Chapter One
Captain Jake Steele dove behind a rocky berm as bullets flew around him, some so close he could feel the wind of their passing and hear the whistling whine that was by now an all too familiar sound.
Jake was serving his twelfth combat deployment in Afghanistan and before that, he had served four tours in Iraq. He had been in the U.S. Army since 1999. After graduating from business school and trying to work for his father….buying and selling stocks….he had realized he hated being in the office all day, so he had gone to the local recruiting office and signed up. After the 9/11 terrorist attacks, he had volunteered for Special Forces and easily made it through all of the requirements. He had made his way through the ranks, up to Master Sergeant, then attended Officer’s candidate school and became a Lieutenant. He’d just received his Captain’s bars the week before the operation and since he’d been the driving force behind it and had walked it through all of the phases, he’d been allowed to lead it, even though, it was generally not done.
His twenty-four man ‘A’ team, along with a fifty-man Afghan force, was attacking a major supply depot being used by Taliban and Al-Qaeda forces to distribute arms, ammo, food and other items throughout the country. It was a network of caves that were situated in the mountains of the Pakistan border, and Jake’s intelligence sources had said they were capable of bringing supplies and men over the border completely underground.
One of Jake’s recon teams had put the area under surveillance and had confirmed the movement of supplies and men, then had returned to begin the planning. Another team had stayed to keep watch, rotating out and returning to join the team when the time to attack had come.
The cave entrances they were concentrating on were on the Afghan side. Another team were cover the Pakistani side. There were a series of three openings, all larger than man-size and well camouflaged. They all had over-hangs that covered them from the satellite coverage and had a lot of natural vegetations and meadows in front of them. Their elevation was about nine thousand feet, so everyone on the teams were breathing harder than normal, but most were acclimated from their previous experiences at high altitudes and their home base was at 5,500 feet.
The teams had helicopters fly them to a landing zone about three miles away and walked the rest of the way under the cover of darkness, using night vision devices. They had begun the assault around three in the morning and had met more resistance than they’d thought was there, but had reacted well. Now, they were one hundred yards or so from the mouth of the main cave, and Jake was about to lead his men into the cave.
Jake looked over at Raver, his teammate and the first soldier he’d met after coming after coming to the 5th Special Forces group ten years ago, who was about five yards away on the left, and behind the same berm Jake was using as cover, and signalled to him. Raver lifted his weapon, a multi-unit grenade launcher, which looked like a huge revolver with twelve cylinders that each held a 40-MM grenade, and fired three HE High Explosive Projectiles at the cave mouth, then fired three white phosphorous rounds behind them, all in about three or four seconds.
Although the enemy positions were about one hundred yards away, the impact from the HE grenades made the ground shutter beneath Jake. As he watched the W.P. rounds ignite and fill the air with white smoke, he and several others threw smoke grenades into the clearing between his team and the enemy, then they jumped up and ran toward the caves while firing at any remaining resistance.
As Jake came to within twenty yards of the centre cave, he ran into a small dip in the landscape and was about to run up the small incline at the other side when he saw the straight lines of a man-made object and everything around him seemed to slow. It was a claymore mine, covered loosely with grass and rocks in a clumsy effort to camouflage the deadly explosive from sight.
Jake threw himself in the air toward the mine, hoping to jump over it before it detonated so that he would be behind it and less likely to be killed, although the back blast might hurt him.
As he dove over the device, he took a deep breath and yelled out to his men, “Claymore!,” but it was too late.
Dozens of explosions rocked the area, throwing dirt and smoke in the air. Jake made it over the claymore he had seen and the back blast has thrown him about ten feet further, while the concussion engulfed him and caused him to black out for a few moments. When he came to, he couldn’t hear anything and his mouth tasted like blood.
Jake shook his head to try to get rid of the nausea and dizziness, then saw something move to his left. He crawled that way and saw it was Raver. He moved closer until he was at his friend’s side.
As Jake looked at Raver, assessing his injuries as he has been taught, he knew immediately that the man was going to die. His right arm was blown off at the elbow, both of his legs were shredded, and his intestines were hanging out of the abdominal cavity. Incredibly, with all of these injuries, the man was still alive.
Raver was reaching toward Jake, while trying to say something. Jake saw that the diaphragm was cut also, so that the words Raver was saying would not be too loud. Jake leaned in to see what his friend was trying to say. His ears were still ringing from the claymore’s explosion, but he clearly heard Raver’s voice. “Why did you kill us, Jake?” Then Raver grabbed Jake’s throat with his good hand and squeezed.
