Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.
Content Warning: I might have stepped just past the overall story rating in this chapter in relation to simulated sexual assault, so proceed with caution.
BOL: Bill of lading, usually for air shipments. ETLBVs: Enhanced Technical Load Bearing Vests. BDUs: Battle dress uniform. POL: Petroleum, Oil, and Lubricants facility. MOS: Military Occupational Specialty code. Go-Fasters: Sneakers.
-M-
0812 HOURS, THURSDAY, BAGRAM AIR BASE
"Dalton!"
Startled, Jack glanced over the lip of his Styrofoam coffee cup and into the impassive face of Colonel Martinez himself. Muscle memory had him on his feet in a split second, coffee dropped like it was hot – which it was – and standing at attention, totally not glancing down with a suppressed wince as even more brown liquid stained the folder that was sitting beside his mostly consumed breakfast.
Carl's Junior was going to have a fit they couldn't keep his paperwork clean. He'd have to blame that one on McDonald's too.
Martinez didn't look all that impressed himself. "With me."
"Yessir." Jack abandoned the liquidy remains of his breakfast, but he did rescue the folder and shake as much of the excess coffee from it as he could before falling in step behind the colonel.
The mess should have been mostly empty, all the other units already out for the day, but as Jack had to keep reminding himself, this was an air base, not a FOB, and the Chair Force took life a little more leisurely than the rest of the armed forces. The tables were still about half full of officers and enlisted not really trying all that hard to look disinterested, and Martinez kept his silence as he led the parade from the mess out into the blinding sunlight of Bagram.
"Sergeant, is there some reason you did not report for duty this morning?"
Jack blinked at the back of his commanding officer's head. "Sir?"
Martinez picked a spot about five meters off the sidewalk, turning to face Dalton. He didn't look any more impressed than he had ten seconds ago. "You have duties as assigned, do you not, soldier?"
"Yessir," Jack replied immediately. Then, "As you know my current tour is contingent-"
"- upon dedicated overwatch of Specialist MacGyver, I'm aware," Martinez finished drily. "And his ass is in training. So my question to you is this: what the hell do you think you're doing?"
There were only a few acceptable responses to that. He could claim he didn't know what his current duties were as assigned, which was both untrue and likely to get a lot more duties assigned. He could claim he was doing his duties as assigned, which would then require him to actually do the duties assigned to him, which he really wasn't looking forward to.
. . . although . . .
Jack raised the coffee-stained folder a few inches. "My duties as assigned, sir."
Martinez didn't blink. "You completed fourteen hours of paperwork and not a single page of it managed to make its way to the desk sergeant yet?"
Dalton kept his mouth shut, and after a few seconds, Martinez gusted out a sigh. "I hear you've been on a snipe hunt."
That was not the response he was expecting. Particularly since a snipe hunt was a hunt for something that didn't exist, and Jack was pretty damn well certain a reason for Mac's sudden assignment to SERE training did exist. "Yessir," Jack confirmed, sharpening his attention, and not missing the colonel responding in kind. "Keep gettin' the feeling there's a critical piece of intel I should know, sir."
The colonel glanced off to the right, where two Air Force cadets were passing by, utterly unaware of the level of classified detail potentially being discussed only a few meters away. He waited until they were well past. "I keep getting that feeling too."
Jack was momentarily nonplussed. "Are you askin' or tellin'?" Not that he was as involved in 'secret squirrel shit' as he used to be, but when he was, it came direct from Martinez, which told Jack that the colonel had a past – and a clearance level - as least equivalent to his own. It would be . . . unusual . . . for Martinez not to be read into the real reason Mac's EOD unit had been fast-tracked for SERE training.
"Both," the colonel growled. "So if you're going to keep digging, for Christ's sake, be a little more subtle about it than a Marauder in a china shop."
A sharp grin split Jack's face. "Don't suppose you could get me one reserved from the motor pool-"
"Dalton." It sounded more tired than anything. "Do you have something, or not."
He was pretty sure he had a coffee-stained get out of jail free card, as long as he could convince Martinez not to look at the actual contents of the folder in his hand. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe somethin', maybe nothin'." Almost certainly nothing, at least as it applied to figuring out why his bomb nerd was currently starting day two of his classwork.
But . . . if he was holding evidence of a little, say, illegal inventory appropriation, that could get him in contact with whoever was running the black market on base, and that person might be persuaded – if properly motivated – to point him in the direction of other interesting objects being smuggled both off of, and onto, the base.
It was true that Bagram wasn't one of Jack's old stomping grounds; it wasn't Martinez's, either. The colonel was only there – ostensibly - because eight of the finest EOD the Army had ever turned out were there. But there was more than one way to get the skinny on an impending op, and being read in wasn't required. Because the one thing the Army was good at – better than the Air Force for sure – was logistics. You got the equipment you needed to the place you needed it in time for the people who were going to use it, to use it. It wasn't as good as a copy of the orders, but the equipment itself could tell an operator a lot about what kind of operation was about to take place.
Jack had gotten more intel with less before, and it would be way the hell more fun than catching up on two months' worth of paperwork, which is what he was supposed to be doing.
Jack sent a silent apology to Mac for potentially stealing his thunder. The kid probably wouldn't mind as long as the reveal solved the safety and inventory discrepancy issues. "If it pans out, I'll let you know."
"Be sure you do." Martinez didn't look completely sold, but then again he had a very sensitive bullshit detector, and Jack knew it wasn't his best work. Jack came back to attention and saluted, and Martinez frowned at him. Jack interpreted that as dismissal and headed purposefully in the direction of the mess like he had a destination in mind.
Such as getting a refill on that cup of coffee.
But Jack could feel the colonel's eyes boring into the back of his head, and he regretfully kept walking past the welcoming aroma of coffee and bacon. Okay, so now he was officially following Mac's lead. What did the kid have.
Backdated inventory. Equipment was being issued without proper process, then corrected after the fact in IMS, and the paper records were then doctored to match the system. Normally that was done to hide inventory skimming – theft, in other words. You took what you wanted, then issued it in IMS to a dummy delivery and made sure all the spreadsheets added up. As long as whoever was supposed to 'receive' it didn't notice they didn't get something they didn't order, you were in the clear.
Jack thought about that a second, then altered his destination.
The guard at the front gate had their back turned when Jack strolled up, obviously focused on their computer screen, and he blew out a sigh and rapped his knuckles on the window. "You 'wake in there?"
The uniform turned, revealing an attractive twenty-something with brown hair and green eyes, and Jack's mood improved significantly. "Ma'am," he added respectfully, putting on a charming smile.
She didn't return it. "What can I do for you . . ." She trailed off, obviously looking for identifying stripes, and Jack let his grin widen.
"It's what you can do for a friend of mine, actually." He held up the folder, using it to indicate the clipboard hanging on the wall of the booth. "You happen to know who was working the gate at 0600 yesterday morning?"
She didn't follow his gesture, and didn't look any more friendly than before. "I was, sir."
Even better. "You don't say," Jack drawled, glancing quickly at her nametag. "Well, Private Meyer, maybe you remember my friend then. Blond hair, about this tall, baby blues like the skies over the great state of Texas."
The transformation was immediate; hard eyebrows raised fractionally, opening up her entire expression. "Dimples?" Private Meyer asked hopefully.
He'd have to remember that one. "Dimples," Jack confirmed with a chuckle. "That's my boy. You happen to remember what it was he was askin' you about?"
The young woman promptly turned back to her computer, and after a few key clacks, brought up a schedule of deliveries. "Yessir. He wanted information on a transport headed to Kandahar on Monday."
