Raid on Afghanistan, page 3
There was no question in any of their minds. This was El Jefe, the man in charge. Even at a distance, they could make out his linen tropical suit and the straw Panama hat. He stared up at them, his expression unreadable at this distance. Chief Nolan still held his sniper rifle in his arms, and he looked at Talley.
“Lt?”
The Lieutenant nodded. “Take him down.”
Nolan pointed the rifle downwards, his mind working out angles, wind direction, the changing altitude and position of the slick. There were so many variables that only a computer could work it all out; or a world champion class sniper. He sighted down the Leupold riflescope and placed the crosshairs on the man standing next to the Hummer. Then he moved the target point slightly to make allowances for the difficult shot. The slick had stopped ascending as Talley had spoken to the pilot and asked him to hold her steady. He spoke to Nolan. “She’s holding, Chief. All yours.”
“Roger that.”
He fired. The shot clipped the target in the shoulder, but as he started to spin around, Nolan corrected and emptied the rest of the clip into the man. They watched him go down in a crumpled, bloody heap.
“All right! Yeah!” The men clapped him on the shoulder. Merano was looking the scene through his own riflescope.
“I read it as six hits, Chief. He ain’t getting up from that one.”
“Nice shooting,” Talley complimented him. “These bastards will think twice before they take Americans as hostages again.”
“Fuckin’ A,” someone shouted.
There were murmurs of approval. Not all missions ended well, and not all ended without casualties in the platoon. This one could be held up as an example of good planning and good execution, with help from a little luck. And they could all go home to their families, at least, until the next one. Kyle Nolan finished checking and reloading his MK11 Sniper Weapon System. Then he lay back against a bunch of canvas packs and tried to relax, and to still the surge of adrenaline that had sent his pulse rocketing. The Blackhawks would rendezvous offshore with an aircraft carrier, and the Seals would have the chance of a night’s sleep as it smashed through the seas on its full-power cruise back to California. The helos crossed the coast west of Managua and within thirty minutes were walking across the heaving deck of the USS Ronald Reagan, the Nimitz class flattop that would take them back to the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, California. Nolan had only one thought now it was over. After a shower and change of clothes, a hot meal and a few hours of sleep, he’d be seeing Grace, his wife and mother of his two wonderful kids, Daniel and Mary. The family for whom it was all worth it, whose home and security it was worth fighting to defend. Like all Navy Seals, he had two families, on the one hand, Grace and the kids, and on the other, the service he had enlisted in. He’d give his life for either, and if there was one thing that CPO Kyle Nolan worried over, it was ever being forced to make the choice between his two families. Not that there was any reason to, they were separate, so that he lived two lives, two marriages; one with Grace and the kids, and one with the Seals. He fell asleep, content that the mission had concluded with a successful outcome. He was warmed by the hot meal provided by the five star cooks of the USS Ronald Reagan.
* * *
Someone was shaking him awake. He opened his eyes, momentarily confused, and looked at the gray-painted steel walls of the cabin. The sound of the nuclear powered steam turbines reached his ears, and he remembered where he was. He checked his watch; he’d only been asleep a short time. His eyes focused on Lieutenant Talley, staring down at him.
What the hell was that expression?
“Chief, you’re needed on the bridge.”
He was instantly alert. There was no reason to ask why. The bridge of a nuclear powered aircraft carrier was no place for idle chatter.
“On my way.”
He swung his legs out of the cot and pulled on his camos and boots. He was about to tidy his hair when Talley said something out of place.
“That’s okay, Chief, there’s no need for ceremony.”
But when you went on the bridge of one of the mightiest warships in the world, there was always a need for ceremony. It was then that he knew, and his stomach turned to ice.
Dear God, No! Don’t let anything happen to them!
“Is it Grace, or the kids?”
Talley put his hand on his arm. “Take it easy, Kyle. They’re waiting to talk to you.”
Nolan roughly shook off the hand. “Tell me, Boss. Now! What is it?”
Talley sighed. “It’s Grace, your wife. They’re firing up one of the Blackhawks to expedite your return to San Diego.”
“What happened?”
“I’m sorry, Chief. She’s dead. They say it was a drive-by.”
“In San Diego? That doesn’t make any sense. Are you sure they’ve got the full facts?”
Talley nodded. “Yeah, it’s certain. Come up to the bridge, they’re waiting for you. Leave your gear. We’ll attend to that.”
In a daze, he followed his officer up the series of ladders, gray painted steel walls, past pipes and electrical conduits; groups of sailors bustling past on any of a hundred different tasks. As if it was normal. He wanted to shout at them. ‘It’s not fucking normal. It’s anything but normal. My wife, the mother of my children, she’s dead.’ As he climbed the steps, he thought of his mission, to save other people’s kids. And while he was in the field, they’d murdered his wife. When he stepped onto the bridge, they were waiting for him. Senior naval officers, the Admiral, the Skipper and his XO, the Chiefs who manned the ship’s control systems and kept her on course and on mission; they were all there. All silent, with eyes for him, yet when he stared at them, they averted those eyes. As if in a dream, or a nightmare, he heard the XO giving him the details.
