Men walked sporadically through the area, picking up weapons, grabbing sacks from inside tents, and piling into vehicles before racing off into the darkness of the desert. No one paid the captives any attention; they were simply lambs awaiting slaughter. There was the occasional hard stare, but most just seemed curious as they eyeballed the Americans while passing by, with only one individual spitting on Nate as he transited the camp. After a while, the activity died down and they were mostly alone.
“We’re fucked, aren’t we?” Shane asked finally.
Nate sighed. “Look, Shane, I’m sorry for getting you into this.”
“Bullshit,” Shane quipped back. “You didn’t pressure me into anything, you just gave me an opportunity.”
“An opportunity to what? Die out in the desert?”
“You know what? If the way I go out is to spill my blood in the same sands that our brothers died in two years ago, then I’m just fine with that.” He spit and Nate saw a glob of blood fly into the dirt. “I’m getting tired of living with the guilt anyway.”
“You know there’s nothing else we could have done,” Nate said.
“I know that,” Shane answered. “Do you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hell, brother, we all feel bad about what happened to our boys out here. But you haven’t let it go. You’ve just buried yourself in your studies and hidden yourself away from life. But it’s real. They’re gone. And you’re right, there’s nothing more any of us could have done. And you did more than most that night. It’s not right or wrong. It just is.”
Nate knew he was right. He had walked away and for years tried not to think about the fact that he had lost so many close to him. He wasaware of PTSD and survivor’s guilt, though he didn’t think those labels necessarily applied to him. It was more of a personal responsibility than anything else. He felt as though he had let them down.
“I was the Fox, Shane. Intel was my job. And I never saw the attack coming.”
“And intel is imperfect. Sometimes there is no indication. Sometimes things just happen. You think that people who can keep something like 9/11 obscure enough to see it through can’t do the same on some small shitty outpost in backwater Yemen? You have to let that shit go, brother. It’s not your fault.”
“Yeah,” Nate said noncommittally.
“We all missed it, not just you. The only thing you did was risk your life to spearhead the counterattack. You’re not responsible for any of the brothers we lost, but you are responsible for the ones still here.”
Shane’s words were true, and Nate knew it. Maybe he just needed to hear it. And somehow, back in this place, it was like a weight lifted from him. At least momentarily. Then he remembered that they were tied to a pole in the middle of a terrorist camp waiting to be executed at dawn.
“I suppose I lose points for bringing the survivors back to the same place to die,” he said in a melancholy tone.
“Yeah, well there’s a penalty for that,” Shane joked. “I don’t think we’ll be breaking out of here by ourselves.”
“Maybe not,” Nate replied. “But I wasn’t the only one on that counterattack two years ago. And you know whathe’slike when he’s pissed.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Tim was pissed. He had started out concerned, grown to anxious, and worked all the way up to angry. But now he was pissed. He hadn’t talked to Nate in over a year because of a stupid grudge, but in the last week he had remembered that the man was his best friend and brother. He enjoyed giving Shane shit, but the reality was that he loved him like a brother too. And he would be damned if he was going to let some shithead terrorists take more of his family away from him.
When they set out on this trip, he had been excited. It was exhilarating to be doing what he did best. Tim didn’t realize how much he had missed the action until they were back in it. Like he had explained to Ana, war was in his blood and he enjoyed doing it, though not when his friends’ lives were at stake. The calculus was different now. The thrill was gone, and the former weapons sergeant was left only with steely determination and a seething rage.
Wally, Ana, and Tim had followed the tracks to Al Kharkhir. The group stopped north of the city, where they stashed the vehicle along with Ana, and Tim told her to stay put. They armed her with a rifle andtold her to fire on anyone that wasn’t them. There was no way of knowing if the village was friendly, so if they weren’t back by sunrise she was to get in the vehicle and drive to Oman, and she was not to stop for anyone or anything.
Then Tim and Wally returned to the tire tracks and followed them on foot. It was now dark, but they could see them easily enough while dismounted. They turned off the main road a few miles east of the city and headed south across the border into Yemen. Several miles off in the distance they could see the glow of a fire, and the tracks ran straight toward it, imprinted on a dirt road. They stopped following the tracks and made their way slowly toward the light source.
It was fortunate that they had been careful, or they would have walked right into a pair of men who were lying nearly a mile away from their intended destination. Had the men not been undisciplined the duo might have been caught. It was Wally who first noticed the smell of cigarette smoke, not being a smoker himself. As they cautiously crept up on the source of the smell, they heard men talking in hushed tones.
Circling around they found two men leaning against an embankment keeping watch in the direction from which Tim and Wally had just come. Lookouts. Or in military terms, a Listening Post/Observation Post, or LP/OP. These guys were more organized than expected, and whoever was in charge must have had at least a basic understanding of military tactics. Tim suddenly wished he had a silencer. Any gunshots here would alert everyone for miles around, and they couldn’t afford to lose the element of surprise.
Tim turned back to look at Wally, who nodded. The men were out of arm’s reach of their weapons and had their backs to them. Slowly the two special operators crept up, Tim taking the left side, Wally the right. They walked as silently as possible, attempting to make no noise. Otherthan the men chatting it was deathly quiet, and inevitably Murphy’s Law took hold and Tim’s foot made a crunching noise on the sand. The men stopped and started to turn, but they were too slow.
Both Tim and Wally lunged at their prey. Wally wrapped his man up in a choke hold and Tim smashed his man’s head against the ditch before doing the same. They squeezed, cutting off both blood flow and air supply as the significantly weaker men struggled. They waited for the movement to stop before putting all their weight behind the action and wrenching the necks at awkward angles. The men fell to the ground dead, their bodies concealed in the ditch.
There were certain to be more lookouts, but Tim and Wally assumed that after passing this guard position they were likely inside the outer perimeter of the camp. It was strange and uncharacteristic for terrorists to have guards out this far, and Tim wondered if it had anything to do with their prisoners. He hoped it meant they were on the right track.
As they approached the fire, Tim could clearly make out several tents. There was a group of men sitting around the fire, and he saw a guard walk by with a rifle. They paused and watched as the guard made several rounds through the camp. It was late, and Tim assumed that most of the fighters would be sleeping by now.