Jack absorbed that, then flipped open the report and started searching the dates until he found it. The box of clackers that Mac had been concerned about – supposedly indeed issued to Kandahar on Monday.
So much for a smoking gun. "That the only thing he asked about?"
"Yes sir, but like I told him, there were no shipments out to Kandahar on Monday. Truck went out Tuesday."
A day late was no big deal; all it meant was that the techs checked the equipment out of inventory the night before, when they loaded it onto the truck. Jack ran his finger down the list to the next item of highest value – an encrypted DSP 9K radio handset. "Got anything out last Saturday to Dwyer?"
A few keystrokes. "I got a transpo out to Dwyer Friday."
So the equipment left a day earlier than it was checked out. That was a little harder to explain.
"Hey, can you see the air transpo BOLs?" It was an air force base, after all. Maybe it went out by helo instead of truck?
The private nodded, and was able to bring up both calendars side by side. Jack had to lean in through the window and squint to make it out, but it didn't look like any bill of ladings – BOLs - had been issued for flights out to Camp Dwyer on Saturday.
Jack studied the list in earnest. McDonalds was right, there was no rhyme or reason to the things that had been backdated. Sure, clackers and a radio handset could be used for a covert op, which could explain how shit went out and didn't get recorded, but the rest of it was pretty random. Training blanks, a couple ammo cases minus the ammo, a couple ETLBVs, miscellaneous spare mags. McDonalds had failed to mention two SOG knives getting misplaced, one on the same ill-fated Kabul transport, and the other about a month ago.
Only reason Bagram would have them would be to supply SEAL teams for deployment in country. "You had many operators come through here lately?"
Meyer gave him a bland look. "All the time. We get Rangers, SEALs, military contractors through every week."
Jack snorted. Seemed like the US was never going to shrug off the shadow of Blackwater and all the other third party contractors that made 'secret squirrel shit' a lot harder. "I'm guessing Triple Canopy's one of 'em?"
The private nodded. "Yes sir. They'll be through tomorrow to pick up. Usually around 0600."
"Pick up?"
"Yessir, every two days before and three days into training courses."
Jack glanced at the watch on the inside of his left wrist, then flipped back through the report. Sure enough, a month ago the report said some dummy rounds and practice explosives went out to Kabul, which essentially meant to someone local. "Well, what the fuck are we payin'em for if they're using our equipment?" Jack muttered aloud. And who the hell thought a consistent schedule of hitting the base was a good idea? Might as well fly a banner over the whole goddamn country proclaiming US Personnel In Stock And On Sale.
"Oh, they pay," she assured him. "Badge gets them access to the commissary and exchange."
That didn't make it any better. "Great, so they eat our food too." Not that anyone would really choose to, but the commissary legitimately carried name brand snacks at cost. The rumbling of a Humvee interrupted his thoughts, and they both glanced towards the main gate, where three trucks had just rolled up around the curve.
Time to let her get back to her day job.
"Thanks, private. I have any other questions, I'll find you."
"Yessir." She hesitated. "Or . . . you could send your friend."
Jack's irritation evaporated instantly in an honest chuckle. "Oh, I will absolutely do that."
-M-
? HOURS, THURSDAY, LOCATION UNKNOWN
Mac couldn't say he ever truly lost consciousness, but he could put his finger on the exact moment he realized the things he was perceiving were actually happening. That he was lying on the ground on his side. That the hot, stifling darkness was actually touching his face, was actually real. That the bite on his wrists was real, too, just like the feeling of being restrained. Mac attempted to pick up his throbbing head, and the suffocating dark stuck stubbornly to his face.
A deeper breath caused him to cough, a rattling thing that he felt from his navel to his molars. He hadn't experienced ache like this since –
Since a few hours after he rolled down a hill inside a Blackhawk, and began to suspect he might have broken ribs.
His bulletproof vest had clearly worked as intended, and saved his life.
And it shouldn't have had to, because there shouldn't have been a single live round in that entire complex.
Mac barked out a few more hacking coughs before he worked up enough mucous to swallow. He managed to puff the fabric on his face off his nose, but it did nothing to introduce fresh air to the stale hood. And it was a hood; the rest of his body was stiff with cold, the fabric was only covering his head. Trying to move his hands confirmed he was bound; it was hard to tell with what, his wrists and hands were tingling and his fingers were asleep. He tried to flex them a few times, then gave up and let himself relax back onto the ground.
No more than a few minutes passed in absolute silence before there was a loud bang, muffled, something heavy striking earth, and Mac's entire body flinched as cold air swept against him. Thudding footsteps approached and Mac could do nothing as he was roughly grabbed by his elbows and hauled into a sitting position. His chest wasn't ready for the movement, none of him was, and Mac curled over in a coughing fit.
It didn't matter. He was propelled by his biceps from the room, bare feet dragging across rough earth, still coughing. They tugged him this way and that, every change of direction more painful to his abdomen than the last, and Mac grunted as his feet crashed into what felt like a thick wooden beam. His captors reversed direction, dragging him backward over the threshold, and then his arms were hauled above his head, and Mac scrambled to get his stinging yet somehow still unresponsive feet to take some of his weight as his wrists were secured to what felt a lot like a metal S hook hanging in open space.
His captors removed their burning hands, and Mac's arms were forced to take his weight. His lungs didn't care much for that, either.
They let him hang there, coughing, for a while. By the time Mac caught his breath, he'd managed to get his feet beneath him and one of his hands wrapped around the hook. It wasn't comfortable, but at least he didn't feel like his arms were going to be torn out of socket. There was a bitter taste in his mouth but there was no iron-heavy flavor to it, and Mac was forced to conclude that he was more or less okay. Cold, sore, and potentially an actual prisoner rather than a trainee, but basically intact.
Without warning someone slapped him hard on the ass, bare skin stinging, and Mac was forced to also conclude that the only scrap of fabric he was wearing was on his head.
Stripped naked in a stress position. That tracked with both simulated and actual enemy capture.
"I did not know there was a woman among you," an unfamiliar, accented male voice announced, from somewhere on Mac's right. He didn't sound terribly close, and the benefit to being completely naked was that Mac was hyper aware of the movement of air around his body. There wasn't much of a breeze, meaning the people in the cell with him were keeping relatively still.
And it was definitely people. Minimum two; he was going to guess a third was planning to surprise him later into the interrogation.
Sure enough, painfully hot fingers cupped his chest from behind, searching for and pinching his nipples, and Mac couldn't help a startled flinch.
Simulated sexual assault was permitted but only in C-level SERE courses, with extremely limited –
The hands on his pecs completely distracted him, and the shocking, stinging strike to his lower abdomen with something wide and flat – it felt like a phone book – had him choking on coughs. He was held from behind, unpleasantly intimately, as he struggled to catch his breath. Those too-hot fingers walked down his chest, probing the gap between each of his ribs, pressing hard into the bruises he was sure were there, and Mac wondered if the person was actually examining him for cracked or broken bones.
Then he wondered if that was just what he hoped was happening.
"You are more flat chested than I prefer," the voice off to his right continued, "but surely you are a woman, yes? No cock and balls in sight."
Which told Mac how long he'd been lying naked in a cold cell. It had to be morning of the following day. So if this was all just a mindfuck, all just staged to make his unit believe they really had been sold by contractors to Al Qaeda –
Then this was the beginning of day two, and this hell would be over in sixty or so hours.
The person behind him bumped their groin hard into his backside, sending him stumbling forward, and Mac forced himself to remain calm, carefully finding his balance again. Striking out at them was what they wanted, and it would only earn him more slaps.
