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Chapter Six
His clothes were soaked in blood and rain, his hair matted on top of his now sightless left-eye. His modified M4 assault rifle lay beside him, broken and forgotten. In his shaking, pale hands he clutched his last remaining weapon – his dog tags. As his last remaining teammates arrived next to him, he scanned the area immediately around them.
"Lieutenant," said one of the men. Sykes, was his name. "What's the plan, sir?" his voice broke on the last word. They were all tired, injured, and tired of fighting. They had all been in-country for months, almost an entire year. They had become friendly with the natives, had even met a couple of promising girls. That had all changed when one of the townspeople realized what they were, and had given them away.
They had left town that night, in full combat gear. They were ambushed as soon as they were past the gates – mowed down by concentrated machine gun fire. Twelve men had lost their lives, and the others had lain with them to preserve their own. Finally, the men who orchestrated the ambush left them for dead. As soon as they left, Sykes began work.
As the Team Six's designated corpsman, he ran through every soldier, living and dead, to try and help. He held the hand of a twenty-year-old newly-wed as he bled to death from a three-inch hole in his back. He stuffed the intestines of a screaming private back into his stomach in a vain attempt at saving his life. And then, when another soldier had stepped on a land mine, he had amputated both of his legs with bolt cutters.
Sykes, only twenty-four, was desperate to leave the fighting; to leave this god-forsaken country, and to be with his parents and siblings and nephews and nieces again. As the only remaining Commissioned Officer (CO), it was his job to get him back to them in one piece. So far, he was failing pretty miserably.
"I don't know, Sykes," was the man's reply. Before Sykes could answer, the man's dog tags became bathed in the corpsman's blood, as he fell to the ground with no head. And the fighting continued.
Mike Miters woke up with a gasp, his breaths coming fast and his heart out of control. It had been only a dream, however, so he composed himself. He did not deserve to wallow, for he had survived. Mike got out of his bed, and stumbled to the kitchen. Well, it really couldn't be called a kitchen. It had more of a resemblance to a broken-down, twenty-four hour happy hour bar.
He wrenched open his refrigerator, and grabbed the last remaining water bottle. The man downed the whole thing in one, and then collapsed on the floor. Blearily, he glanced up at the curtained window, and was surprised to see sunlight shining through. Judging by the quality of the light, it was about ten in the morning. Mike groaned and stood back up, focusing all of his energy into getting in the shower.
Before he could fall into the bathroom, however, his vibrating phone scared the hell out of him. Cursing wildly at the phone he had dropped, he glanced at the caller I.D.
"Work," said the small screen. He sighed, and flipped the phone open.
"Lieutenant Miters," he croaked, as he fell onto his bed.
"Miters, this is Alec," said the voice. Immediately, Mike perked up.
"What's up, Captain?" he asked, already jumping into his digital-camouflage Battle Dress Uniform (BDU).
"We're on call. Get your ass over to Andrews. You've got thirty minutes. And don't be late – this is a direct order from Mulholland."
"Hooah," grunted Mike, as he hung up the phone. He scrambled to his car, already fully dressed and alert. His heart-rate was spiked – this was the first call in a while. Being in the special forces community meant that you had to be reachable at all times, no exception. That's because the Special Forces worked like a delivery service – except that this was not the kind of pizza the bad guys were usually expecting.
Mike sped through the rush-hour traffic, contemplating the call. Alec, his CO, had said that this had come directly from Mulholland. Lieutenant General John Mulholland, the active director of United States Army Special Operations Command (USASOC), is the head honcho of the U.S. Army's Special Forces. After him is USSOCOM (United States Special Operations Command), and that's all of the Armed Force's special operations divisions. So if this was his order, then it was pretty important.
Mike arrived at Andrews AFB in ten minutes, and sprinted to the SF barracks. There, he was met by Alec, and another one of his teammates, Ramirez.
"Sup Mike?" they said, as he shook both of their hands. Rank seniority does not matter within the SF community as much as it does in the regular Army. "How's it going?"
"It's going," replied Mike curtly. Then he addressed Alec; "Sir – what's the plan?"
"Well," he began, as they sat down on the barrack's bunks. "You know that training stint we did in the everglades?" Miters and Ramirez both nodded and winced – that had sucked a lot. "Well, now I know what that was for. Ladies, we are going to Colombia!"
"Sit down men," ordered SAS Master Sergeant Bryce Howter. "Prepare for mission brief. Wolf, close the blinds."
The man in question closed the blinds, and the room became dark. "What's going on, sir?" asked the puzzled team leader. He knew he was voicing the thoughts of his entire team, and he was curious himself. They had just gotten back from a five-month long stay in Afghanistan, so it was odd that they had been called.
"Wolf," sighed the sergeant. "I know you guys just got back, but K-Unit is the best we've got, and I've got a new assignment."
"What is it?" asked Eagle, his interest spiked. "Please tell me it doesn't involve sand."
"No Eagle, no sand," snorted the sergeant. "But you will be working with American Special Forces and spooks, and one of our own SO agents. So this is pretty huge."
"Well," said Snake, already itching to leave. "Where are we going?"