Jake screamed, then, opened his eyes to see that he was in a room. For a few moments, he didn’t recognize the room and he started to panic. He could still taste the blood and smell the dirt, smoke and Raver’s intestinal contents before he realized that he had been having another nightmare and was in his motel room/apartment.
He looked around as his ragged breathing slowed. The walls of his bedroom/living room were fly-specked and had originally been pale yellow and had brightened the room, but had never been repainted since the building had been built fifteen years before and were now a muddy colour that had cigarette and mold stains all over it and defied description.
Jake had moved into the motel, in the cheapest neighbourhood he could find, two months before, after losing his tenth job since leaving the army the previous year. After the disastrous mission where his team had suffered a staggering ninety-percent casualty, he had been cleared of any responsibilities in their deaths, but he had been told to accept a discharge. Since leaving, he had been suffering from nightmares every night and had episodes of depression and severe post-traumatic stress disorder.
The psychologists and psychiatrists at the VA had not been very helpful, trying to fill him with medications and asking him to attend group therapy. He had never liked expressing his feelings, and had just stopped going, then moved so they couldn’t find him. The VA people never followed through and he’d fallen through the cracks. Now, he was dealing with it the only way he could—he drank most of the day and passed out at night. When the nightmares woke him, he started all over again. Jake looked over at his alarm clock and saw that it was 9:52AM. ‘Damn,’ he thought. ‘There goes another job.’ His boss had told him not to be late again, after his third time in the past month. He sighed, reached for his bottle of Black of Velvet, and swallowed about sixteen ounces of the dark whiskey, just to get his juices flowing. Jake screwed the cap back onto the bottle, set it back on his night table, and thought about what he should do now. For the past year, he’d been staying at cheap motels that catered to prostitutes and others on the fringe of society. He had depleted his savings months ago, and was living week to week from what he could earn at whatever job he could talk his way into. He’d fallen into a pattern of convincing the managers of the motels into letting him slide a little on rent in exchange for doing some maintenance work but all of them had eventually kicked him out when he got too drunk to do anything, or when he was experiencing a flashback episode. Jake shuddered as after-images of the last mission flickered in his mind’s eye. He squeezed shut his eyes and shook his head to get rid of the pain and got up. The sweat-soaked sheets left a sour smell in his nostrils but he ignored them as he made his way to the small bedroom. He emptied his bladder, flushed and rinsed his hands, then looked in the mirror. He changed a lot in the past year. His dark hair had grown below his ears and was greasy and seemed to have a lot of grey in it for someone in their early forties. His face was red and sweaty, and his eyes were very bloodshot, with the skin surrounding them puffy and blotchy. He splashed some cold water on his face and dried off, not really caring about what he looked like, then walked back into his bedroom and flicked on the TV. The sounds of CNN filled the room as he went over to the small refrigerator and pulled out three pieces of pizza he had put in there two days before, sat down on the old chair in front of the TV and watched the images without seeing them. He picked up the whiskey bottle and finished it off before dozing off in the middle of a news story about a missing airliner.
Jake jerked awake when he heard a pounding sound. His heart thudded in his chest as he woke from another dream of combat, thinking he was still in the firefight. His head swivelled from side to side, looking for cover, before he realized he was still in his crappy motel room, It took him a few moments to realize the noise was coming from the door. He hesitated a moment, thinking it might be the manager coming back to kick him out, but he paid the rent for the next two weeks a few days before with his last pay check. He got up and moved toward the door, staying to the side. He took a quick look through the peephole. Seeing who it was, he started to turn away when a voice spoke from the other side of the door.
“Jake, I know you’re in there, let me in.”
Jake sighed, then pulled the door open. He stood in the doorway to prevent the man from entering, but he pushed past Jake and entered the room. He stood there, looking around, shook his head and turned to Jake as the door was closing. He reached over and turned on the lights.
“Damn, Jake, what the hell are you doing to yourself?”
Jake stared at the man for a moment. He wasn’t much to look at. He stood five-feet nine inches, about one-hundred and sixty-five pounds with short, wavy blonde hair and blue eyes that seemed to be staring holes into Jake. He had a square jaw and high cheek bones with a good complexion, and would have been considered handsome except for the scar that travelled from his left ear down to the side of his mouth. The scar that Jake had been too late to prevent when they were just teens. He was wearing pressed blue jeans and a short-sleeved green shirt.