Or worse, if this wasn't training, if this was an actual abduction situation –
"But I love the dimples over your ass cheeks," the man continued, his smile audible in his voice. "Maybe if I fuck you on your belly I can still make use of you."
Well, at least then it'll be clear whether this is training or reality . . .
The person holding him from behind dropped their hands low on his hips and jerked him back, so that they were supporting part of his body weight. Mac refused to make a sound.
The fingers on his hip bones tapped thoughtfully, but whoever it was behind him didn't speak.
"Or maybe," the male voice continued, "maybe you can be useful in other ways."
Not likely.
"You see, I know it was you." The fingertips on his hip bones began drawing lazy circles before stretching across his lower abdomen, running their fingers through the short hairs there before withdrawing with light scratches of their fingernails against his shivering skin. And Mac suddenly realized exactly what that person was trying to accomplish.
It's all just humiliation tactics. He forced himself to keep up as slow and steady breaths as the hot, stale air in the hood and his shivering body would let him.
"You're the one that figured it out. Maybe you didn't make that little bomb, and maybe you did. But you're the one who realized that something was going to happen. The youngest. The runt. The woman that doesn't belong like the other men do."
Mac opened his eyes in the hood and stared hard at the blackness. Culturally speaking, the Pashtos – or any local Afghan tribe – comparing him to a woman was almost the most insulting thing they could do to one of their own. Calling him a 'runt', calling him too young to fight with the 'real' men, all of that was supposed to be infuriating. In all honesty it wasn't even half as bad as Donnie's bullying back in high school, but he knew they were just getting started.
On the next pass, the fingertips on his skin trailed a little lower, and Mac couldn't help jumping away from the unwanted, almost pleasant touch.
This time the punishment for flinching was a strike across the face through the hood, again with the phone book, completely unexpected. Mac hadn't even begun to brace; his head, neck, and upper torso were wrenched to the right by the force of it, and the hands on his lower stomach, the body pushed up behind him again supported him, cradled him as he coughed and struggled to regain his balance.
"I want to know how you knew. And don't worry," and suddenly the man's voice was getting closer, though Mac heard no footsteps at all. "You can tell me. They won't suspect. They all think you're dead."
Demoralization and isolation. Standard psyop techniques. It was straight out of the textbook, right up until those fingernails curled into his Rectus abdominis, swirling the hairs there before digging deep.
And Mac flinched.
-M-
1027 HOURS, THURSDAY, BAGRAM AIR BASE
Specialist Stinson rounded the corner with his nose in a clipboard, and he gave Jack the barest of glances before he went back to it. "Not supposed to be back here, soldier." There was a funny little waver at the very end, like his throat had figured out who it was talking to before his brain did, and once his startled eyes came up and stayed up, Dalton rewarded him with a toothy smile.
"Y'know, a lotta folks mix this beauty up with its slightly smaller cousin," he drawled, angling the seven inch blade in his hand casually against the tent's overhead lights. "They dulled the finish on purpose, even when it's wet this steel won't give you away."
Stinson's eyes dropped to the knife, then back up to Jack's face. " . . . like I said. You can't be back here."
"SOG started makin' 'em back in '92, special for the SEALs. They tagged it the 'SEAL 2000' because . . ." Jack trailed off in thought. "Y'know. SEALs are big wimpy water babies who just wanted to rip off the Terminator, I guess."
The specialist crossed his arms – clipboard and all – and rocked back on his heels. "You back here reliving the glory days for any particular reason?"
Dalton laughed, and Stinson straightened a little. "Me? A SEAL? You're funny, Stinson." He deftly flipped the oiled blade into the air and caught it by the hilt, gesturing to the specialist with the tip as he casually advanced. "But lemme tell you, these knives, they don't just fall outta trees. This one was forged in Seki by Kinryu. In fact, they're such a popular tourist item, two of 'em were used in that Dartmouth college murder, those two professors about eight years ago?"
Jack took two steps forward, waggling the blade back and forth as he spoke. Stinson took a step back, and his arms slowly unfolded.
"Yeah?" His voice was flat, but this time not with boredom.
"Yeah, cops caught 'em because the sheath is so distinctive." Jack held it up in his left hand, appreciating the weight of it. "Lotta people mistake 'em for the SEAL Pup Elite, but that extra inch, now, you know how to use it and it goes a long way, know what I'm sayin'?"
The specialist just stared at him, and that suited Jack fine. "Course you do, strapping young man like yourself." He let his eyes fix on the specialist's very soft midsection. "You know, I do believe these knives are so distinctive, that I'd recognize one from thirty feet away if I saw it attached to someone's gear. I mean, you got these here exclusively just to resupply SEALs, right?" He raised the knife sharply, and Stinson mostly controlled his flinch.
"That's right." Finally, the specialist had the presence of mind to start getting cautious, and Jack mostly kept his smirk to himself.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. Can't issue these to just any Tom, Dick, and Harry. Not part of their MOS." Jack gusted out a sigh and regretfully sheathed the knife, not missing the way Stinson immediately relaxed. He almost tsked.
"It really burns me up to see these Air Force geardos struttin' around with the tools of the trade like they'd have the first inkling on how to use 'em. Know what I'm sayin'?" Jack gave the knife another fond look before placing it almost reverently back in its place on the shelf. Then he gusted out a sigh and clapped his hands, and this time Stinson did twitch. "Good thing you run such a tight ship here, Stinson. I'd really hate to find one of these on someone who won't treat her right. Might have to show 'em how to put that extra inch to use."
Dalton pasted on a wide, friendly smile, striding right up to the specialist before giving him a bracing pat on the shoulder that sent him backwards a step. "I know when my boy Mac gets back here, he won't find one little thing outta place or missin'. Certainly not one or two of those babies."
Jack actually passed the specialist before he managed to find his voice. "Like I told him, he just got a bad shift."
"Yeah, I'm sure it was just a one-off," Jack said agreeably, casually looping the counter. "And it's not like any ol' fool can get into the good shit back there without you seein' 'em. Glad to know you got eyes on. Carry on, specialist." Then he breezed out into the stifling afternoon heat.
He all but strutted out about thirty meters to round the corner of the commissary, like he had no particular place to be, and picked a nice piece of wall to hold up while he waited. The specialist wouldn't wait long, and his shift was over in fifteen anyway. He had forty-eight hours to clean up house before Mac would be back insisting on that inventory. The very first thing Stinston was gonna do was head for his stash of stolen goods to make it disappear. Then he'd warn his customers to lay low. After Jack put the thumbscrews on a couple of 'em, they'd tell him exactly how to find the guy who knew every little thing about every little thing coming onto and off of this base.
It was almost too easy.
On his left, the commissary door swung open, and Jack glanced over idly, taking in the perfectly normal BDUs, the sandy uniform boots with their –
Their single knotted bootlaces. That would undoubtedly untie themselves before the wearer could make it back to the barracks.
Jack let his eyes travel up the figure's waist to a bulge sitting light in the right thigh pocket, and a glint of metal on the man's wrist. By the time he got to his face, he found the man's eyes already on him.
There was surprise there, but not enough of it. "Damn, you're still alive?"
Jack pushed off the wall and twisted his mouth like he was about to spit out something sour. "You must've fucked up something major to get assigned out here, son."
The two men sized each other up, and then Jack felt his face split into a wide grin, and former CIA operative Brandon Gates responded in kind.
"Good to see you, Dalton."
"Likewise."
