Dusk approached, and Marcus passed out another eight hundred milligram round of ibuprofen. Nick motioned for the men to crawl closer under the net.

  “Alright, guys,” he whispered, “tonight we make up for the fact that we’ve covered so little ground today. Red, I want you to step it out, just like it’s an all-out hump.”

  Red raised his eyebrows, giving Nick an apprehensive look.

  Nick stopped him before he could say a word.

  “Look,” Nick said, “all day long we’ve been here, and we’ve seen that nobody is paying attention. And we’ve also seen that nobody is moving this high up the hill. While we needed to move slow last night, close to the border, our chances of running into anybody tonight are slim.”

  Nick turned his attention to Truck.

  “If your knee can’t take the faster pace, let me know. We’ll slow it down, or even steal a vehicle if we have to.”

  The big man nodded.

  Nick met each man’s eyes and asked if there were any questions.

  Clenching jaws and fidgeting hands were the only response he got. No, there were no questions about the plan. Questions about how the hell they were going to pull this mission off, however, they had those in surplus.

  Nick was right there with them. His back and legs were no more improved from the rest. The cover they camped under during the daylight hours was no match for the malicious summer sun. Their water supply was being consumed at an alarming rate and then unavoidably being sweated back out almost twice as fast.

  Nothing you can do about it right now, Nick. Just got to keep moving.

  As soon as they were cloaked in the night’s dark, Nick helped his team to tear down and stow the netting, wishing he could stow his worries away just as easily.

  That night, they pushed harder than the previous night. Now with the realization that the Taliban wasn’t looking for foreign troops, they were able to move faster. They crossed deep gullies, angled draws, and steep fingers. They walked as fast as the terrain allowed, trudging, slipping, and cursing when it worked against them.

  Several times they paused for possible sightings, and Red and Nick would scan the area with their night vision goggles (NVGs), but each time proved to be a false alarm. Before daybreak, they scouted for a hide, then assembled their nets to lay under.

  And for four more days they followed this pattern. Push hard at night, stop with enough time to scout a hide, then attempt to physically recover in the day under camouflage cover. Each night they covered 4.0 to 5.0 miles.

  Nick lay under the net around noon on the seventh day, keeping watch and feeling like the day was creeping by slower than a single drip could fill a barrel. Now taking stock of their situation, Nick saw that there were more problems than solutions. The heat was burning them in more ways than one. The massive supply of water they had lugged in seemed to be evaporating before their eyes, and the sun relentlessly drained what little energy they had left.

  To make things worse, that hellish, oven-like temperature was keeping them from getting the sleep they so desperately needed. The four men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter looked rough, to say the least.

  Their bodies reeked, and their clothes were filthy, ripped, and stained. Nick figured he had lost more than ten pounds, and he really didn’t have ten pounds to lose. The sweat, the sleep deprivation, and the inability to keep up his muscle mass from a diet now solely comprised of dried fruits and meats -- all had sapped his body and knocked him down from his optimum operating condition.

  Any more than three more days of this, and Nick knew the men would arrive gaunt and weak. Like men who had survived a hundred-mile march. Granted, their forty miles didn’t come close to that, but with the crush
ing amount of gear they had to carry and their need to be alert -- not a day passed when their adrenaline didn’t spike three or four times from some false alarm -- it might as well have been.

  And it wasn’t like they’d arrive to their destination and be greeted by a finish line, cheering supporters, and plenty of rest. Instead, they’d arrive and be forced to fight and make perfect split-second decisions, or they’d all be dead within hours after firing the first shot.

  Besides the exhaustion, Nick also knew they were all increasingly banged up. A twisted ankle here, a throbbing knee there, and that didn’t take into account the bumps, scrapes, and bruises each had collected in spades.

  Nick realized his plans to cover the distance on foot had erred on what their conditioning could endure. Sure, they were in the top three or four percent of athletes in the world in terms of physical conditioning, but the mission required more than Nick had ever dreamed when he drew it up on paper.

  The terrain -- the ups and downs, the slanted slopes, the loose rocks, the requirement to only move at night -- all had slowed them down and made Nick and Marcus’s conservative estimates on distance per night seem like a naive, unrealistic wager made by some drunk and desperate gambler on the Las Vegas strip.

  S3 would reach their objective, and they’d be ready to fight, but it was going to be pretty ugly. And that was best case.

  Chapter 6

  Disaster struck on the following night, just three days away from their destination. It was as if Nick’s fears had cast a line baited for trouble, and then caught a whole school of it. Actually, loads of it.

  The four men had barely covered a mile in the dark when Red, ahead on point, signaled for a halt mid-stride.

  Nick watched as the little man’s body went completely rigid then slowly inched downward. Attempting to silently crouch with nearly one-hundred pounds of gear working against you was no small feat.