“Hello, Ben.” Jake replied wearily. “Nice to see you, too.”
Ben shook his head again and a look of sorrow crossed his face for a moment before he spoke. “Jake, I see you’re not at work, so I’m assuming you’ve lost another job, and by the mess in here,” he gestured with his hand, “it looks like you haven’t been taking care of yourself at all.” He kicked some empty food containers and made his way to a chair where he moved a pile of old newspapers and junk mail out of the way and sat down. He took a moment to gather his thoughts and spoke again.
“Jake, if you keep going like this, you’re going to end up dead or worse, and I can’t bear to see you do that. We’ve been friends too long.”
Jake crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at Ben. “I didn’t ask for your help, Ben, and I don’t need it.” He reached out to the night stand and grabbed the bottle, untwisted the cap, and took two quick swallows. “So if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you would get the hell out of my house.” Jake slammed the bottle on the table to add emphasis to his point and stared at his childhood friend.
Ben smiled and leaned back in the chair, undisturbed by Jake’s theatrics. He’d seen it all before. He stared at Jake and waited until his friend sat down on the bed facing him. Jake still gripped the neck of the bottle tightly, his knuckles showing white from the strain.
“Listen, Jake,” Ben said. “I know you’ve been through some rough shit but that doesn’t excuse your letting yourself go like this.” He waved his arm around the dilapidated room in disgust.
Jake took another drink from the bottle before replying. “Hey, I’m doing ok!!!! At least I’m not living under a bridge somewhere surviving on scraps and handouts.”
“Listen, Jake,” Ben said, “I’m not here to argue with you about your living conditions. I’m here to offer you some work, if you’re willing to hear me out.” He looked at his friend steadily, waiting for an answer.
Jake thought about it for a minute. “What kind of work is it?” He asked.
Ben took a breath. “It’s an armoured car robbery, Jake.” He raised his hands to stop a protest, then continued. “Before you say anything, all I need is help in planning it.. You wouldn’t participate at all, and I’d give you full share for your work. I’m thinking there’s probably going to end up being two to three million dollars total, and there will be five of us to split it up, so your share will be five-hundred to six-thousand dollars. What do you think of that?” He finished in a rush and waited for an answer.
Jake looked at his friend for a moment, his lips thin with displeasure and his jaw muscles tensing. He took a few deep breaths before replying.
“Ben, get the hell out of here,” he said through gritted teeth, and pointed at the door.
Ben stayed seated and stared silently at Jake.
“Jake, I’m giving you a chance to make enough money to get out of your rut, to use your brain, and your military skills, instead of letting yourself rot while you struggle at menial low-end jobs. Would you at least consider it?” Ben gave ‘the look’—the same expression he had been giving Jake, and everyone else, since they were kids. It was a cross between, ‘I’m pitiful’ and ‘if you do this, I’ll love you forever.’ Jake was pretty much immune to it now, and was about to repeat his earlier request for Ben to leave, when Ben added something he knew would prevent Jake from turning his back on him. “Besides, you owe me!!!!” He smiled, and Jake saw the scar turn pale and stretch the side of his friend’s mouth. It took Jake back to the day of the accident.
Jake had been fourteen, and he had been friends with Ben for five years. They were walking from the mall, passing a football back and forth. They had both made the varsity squad and their junior high school and were keeping their reflexes in tune. Jake was the starting quarterback Ben was the tailback. Earlier that week, coach had shown them a pass play where the tailback would block the opposing player and then fade into the flat, where there was likely to be no or low coverage. Because of his size and speed, it was the perfect play for Ben. Jake liked it because he felt that his friend would score plenty that year and it would help both of them make the high school team when they moved up in grade the next year.
Jake stopped short in the middle of the road, about twenty-yards in front of a small intersection and assumed a ready position, leaning over an imaginary centre. Ben took his position, behind and slightly to the right. The subdivision they were in was quiet and cool. The trees on either side of the road swayed lightly in the breeze, causing light rattling noises as the leaves brushed against each other. Birds chirped and flew from tree to tree. The day was beautiful.
Jake looked around at an imaginary defense, then yelled a cadence and ‘hiked’ the ball. He took a three-step drop back as Ben blocked an imaginary player. Then, Jake took two steps to his left and looked that way while keeping track of Ben’s progress in his peripheral vision. Then, as soon as his friend turned, Jake swivelled his body and snapped a throw directly into Ben’s hands.