The men engaged in a handshake, with none of the usual power play involved – Gates knew he'd get his ass kicked – and Jack led him a little distance from the door. "But I stand by what I said. What – or maybe who - the fuck did you do to get exiled out to this hellhole?"
The younger man laughed. "Easy, Tex. This isn't a permanent assignment. Just passing through."
"Yeah?"
"I mean, we got our man." Something caught Gates' attention, and Jack carefully didn't follow his gaze. "Bin Laden's dead, security will start transitioning to Karzai. We've got other fish to fry."
"Yeah, but not many places on earth you can fry 'em just by settin' em down in front of an open window." Jack waited until he had the lion's share of Brandon's attention again. "I thought you got out."
"I thought you did too," Gates said, his mouth crooked in a knowing smile. "I heard about Chechnya."
Now it was Jack's turn to find something interesting to stare at. "Yeah, I just bet you did."
"I feel like there's something apropos to say here . . . out of the frying pan and into the fire? Fire and ice?" Gates chuckled a little. "Speaking of what – or who – you fucked-"
"Webber? Are you kidding?!" Jack barely remembered to keep his voice down. "That Hunn was my station chief in South America for eighteen months, and that was plenty long enough to know I don't want any part of that. Besides, heard she'd moved on to DHS. That where you are now?"
Brandon's casual tone didn't change at all, but somehow sharpened. Just a little. "So many questions, Dalton. You lookin' for a change of scenery?"
It was the first thing he'd said since he'd clapped eyes on Gates that he didn't have to think about, didn't have to worry about an angle, didn't have to do anything but the automatic, absolute truth. "Nope. I'm good here."
Gates nodded, and again, there wasn't much surprise in it. "To each their own. Me, I like a relative humidity in the double digits, not single."
Jack scoffed. "Apparently there's an opening in South America . . ." He trailed off. "Why are you here, Gates?"
The agent offered Jack an easy grin, an easy shrug. "Seriously, just passing through. Be here a couple days max. We should get together before I go, have a drink." He made a show of glancing at the commissary. "You . . . I mean, you do have drinks here, right? Real honest to god drinks?"
"You want middle shelf, you shoulda brought it with you. Shoulda remembered that from last time."
Gates groaned. "Don't remind me. And don't look now, but your mark's on the move."
"Subtle." Jack did, however, casually shift just enough to confirm. Sure enough, Stinson was hoofing it towards the barracks.
Brandon was watching him as well. "About as subtle as a Delta holding up a wall. You are definitely out of practice, ol' boy."
Jack offered an easy shrug of his own. "I'm not in that business anymore. Y'know, like you're just passin' through."
"Like a fart in the wind, scout's honor." Gates threw him a V, Star Trek style, and Jack scoffed. Loudly. "Take care, Dalton. And I'm serious about that drink."
"Yeah." Jack used the excuse to meander after the specialist, and after about ten paces a fortuitously parked MP provided Dalton a well-placed side mirror.
Brandon Gates was nowhere in sight.
Jack didn't let his stride change in the slightest, giving Stinson a head start. No reason not to work the angle, after all. Jack was more likely to get equipment lists out of some private than he was Gates. And now it was less of a nice to have, and more of a must have.
If the CIA – or whoever Gates was working for now - was on base, whatever was happening was going to go down soon. Gates wasn't surprised to see him, clearly knew he'd be there - and why. If US intelligence was freezing Martinez out, it meant they knew the colonel wasn't going to support whatever they were up to.
Which meant Jack sure as hell wasn't gonna like it much, either.
-M-
? HOURS, THURSDAY, LOCATION UNKNOWN
By the time they took him off the S hook, Mac wasn't sure he could have raised his trembling arms high enough to get the hood off his head even if his hands weren't still bound. He stumbled to his knees and they let him. Mac took the welcome opportunity to rest.
It didn't last long.
"Make sure the woman is dressed. I wouldn't want the men to take advantage of her, when she's been so cooperative." Even through the Middle Eastern accent, the lilt of sarcasm was detectable, and Mac somehow dredged up the energy to grin, just a little.
And hey, he might end up in a dress, but at least it was clothes. It wouldn't even be the first time.
Memories of Bozer, clutching his knees and howling with laughter as he'd caught his first glimpse of Mac in one of Penny's evening gowns, broadened Mac's grin somewhat. It vanished when something rough, the texture of burlap, was jammed over his head and shoulders. Mac flinched, he couldn't help it, and braced for the hit – this time on his back. Even prepared, it still managed to make him cough, and he was forcefully shoved onto his chest. Any hope of regaining that smile died as he realized the fabric that his upper body had been stuffed into restricted his ability to throw out his elbows, to defend himself –
His ankles were grabbed and yanked out from beneath him, throwing him prone onto his stomach, and Mac barely kept the yell of surprise and pain to himself. They hadn't gone all that much further with the simulated assault than the handbook said they could, hadn't –
Surely they weren't going to –
But then more rough fabric pooled on his feet, and some kind of wide-legged trousers were pulled up around his ankles and legs. Mac had just enough wiggle room to twist his hips up before some very sensitive flesh would have been caught – and whether they meant to catch it or not he still wasn't quite sure – and then the pants were cinched tight with what felt like twine.
His biceps were grabbed once again, and Mac was dragged back to his feet. His hands were still bound in front of him, and he felt them roughly grabbed through the burlap before he heard the familiar snikt of a switchblade. Mac held himself absolutely still, and after an eternity his hands were forced up, and whatever was binding him – probably rope – was sliced through.
His freedom was very short-lived. He swung his freed hands upwards, hoping to catch one of his interrogators in the chin, but the move was blocked and he took a cuff to his left ear for his trouble. It was surprisingly painful, and while Mac was working on not making a sound, his separated hands were stuffed into the short sleeves of his burlap tunic, and this time zip-tied back together behind his back.
After that, he was propelled from the chilly interrogation room. This time Mac managed to guess where the doorway threshold was, and only clipped the toes on his left foot as he stepped over.
His two jailers didn't speak to him; they led him through a winding maze of what felt like uneven dirt hallways, some areas still with invisible thresholds that he was deliberately forced to trip over. He had a general feeling of walking uphill, but he never felt the heat of sun through his black hood.
He did, however, feel some temperature changes on the bare skin of his forearms. Sometimes the air warmed temporarily. Which meant it was coming from outside.
The surface, he surmised. All those shipping containers on the Triple Canopy grounds, hiding underground tunnels. He was still right where he'd started.
It was just training. That was all.
Gradually soft sounds penetrated his hood, strikes against something hard. Grunts. He was dragged to a stop and then a door was opened, sucking the air of the tunnel towards it rather than the other way around, and the sounds grew much louder.
It sounded like someone was getting pounded, but the grunts that accompanied it were more like effort than pain.
Without warning the hood on his head was yanked off, and Mac instinctively squeezed his eyes shut. The air was downright cold against his sweating face, and Mac sucked down as deep a breath as he was able, relishing the cool swirling in his burning lungs.
He was spun back towards the door, forcing him to squint his eyes open into remarkably bearable light, and someone slit the zip ties on his wrists. Mac blinked a few times, still wary, and the traditionally garbed Al Qaeda fighter in front of him thrust a short wooden stick into his hands.
"Dig!" he commanded, and before Mac could even get a good grip on the thing, let alone use it as a club, he was forcefully spun by someone behind him, and shoved hard into the space.