"You guys are going to Colombia. Send me a postcard when you get there."
Alex sighed contentedly. He was home alone, but Jack had made him a very satisfying quiche and tomato bisque soup – an amazing feat for the red head. He was lying on the couch in the den, watching Deadliest Warrior on the Discovery Channel. The two teams this episode were the CIA and the KGB. If Alex had to bet, he'd say the CIA would win – but only because he had worked for them before. He had no experience with the KGB, and he really wanted it to stay that way.
As the show finished, a knock on his door startled him. Wondering who the hell it could be, he opened the door, and his stomach dropped. "Crawley?" he asked, flabbergasted.
"Hullo Alex," said the man curtly. "How's it going?"
"Um," Alex mumbled. "Not bad. Why are you here?"
"No time for chit-chat, eh?" asked the middle-aged agent. "Okay then. I'll need you to come with me. This location is no longer secure. Actually, if you look to your left, about fifty-six meters away, you will see the glint of a telescopic scope. If you look closer, you will see a civilian Remington 700 sniper rifle. And if you look even closer, you'll see a man about to pull the trigger. So – duck."
Alex hit the deck, just as the shot rang out. "Bloody hell!" he yelled, as he rolled up and ran to Crawley's car. He was surprised to see that Crawley was walking to the car, and realized that he had been tricked too late.
"I'm glad your reflexes haven't been affected by that tomato soup," said the agent, as he locked the doors. "I'm sorry I had to do this, Alex. But you know Blunt – he really has an extreme imagination.
"Wait," Alex retorted angrily. "That wasn't someone trying to shoot me?"
"Nope," replied Crawley, as they drove out of Alex's Chelsea home. "That was an MI6 agent firing a blank. It was the only way I could think to get you in the car without a fight. And hey – it worked!"
"You bastard," spat the teen. "I'm leaving. Stop the car."
"Even if I stopped the car and opened the door, you wouldn't be able to take your seatbelt off. The button is finger-print sensitive. Only I can push it. And don't try to cut it, either. It's made with a Kevlar-infused nylon polymer. Not found in your average car dealership – unless Smithers has a second job."
"I can't believe you're doing this," said Alex, hanging his head in defeat. MI6 had played all the cards right this time, and there really was no escaping the situation.
"Well, let's just say that in my opinion, a phone call would have been better. But you know Blunt – he has a flare for the dramatic."
"I don't care. Jack is going to be so pissed…"
"I've handled that already. We intercepted her at the grocery store. She's heading to the Waldorf Astoria in Disneyworld, Florida. So…don't worry about her."
"It's not her I'm worried about," replied the teen. "She's going to kill me."
"Oh," replied Crawley, as he drove into the underground high-security garage. "I don't doubt that."
They made their way to the top floor of the Royal and General Bank, where Alex knew his death-sentence was waiting. Finally, the elevator opened directly into Alan Blunt's office.
"Alex!" said Mrs. Jones, who was sitting in front of the director of MI6. "How nice to see you!" Alex grunted, and didn't even spare her a glance. She didn't seem fazed by his attitude, however.
"What do you need me to do?" asked the annoyed spy.
This time, it was Alan blunt who spoke. "Well, this is rather complicated. You are going to be working with the SAS, again, as well as with Ben Daniels. I think you've met – correct?"
Alex nodded. At least he wouldn't be alone, wherever he was going. "You'll also be working with a couple of CIA agents, and a detachment of US Army Special Forces."
"Whoa," Alex breathed. He would be working with the world's best military and intelligence operators. This was huge – much bigger than anything he had ever experienced. "Why so many people?"
"Well," began Mrs. Jones. "This operation is going to be a hard nut to crack, and you're going to need all the help you can get."
"Well…" began Alex. "Where am I going?"
"Ah-" said Blunt. "You are going on a nice vacation to the tropical paradise that is Colombia, Alex. I really hope you enjoy it there."
"C-Colombia?" he stuttered. "Where, in Colombia?"
"Oh," Mrs. Jones quickly stepped in, to reassure the young agent. "Don't worry – you aren't going to an active combat zone. This is simply an intelligence gathering mission. Get in, get some info, get a tan, and get out."
"Simple as that," agreed her boss.
Ten minutes later found Alex on his way to Smithers' office, with serious doubts. He had never been to Colombia, but had a couple of friends with family there. He knew the political situation was complicated, but peaceful in most places. He also knew that the one of the oldest, best armed, best organized, and most dangerous guerilla groups was constantly at war with the Colombian Armed Forces and National Police. And of course, he knew that a simple intelligence gathering mission did not require the help of American Special Forces, CIA, and two MI6 agents. Whatever this was, it was big. And he really was not looking forward to being in the thick of it.
And then he thought of Jack, and realized that maybe Colombia would be safer than him having to face the red head's wrath. So, it was with a heavy heart that he stepped out of the elevator and into Smithers' office.
So…what do you think? I really liked this chapter. I didn't spend a whole lot of time on K-Unit because we all know them. And yes, Alex is back in the story. Things are getting hot, boys and girls!
Drop me a line, tell me what you think! Reviews make me feel very warm and fuzzy inside! Hint hint!
Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for more.