When Ben caught the ball, he turned and started to run through the intersection toward a touchdown when a pick truck barrelled into the cross-way out of nowhere. Ben tried to turn to avoid the vehicle, and was almost successful, but the driver swerved and hit Ben with a glancing blow. The thwack sound it made haunted Jake’s nightmares for years afterwards, until it was replaced by more horrible dreams.
Ben was thrown into the air and flew across the entire intersection and smashed into the side door of a parked car. His face was torn by the impact against the car’s side mirror. Jake had been horrified and stood there frozen at the sight of all the blood spilling from his friend, and had thought Ben was dead until he moaned and moved. Then Jake had run to his friend, tore his shirt off, and placed it on Ben’s face to slow the bleeding. The driver of the truck, an older man who had been driving to the airport to pick up his wife, called 911. A short while later, an ambulance came to take care of Ben.
Later, in the hospital, Jake was told in addition to the gash on his face, Ben had a broken bone and severed a nerve in his leg, which put a stop to his football days. The gash in his face, which had required over three-hundred stitches and three visits to plastic surgeons over the years, always made Jake feel guilty. Even though Ben had told him it was not Jake’s fault, it didn’t stop Ben from exploiting that guilt, like he was doing today.
“Ben,” Jake said after taking a few deeper breaths to curb his anger. “You know I would do anything for you, but I’m not going to break the law.” He took a large swig of whiskey to add emphasis to his words, then sat down on the bed. He rubbed his eyes and felt a warmth hit his stomach, The whiskey was starting to do its work.
“Jake,” Ben said. “I already told you that you won’t be breaking the law.” He shook his head from side to side for a moment to emphasize his point. “All I need you to do is help me plan everything out and run through some ideas to make sure everything goes as smoothly as possible. What was it you used to call that P7? Proper—“
“Proper previous planning prevents piss poor performance,” Jake finished the sentence. He drank the last few sips of the whiskey, tipping the bottle to get the last drops, screwed the top on and tossed the empty bottle in the trash can by his bed. He looked at his friend for a minute, not saying anything, just thinking.
“Ben, planning a crime is against the law. It’s called Conspiracy. Also, why do you want to set this whole thing up? Aren’t you making good money at the engineering firm?”
Ben sighed and rubbed his face. “Yeah,” he said. “But, my bitch of a wife is divorcing me. She’s going to get the house, the kids, and hit me up for quite a bit of alimony. I need some untraceable cash right now to keep myself above water. Come on, Jake! I know with your planning skills, we’ll pull this off without a hitch, and it will solve both of our financial problems.” He paused for a moment as he saw Jake’s expression bordering between resignation and rejection. Then, he went in for the kill. “You know, Jake, you don’t have to help. I’m pretty sure we can pull it off ourselves. I just think that with your knowledge and skills, we’re more likely to come through it without hurting anyone or getting hurt ourselves.” He stopped talking and waited for Jake to answer, although he already knew what it would be.
Jake sighed. He knew from past experience that Ben wouldn’t let this go. He’d keep bugging Jake until he got the answer he wanted, as he told Ben he’d do it, as long as he had nothing to do with the actual robbery.
“Thanks, Jake,” Ben said. He scratched his scar, then leaned forward, a serious look on his face. “Jake, I have one condition to add here, and this is absolutely non-negotiable.” He stared at Jake for a moment to make sure he was listening. “During the time that we’re planning this, you have to stop drinking.” Jake started to say something but Ben held his hand up to stop the protest.
“Jake, we’re going to be putting our lives at risk and I don’t want you to make a mistake because you’re drunk. Now, I know that you can stay sober for the time we set to plan this, say six or eight hours per day for a few weeks, maybe a month. You did the same whenever you worked, right?”
Jake nodded his head reluctantly.
“Ok, then.” Ben stood up and held his hand out. Jake clasped it and they looked at each other for a few seconds. “I’m going to call the guys this afternoon and we’ll meet this weekend, ok?”
Jake nodded again then said, “Make it somewhere remote where there are no prying eyes to pay attention to us.”
Ben grinned again. “See….you’re helping already. I knew it was a good idea to involve you.” He let go of Jake’s hand and walked to the door. “Oh,” he said over his shoulder as he opened the door. “If you need any help or anything before the meeting, call me ok?” He waited until Jake acknowledged his query, then, walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.
Jake stared at the door for a few minutes, wondering what he’d gotten himself into, then went to his refrigerator, pulled out a full bottle of Black Velvet and took a healthy swallow of it.