Mac stumbled, but it was much easier to catch himself now that he could see, and there was the feeling of air breezing by as the door was yanked shut. The light in the space stayed about even – probably dim, but it was plenty to MacGyver's light-starved pupils – and he made out a cave about twenty meters deep, just barely tall enough for him to stand straight. Near the back of it were seven other men, shirtless and barefoot but wearing the same loose-fitting trousers as he was, all staring at him.
The rest of his class.
Mac took another deep breath of the stale – but much cooler – air, and looked back to find a sturdy wooden door, planks lashed together with actual iron hinges and a kickplate.
And another Al Qaeda fighter, face covered with a scarf, running his thumb lovingly along the barrel of an AK hanging from his neck.
Right.
Mac turned back to the rest of his unit, wrapping his fingers around the club-like, fifteen inch length of wood in his hands, and then he took in the similar tools in the hands of the other EOD techs, and realized they really were supposed to use them as tools. The dirt and rock walls and ceiling bore rounded strike marks, not chiseled ones.
That was what the pummeling sound had been. They were literally hitting the rocks and dirt with blunt sticks in an effort to dig a new tunnel.
More demoralization techniques. Give them an impossible task, and then have an excuse to punish them for not completing it.
"So you are here," Gutiérrez huffed, rolling his shoulders back. His tone was stilted and flat.
"Slummin' it like the rest of us," an out of breath Charlie confirmed, in a much more friendly tone of voice. He was also shirtless, and the cut on the back of his head was unbandaged, clearly raised and swollen. "You okay?"
"Sure he is, not a mark on 'im. Nice threads," Eli Dickens added sarcastically.
And then Mac felt the air pressure in the tunnel shift as the AK was fired.
It was a single round, deafening in the small space, and Mac found himself in the dirt once more – this time of his own free will. The rest of his team had done the same, and once the echo of the shot faded, the only sound was the rattle of a few pieces of dirt and rock falling to the tunnel floor.
"No talk," their guard snapped, and Mac heard him cycle another round – another live round - into the chamber of the obviously semi-automatic AK. "You work. Work!"
The other techs climbed laboriously to their feet, and Mac did the same. Most of them turned their backs on him, and continued ineffectually whacking the walls of the tunnel, trying in vain to enlarge the space.
The only man who didn't was Charlie. Not until Mac gave him a subtle nod.
I'm okay.
Charlie gave him a little nod back, and made room for him along the wall. With nothing left to do, Mac eyed the sandy dirt and got to work.
It only took a few side-eyes from the unit for Mac to get the message. His interrogator told him the rest of his unit thought he was dead, but this was not the look you gave your recently resurrected buddy. It wasn't quite hostile, but it definitely wasn't friendly.
They thought he was in on it.
And of course they did. He'd been the one who tipped them off. Casually passed notes telling them what he thought was going to happen. Prepped the bandanas to help them against the teargas. Tactically acquired the coffeepot, latrine cleaner, aluminum foil coffee pouches, and dish soap. Hell, he'd even gotten up at two am to pee, just to check the four windows and latrine door for any indication that he was right, and they were going to get a very rude awakening.
And he'd been shot. Right in the vest, right in front of them. And gone down just like he would've if they'd been firing real bullets.
Because they had been firing real bullets. He had the possibly-broken ribs to prove it.
It was right out of the textbook. The enemy would seek to sow distrust among the POWs to discourage them from communicating with each other, trusting each other, working together. One of them had to be painted the team snitch, and Mac wasn't surprised he was the lucky winner.
A glance down the work line showed that both the Smith twins – working on opposite sides of the tunnel - and Isidoro Alvera had red marks on their wrists, a mirror to Mac's own. So he wasn't the only one who'd been through an interrogation. Mac wondered idly if they'd given him up or stayed silent like he had, then deliberately forced that thought from his mind.
His own interrogators would have gloated if they had. And he wasn't about to start doing their work for them. Even if several of his teammates didn't feel the same.
Instead, Mac focused on his task, which was not really trying all that hard without visibly slacking off in front of their guard. He found most of his teammates were doing the same, and they passed a fairly boring few minutes before anyone felt like it was safe to whisper.
"Where the hell you been?"
He dragged his stick down the wall, dislodging just as much sand and dirt with the motion as he would have by striking it. It wasn't much, but it took less energy and made more noise.
"Interrogation." Mac angled his wrist just so and watched Smith, A's eyes flick to it before he went back to work.
"So why the act?"
Mac grimaced and his left hand strayed to the hem of his burlap shirt – an article of clothing no one else had, again proving that Mac had cooperated somehow to 'earn' it. And he was surprised how reluctant he was to pull it up. Showing would be better than telling, but he felt almost more exposed wearing it than he had during the hours before.
He forced himself to bring up the hem of the shirt and used it to wipe imaginary grit from his face, not looking at any of them as the itchy fabric was dragged high up his chest.
Hearing was enough.
Dropping it back into place quickly, Mac visibly stepped up his efforts, scratching a large 'X' on the dirt in front of him before chipping away at the triangles. Even though the rough burlap wasn't doing much, he still didn't want the guard to have a reason to take it away.
"Damn. You a'aight?"
This time it sounded like Bobby Z actually cared about the answer, and Mac gave a quick dip of his chin. While the cave didn't grow significantly warmer, the frosty atmosphere thawed.
-M-
1447 HOURS, THURSDAY, BAGRAM AIR BASE
Three MPs suddenly exploded out the door, throwing themselves into the jeep like their brick and mortar building was imminently in need EOD intervention. The motor turned over with a roar, and Jack closed his eyes and suspended his breathing as a cloud of moondust was tossed into the air.
Honestly, if there had been less sand on the asphalt, they might have even managed to squeal tires.
A few enlisted hopped out of the path of the speeding MPs, and Jack used the distraction to walk nice as you please around the corner and right into the small security office. Then he did an about face, drew the blinds fully closed, and did what the MPs hadn't; he locked the door.
Jack then clapped his hands together and surveyed his situation.
"Three desks, three chairs, three laptops, and - bingo." An innocent looking mini fridge was huddled under one of the desks, and Jack helped himself to a chilled can of soda as he sank onto the metal chair and tapped the space bar on the laptop a couple times.
Only the head honcho would be permitted to have a fridge, so it stood to reason this was the computer he needed.
The laptop came to life immediately, with the usual login screen, and Jack slurped down about half the can and got to work. Plenty of paper on the desk, but after rifling through the piles there weren't any handwritten notes. A small photo of a smiling blonde with a tow-headed little boy captured in her arms was taped to the corner of the laptop's monitor. Jack idly flipped it over, but there was no writing on the back. He let it flip back into place, frowning at the desk, then picked up the laptop itself.
Nothing beneath it but some moon dust, and the corner of a yellow sticky note was just visible on the right side, under the placey where you would stick a CD in. Jack crowed to himself and rescued it, quickly entering the credentials scrawled there.
"C'mon, guys, even I know that trick," he chided them, pleased when the lock screen faded and he was presented with the homepage for the CAC system.
Of course, getting access wasn't quite the same as using.
"Okay, ol' Jackie boy, let's try . . . Reports?" The Common Access Card system – CAC – was used across all DoD installations, including all US military bases, regardless of branch. If the three guys he'd sent hoofing it across base were smart enough to use it, so was he.
Of course, every time he'd ever had a reason to be in it, he'd been making himself a counterfeit badge, and this was new territory.
Reports turned out to be a good guess, and Jack was presented with a screen asking him for date ranges and locations of access. The menus were drop downs, and it was easy to figure out exactly what he needed.
All badge accesses for contractor Gates, Brandon in the past thirty-one days.
Jack sipped his soda while the report built, eyeing the tired looking Xerox machine in the corner behind the door before his eyes shifted up to the clock on the wall. 1450 hours. Gave him comfortably another ten to fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to get what he needed without having to print and schlep all that paper.
The screen spat out a series of badge access points, and Jack scanned the oldest first. Gates had swiped onto base two days ago. Since then he'd been a busy little bee. In and out of the TOC, officer's quarters, commissary, armory, the chapel, the mess, the POL, made a couple barracks visits –
Including two of the barracks Jack had just finished visiting.
On a whim, Jack left the window open, and ran a second report, this one on Stinson. Obviously there was a lot of overlap, including both the barracks. But there was no mystery there; after Jack . . . explained . . . the situation, Stinson's customers had been happy to give him up. They were going to be less happy when those MPs showed up thinking they'd gotten their hands on illegally obtained firearms and explosives, but they shouldn't have been purchasing stolen goods to begin with, so that was on them.
Either way, it didn't look like Stinson and Gates had ever been in the same place at the same time. Whatever Gates was here for, it didn't look like it had anything to do with Stinson and his little inventory skimming operation.
Then Jack felt his eyebrows draw together. ". . . now why were you in the POL, specialist?"
Petroleum, Oils, and Lubricants had nothing to do with EOD. In fact, they were basically on opposite sides of the base, and for good reason. And sure, if you were stealing from inventory no reason not to believe you weren't the kinda rat fucker that would steal fuel –
But who would he sell it to? Specialist Stinson never left the base.
Jack went back to the reports, and this time pulled an access log for the POL facility. Not a short list. Jack ran a finger down the laptop screen, scanning the names for any of Stinson's other known customers, and paused at an access for Contractor Triple Canopy; Bowman, John. He felt his frown deepen.
"Shit, we sell you gas, too?" Jack was about to bypass it when he saw the date. Not yesterday, when Trip Canopy's bus had pulled through.
It was from Monday.
"Right . . . you boys stop by two days before and three days after." Prolly cheaper to gas up on the base than civilian stations. He kept scanning, and his eyes found the same Bowman, John, the Saturday two days before.
So closing up the previous class before onboarding Mac's unit.
The date niggled at him, and Jack stared blankly at the screen, hoping for inspiration. His wandering eyes found Gates' name; he'd accessed the POL the day he'd arrived, which was a Tuesday, and spent seventeen minutes at the facility. That was a long time to fuel up, and motor pool should have done it for him.
The POL was a fairly large building, a permanent structure, and Jack leaned back in the chair and finished off his soda. Lotta people in and out, big building, and a place a thief, a contractor, and a spook all visited.
Whatever he was looking for was probably in there. Stinson had gone to check out the new wares for himself, and if Gates wanted to fly under Martinez's nose, involving Triple Canopy contractors to do his dirty work in country lined up with the way US intelligence operated. Particularly if they were going to loan, say, Mac's EOD unit to said contractors to accomplish the mission, something Martinez would never sign off on.
Jack closed all the windows and then stared blankly at the keyboard. There was some kinda key combination to make the screen lock, but damned if he could think of it. Prolly it would just time out and the screen saver would come on. A glance at the clock said he still had seven whole minutes before he needed to worry about those MPs getting back.
Hopefully enough time.
Jack crushed the empty soda can and stuffed the metal in his pocket to dispose of later, then thought better of it and cracked open the fridge to get himself another. Second soda acquired, Jack rocked to his feet and gave the office a once-over. It wasn't until he was fixing the blinds that it occurred to him why Saturday stood out in his mind.
Saturday was the day the encrypted radio handset had supposedly gone out to Dwyer. And Monday was the day the clackers supposedly went out to Kandahar. Both useful for clandestine military operations.
Triple Canopy had been on the base both days.
Jack unlocked the door and casually walked right out, far too used to the stifling heat to react to the wall of hot air that slapped him in the face. He turned left, cracking open the second soda and taking a big swig before heading straight for the building about two hundred yards away, marked Petroleum, Oils and Lubricants.
-M-
? HOURS, THURSDAY, LOCATION UNKNOWN
Mac's brain found solace in the textbook like it would an earworm, constantly playing the rules of engagement and enemy tactics on a neverending loop as he mindlessly chipped away at the wall.
Being held in a cave. No indication of natural light. It was wrecking his body's circadian rhythm, and making it hard to estimate time. While he was pretty sure he probably had passed out last night – yesterday? – it had been unconsciousness, not sleep, and the constant, repetitive task combined with the interrogation he'd suffered earlier and the physical trauma of being shot had his body exhausted and crying for food and water.
Chip, chip, chip. More dirt falling onto the tops of his feet.
They came for them, one by one. Eli was the last one taken, it had to have been an hour ago. Right now there were only five of them, trying to accomplish their impossible task down three teammates.
Food could be entirely withheld during C-level SERE training, but water could not. It would cause a buildup of potassium in the blood, lead to heart arrhythmia and too much danger of a medical emergency. They had to give them water soon. He hadn't had a drop since –
The barracks. He'd gotten up at two am because of his hydration preparation, and even then he'd downed another glass of water before crawling back into his cot. It was the last water he'd had, and Mac swallowed around his sore throat and somehow dragged his arms in another large X.
Chip, chip, chip.
Beside him, Isidoro Alvera did the same. It hadn't taken the team long to agree that Mac's technique netted them far better results than flat striking, and it was also much easier on their bodies. They were still burning plenty of calories, but even though he was fully clothed Mac was not hot enough to sweat. The tunnels were quite cool despite the manual labor, and Bobby Z looked like he was just on the right side of shivering.
It occurred to Mac there was no latrine bucket. None of them had complained of needing to urinate. They were losing most of their water just to breathing the dry air.
In Dune the characters had had to carefully recycle all their water, including their exhalations. Mac thought he'd known how dry the air could be, but here in the relative cool of underground, it snuck up on you. How the air could be dry and stuffy at the same time was a new one on him.
Mac paused, rolling his head on his sore shoulders in an effort to rest without being punished, and eyed the cave wall around him. Dim lighting. Helping to further disassociate them with the passage of time. Lots of shadows and crevices. Lots of places to hide a vent. There had to be some kind of air exchange going on, this many men exerting themselves should have warmed the space by now and they should all have headaches as oxygen levels dipped while the door was closed.
He wasn't sure how that information helped them.
Chip, chip, chip.
"Hey. We gotta shovel."
He obediently stumbled back, only then aware of the large pile of dirt, sand, and small rocks covering his feet. Smith, A had made a mark in the wall, showing where they'd started, and Mac was stunned to see their combined efforts had expanded the tunnel by a foot.
And all that dirt and sand and rock had to go somewhere.
With no direction from their guard, Charlie had made the executive decision to arrange the mounds of dirt in a kind of berm along one wall, the same wall the doorway opened toward. That way it would be easier for them to carry it by bucket out of the room when they were inevitably required to do so.
Charlie had been taken away hours ago, but no one saw any reason to deviate from this plan. Therefore Mac curled his cold-stiffened toes a few times, then used his feet as a bulldozer, shoving the piles of dirt and sand to the opposite side of the cave. It would be more efficient to use the burlap shirt as a scoop, but he just couldn't bring himself to willingly sacrifice the garment, and mercifully none of his teammates had suggested it.
And that was so stupid. Deliberately making things more difficult just because he wanted to hide his body from people who'd already seen it. He'd be just as shirtless as the other men around him, they regularly played pick-up games that way on the FOB, hell he'd been in showers with all of these guys.
And it didn't matter. He didn't want to take off the shirt.
One more technique straight out of the book. Encouraging prisoners to hoard scarce resources from the others rather than pooling them for the greater good. His interrogators had made sure to inflate the value of that burlap to him, when in reality anyone could take it from him at any time. It wasn't really his. Keeping it was a way for him to feel like he could exert control over his environment, and they'd probably let him keep it until he'd just started to get used to it before taking it away.
And even knowing that, knowing it in his brain, it did nothing for the tense feeling in his gut at the idea of giving it up.
Mac said nothing and shuffled the dirt piles around like the rest of his teammates.
The air pressure shifted as the door was forced open, and all five of them stopped what they were doing, half-heartedly raising their hands as the guard in the cave with them brought up the AK. It was hard to tell the men playing Al Qaeda apart, though Mac hadn't stopped trying. This one's headscarf was a faded blue.
He seemed to be the one who collected men for interrogation. And clearly Mac wasn't the only one paying attention to that, because Bobby Z - the last of them to be interrogated – shuffled a few steps forward.
In response, Blue Scarf yanked a knife from his waist, and Robert stopped dead in his tracks.
He said something harsh in Pashto, and the guard with the AK replied. There was a second statement, a little quieter, and the guard with the AK definitely replied in the affirmative. Blue Scarf asked a question. The guard answered.
Blue Scarf focused back on the group, and though his mouth was hidden, the scorn and disapproval was thick in his voice. "You were told to work, not gossip like women! You are worthless dogs!"
"Cool. Guess you should let us out before we dirty up the place," Bobby Z shot back with a cocky jerk of his chin. Alvera chuckled.
Blue Scarf also responded with a sharp laugh. "Clean up this mess, dog. Now!" he barked, when none of them moved.
Mac let his eyes wander the cave, first to the piles of dirt and stone, then to the walls. Cleaning dirt tracked with 'impossible tasks'. ". . . got a pressure washer?"
Blue Scarf's cold green eyes shifted to MacGyver. "Do it quickly, or you will have no food or drink!"
They weren't going to get food anyway, but water, however unlikely, was enough of an incentive to make them move. Mac wasn't quite sure how to make a pile of dirt 'clean', but at the very least they could make it neat. Blue Scarf turned and stalked out of the room, and Mac thought that was going to be the end of it before a stained plastic bucket was lobbed into the cave from outside.
Smith, L was the closest man to it, and rightened it, peering inside. It had once been white, but that was long ago; the handle had broken off at some point and its total volume was maybe two gallons. "We're gonna need a bigger boat."
The guard with the AK jerked the rifle at him. "You, carry. Carry!"
Smith, L rolled his eyes but put the bucket in a scooping position, and Smith, A shoveled dirt into it. "C'mon, Cal, Jaws? You're slipping."
"You come up with a Star Wars quote about needing a bigger ship."
"You're gonna haul dirt with that? You're braver than I thought."
Every head in the room – including their guard's – swiveled to look at Isidoro Alvera, who was using his feet like a soccer player to move dirt from the back of the cave towards their central pile.
Smith, A thumbed over his shoulder to the man. "See that? Even the dego can out-quote you."
Mac knew Aaron didn't mean it as a slur; it was unlikely that their captors hadn't noticed Alvera's accent by now, but it was also highly unlikely an Afghan would know an old American derogatory term for Italian immigrants. Just like Smith, A had called his brother by his nickname. Cal, rather than Landon.
Name, rank, birthdate, serial number. It was the only information – or at least the only factual information - they were allowed to give enemy interrogators. And if they wanted a name, they were going to have to earn it.
Like, say, giving them some water.
"Yeah, we'll see," Smith, L huffed, hefting up the bucket and glancing out the main door. Mac followed his gaze to see that an old wheelbarrow was out there.
Right. So fill up the wheelbarrow, and then . . . ? There would have to be a ramp of some kind to get it out of the tunnel system.
Beside the wheelbarrow was Blue Scarf, and he made a production of shaking his loose sleeve off his wrist to glance at his watch – or rather, one of their watches. At this distance Mac couldn't tell whose it was, and it didn't matter. His was basic Army issue, it did the job and he could get as many as he wanted from Uniform when his inevitably were used for a disposal. As far as he was concerned, Blue Scarf could keep it.
The man tilted his head consideringly. "One minute!" he announced.
Without conscious thought the unit formed a human assembly line, but with only one container to pass along, Mac knew immediately that they wouldn't be successful. It was an impossible task for a reason, they were going to exert and further exhaust themselves for nothing, but at the same time, that spark of what Jack called his 'muley-ness' just couldn't let that kind of challenge go.
Because it wasn't impossible, all they needed was –
The shirt off his back.
Even with no evidence that Blue Scarf had anything to do with his interrogation, Mac smirked at him, then yanked the burlap shirt over his head and quickly straightened it flat, it so the fabric was two layers thick. Bobby Z was standing right beside him and immediately got the message, using his hands to shovel a large peak of dirt onto the fabric sling. The arm and neck holes had just been slits in the bag's seam, and didn't cause any issues.
In fact, the burlap sling held more volume than the bucket. Three more passes of each and the dirt berm was transferred. Mac was just winded enough that he didn't even miss the scant heat the shirt had provided, though his skin was prickled with goosebumps. At the end of the line, Smith, L tossed the last bucketful of dirt into the now-full wheelbarrow and threw his arms into the air like a football ref. "And goooooooaaaaaaaal!"
He was promptly kicked in the knee, laterally, and then shoved to the ground by Blue Scarf, but outside of a half-stifled grunt of pain, he somehow managed to keep chuckling. The rest of them raised their arms again as their guard with the AK made it clear no one was going to be helping him up.
"Failure," Blue Scarf spat, though it was obviously a lie. Two more men came from the outside hall, faces covered and bearing zip ties, and Mac gave his dirty burlap sack a rueful look as he was spun at gunpoint and his hands were ziptied behind him. In a line, they were marched to the door, where Blue Scarf produced a handful of black hoods.
Once again blind, Mac stumbled along with his unit as they were hauled along a truly expansive set of tunnels. He was pretty sure there had to be a loop somewhere, but he took an equal number of right and left turns, meaning some of those turns had to be less than ninety degrees. It was designed to be disorienting, and they'd done a great job. He still committed every turn – and threshold - to memory.
Eventually he was jerked to a stop, hearing only the breathing of his unit around him, and then what sounded distinctly like a school locker door banged open. Moving air against his chest caused Mac to jerk himself back a little, and then he was shoved forward and managed to skin both his shoulders on a rough, narrow metal frame. He crashed into the back of it after a single step, and then the metal doors were slammed shut behind him, and he realized he really was standing inside a gym locker.
It wasn't his first time, but Mac really thought he'd put this part of his life behind him.
He managed to fold his shoulders enough to turn – awkwardly – and he explored what he could of the space with his hands still securely zip-tied behind him. The door mechanism did not exist on the inside, so there was nothing to manipulate or pick, and Mac experimentally tried to sit.
There was no hope. Even with his 'skinny little hips' the space was not wide enough to let him fold himself up. The best he could do was press his shoulders forward, lean against the back of the locker, and stretch his legs out as far in front of him as he could. The locker walls took some of his weight, but not enough, and the metal was frigid on his bare skin. No way he could sleep like this.
It was Al Qaeda's version of an individual tiger cage, Mac surmised. At least he was comforted by the fact that his sacrificed burlap shirt wouldn't have made much of a difference.
At first he thought that was all it was, but then the air pressure seemed to shift, he could have sworn he could actually feel it increase in weight against his skin. Oddly, his teeth started to tickle, and Mac clenched them together as the sensation increased from 'weird' to 'uncomfortable.' It was noticeably worse on the right side of his jaw than his left.
Beside him, he heard someone click their own teeth together a couple times. "Mi amica, you feel that?"
The second Alvera spoke, something banged against the locker door with startling force, and Mac straight-up jumped. The feeling of pressure around him grew, he could almost hear a high-pitched tone, and then his exhausted brain finally put it together.
High-pitched sound waves, set at a frequency that would resonate with the fillings in their teeth. High pitches wouldn't travel, distance-wise, as far as low, and the sandy dirt around them was an especially poor conductor.
They weren't going to get blasted with loud music all night. They were still going to have their teeth rattle out of their skull, all right, but it would be virtually undetectable above ground.
Mac sighed and leaned his temple against the locker wall, but that just made the vibrations in his teeth worse, and in the end he dipped his chin to his chest and clenched his jaw, trying to dampen the sensation as much as he could.
Molina had been right. They were in for a long night.
-M-
1532 HOURS, THURSDAY, BAGRAM AIR BASE
"Yeah, we drove in from Kabul. Real partial to that old piece of shit, you betcher ass she's comin' back home with me."
The enlisted behind the counter ducked his head in acknowledgement, flipping pages on his clipboard. "I hear you, sir, but we got no record of doing any work on your 'vee. You sure the motor pool sent her in for spec?"
Jack rolled his eyes. "Well she's sure as hell not parked where I left her, and they swore to me she wasn't issued out today, so she's either here or straight up AWOL."
"Yessir," the enlisted agreed vaguely, then he frowned and stuffed his pen between his ear and headcover. "I'll check the garage."
"You do that," Jack told him, making a production of turning and leaning against the counter like a man who had nothing better to do than wait.
The 'lobby' of the POL actually resembled the front office of a lot of tire and oil change places he knew back home. If those places also checked the windshield wiper fluid levels on a tank or an F-16. Rather than tires there were neat rows of two gallon cartons of motor oil and transmission fluid. The Michelin advertisement posters, however, were oddly similar, as were the two metal folding chairs near the door. One of them was even occupied.
Well, both, if you counted the fact that the man's feet were stretched across the second chair.
"Sup," Dalton greeted the corporal, and the man gave him a nod without looking up. Just like in the TOC the night before, his head was buried in a folder that Jack was pretty sure camouflaged either a naughty magazine or another comic book. "You sure do know the best places to take a load off."
He got another nod, as unhurried as the first. "You spill my secrets, sarge, I'll spill yours."
Jack held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I ain't gonna put a damn-damn on your day. You do you, just make sure you get my guys what we need when we call it in for our next op, you read?"
"Five by five," the corporal agreed placidly, turning the page on his less-than-Army-issue reading material.
The POL was another one of those buildings, like the TOC, that was temperature controlled, and it made for a great place to literally chill between assignments. Little stinky for Jack's taste, but he wasn't overly fond of diesel and oil fumes like some of the geardos he'd worked with, and honestly there weren't many buildings on a military base that he could honestly say smelled 'good'. Jack stuffed his hands in his pockets and wandered around the front room for a minute, then casually strode toward the back. As expected, the corporal didn't bat an eye.
Jack was right about the tank. Two of them, plus two mech infantry units, were in various states of disassembled. The fighter jets typically got their work done in the hangars, which was a shame because even disassembled a cockpit was a great place to kip. Which, Jack had to remind himself, was not the object of this game.
No, the object of this game was to find what was being hidden. Probably in plain sight.
There were a few mechanics working in their bays, but they were focused on the task at hand and easily avoided. Jack did a perimeter of the facility, taking special care to duck into side offices and the break room.
No folders lying around stamped Classified, no special snacks. Clothing in the locker room was standard Air Force issue, no tactical armor or boots in sight. No suits and dress shoes, either, not even a pair of go-fasters. Nothing to indicate that a spec ops group or US intelligence were hanging out there.
Jack meandered back into the main space, wondering if the set of crates behind one of the mech infs weren't in fact the spare parts they proclaimed themselves to be, and he caught sight of the enlisted he'd sent on the snipe hunt. Jack ducked down behind some shelving, watching between the cartons of degreaser until the man had crossed the large space and had his back to him.
There was no major equipment in here he wouldn't expect to see. So what the fuck was Gates doing in here?
Jack let his gaze fall to the mechanics, watching them at work before being forced to conclude that they were actually executing their MOS. So maybe they were just giving those vehicles some extra oomph and armor, kinda like Mac had done to their humvee?
A pair of tanks and two mechanical infantry units didn't tell him much. Short range mission, enough space for Mac's entire EOD unit and then some. Tank would only be necessary if they needed some ground obstacles cleared, and since it was an Air Force base, that sure as hell didn't make sense. Typically you'd default to a Blackhawk for a short range mission, not a tank, and if for some reason you feared that the target had decent air defenses, it definitely would have decent ground defenses.
There was nothing here. He had nothing.
Jack gusted out a frustrated sigh, watching the moon dust puff off the degreasers in front of his face. Apparently these guys were good at their jobs and didn't have to use the stuff often, and Jack grinned to himself and used a fingertip to draw a dick into the dust on the top of the three gallon carton. He ended up making it a little long for the space, so the balls were hanging off onto the next carton, and Jack frowned when he realized there wasn't enough sand on it to complete his childish masterpiece.
In fact, it was the only carton that was relatively dust-free.
Jack ran his finger along the top of the sealed cardboard, testing the tape, and when his fingernail caught a snag, the entire box shifted.
Empty.
Jack hesitated, then gently picked it up, and found that outside of the top and the four sides, the box was totally empty. It didn't even have a bottom.
Just an empty fake box sitting on a shelf that didn't get used much. Close enough to the front door to get to and big enough to duck behind if anyone came by.
It was a dead drop. Big enough to hide stolen goods, sure, but US Intelligence wouldn't give a shit about Stinson's little side hustle. Gates wasn't here for the specialist. And yet Gates had been here. So had Triple Canopy. Maybe looking for this.
Jack replaced it exactly as he found it, and exchanged the very full and very heavy dick pic carton for one from the shelf above, with its dust still intact. It was the best he could do in the circumstances.
Then he straightened, dusted off his hands, and marched himself back to the front room. The enlisted had poked his head outside the front door, evidently still looking for him, and Jack put a hip against the counter and cleared his throat.
The enlisted turned and gave him a strange look. The corporal didn't react at all.
"Sorry sir," the enlisted said slowly, glancing beyond Jack into the back area in obvious confusion. "I checked the back lot, and we don't have your 'vee."
"Well hell," Jack drawled, sucking on his front teeth in affected frustration. "Guess I'll go back to the motor pool and have another word with 'em. Real tight ship you fellas run here," he added sarcastically, shoving off the counter and ambling for the door. The enlisted held it open for him, and Jack gave him a little nod of acknowledgement. "Thanks for looking, though."
"Yessir." Jack heard the door close behind him, and he surveyed the base for a long moment before he chose his next destination.
-M-
NOTES: I think I might actually get this wrapped up by next chapter. This should have answered a question a few of you had – Mac was wearing his vest when he was shot, ergo Mac was wearing body armor. Which, as it turns out, saves your life but still exposes you to force equivalent to a car accident.
As always, I apologize to the military personnel who might be reading – I do the best I can to be factually accurate, and I'm really quite surprised the actual SERE Code of Conduct manual is available on the internet. Everything that's happening to our characters is coming straight out of it.