“We’re all so sorry, Chief. The local San Diego PD are investigating, and our own NCIS is keeping a watch on what they’re doing, trying to find out who’s responsible. There’s no motive yet, and it seems just a senseless drive-by. Maybe part of a turf war between drug gangs, but we’re not sure. It only happened a few hours ago. The helo is spooling up now to take you home.”
Nolan nodded. “The kids?”
“With your wife’s parents, their grandparents. They’re fine.”
“Thank you, Sir,” he acknowledged the officer, a Naval Captain. For the first time in his life, he forgot to salute as Talley touched him on the shoulder and led him to the flight deck to the waiting Blackhawk. He had to keep his mind on what he would face when he got back.
They killed my wife, murdered Grace!
Chapter Two
He knew now that hell was not that noisome hut that held the prisoners in the Nicaraguan jungle. Hell was the here and now. John and Violet Robson, Grace’s parents, had moved into the bungalow to take care of the kids, during the time of adjustment. But that adjustment never came, not for him. The Team were regular callers, taking him out drinking and carousing, anything to help him forget. But after only a few days, he’d had enough, enough of their sympathy and their well-intentioned efforts to assuage his misery. But that was not the worst. Whenever he got home, John and Violet would welcome him with false smiles of reassurance. It was the kids, of course. They blamed him. He’d even overheard them once, talking to Violet.
“Why wasn’t Dad home to look after Mom when those gangsters shot her, Granma?”
“He’s in the military, darling. He has important duties to take care of.”
“More important than looking after Mom?”
She hadn’t replied. How could she? He didn’t know the answer himself. But on that occasion there’d been a knock on the door, and Vince had come to take him out for a couple of hours. They sat in the dark shadows of Popeye’s, a popular bar with the local sailors. It was a crummy dive, in fact so crummy that it gave dives a bad name. Peeling paintwork, torn upholstery on the bar stools, and enough dust on the shelves to blow up a sandstorm. But it was familiar and friendly, and run by former Master Chief Art Winkelmann, a Vietnam vet who’d served on a carrier in the Gulf of Tonkin. He knew about Nolan’s problems and knew there was no easy solution. Except for the booze, and that was only temporary. And booze itself brought its own problems.
“What is it?” Nolan asked his partner.
Vince hesitated. Then he plunged in. “We’re worried about you, Chief. You’re coming apart at the seams. When are you coming back to the platoon?”
Nolan downed his fourth shot. “Doc says I’m not fit for active duty, not yet. Sort of Post Traumatic Shock, some shit like that.”
“You’re as fit as me or any of the Team, Kyle. Well, you used to be, before you started looking at life through the bottom of a shot glass. You’re ruining yourself, just drinking yourself into the ground.”
Thank Christ he doesn’t know all of it. Not the bad part. Not the blackouts! He’d started to lose parts of his life. Where he’d been, what he’d done. He wasn’t ruining himself; the damage was done.
Nolan fixed him with a cold stare. “You here to criticize, Vince? You’re wasting your time. I’ve heard it all before. Grace’s parents give me the eye everytime I get home and they smell the booze on my breath. Even the kids get snotty when I walk in the door.”
“Can you blame them? Jesus Christ, Kyle, they lost their Mom. They need you.”
Nolan crashed his hand down on the chipped woodwork of the bar, sending the last few flakes of varnish into the air.
“Dammit, Vince, I lost my wife. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
He felt the tears begin to form in the corners of his eyes. Tears he’d only shed in the dark, lonely hours of the night, sleeping in the big bed, smelling Grace’s perfume that still lingered in the room; the scent of her body, the spicy musk of a fit and healthy young woman that he always associated with her. But it was fading. Along with the reminders of her as John and Violet quietly packed away some more of her personal things.
“They need you, Chief.”
“Who the fuck needs me? The kids? Bravo Platoon? Who needs me, what the fuck about my needs?”
Merano stared at him coolly. After a long silence, in which the whole bar seemed to be holding their breath, he replied. “You’re a Seal, Chief. You deal with it. That’s what we do, that’s what we signed up to do.”
Behind the bar, retired Master Chief Winkelmann, owner of the bar, carried on polishing the glasses as he nodded approvingly. It was the right answer. It was the only answer. Nolan’s shoulders slumped, and he pushed the remainder of the Bourbon away. Eventually, he looked up.
“Yeah, that’s what I signed up for, Vince. But I’m finished, washed up. I’m handing in my papers.”
Now it was Merano’s turn to be silenced. His expression of shock turned to one of serious thought, and then he shook his head. “You’re kidding me, right? No way would you ever leave the service.”
“I’m sorry, Vince, but I’m not kidding. I want out. I think I’ll take the kids and move away. Start again someplace new.”
“Where?”
Nolan hunched his shoulders. “I dunno. Montana, maybe, I could breed horses or something. After all, it’s a healthy environment for the kids.”
“Montana! They don’t have any fucking coastline, for Christ’s sake. It’s a patch of earth and mountains. Montana is a landlocked state. Jesus, you may as well head for Nebraska!”
“Yeah, exactly.”
He wasn’t aware of getting home that night, and he knew he must have blacked out somewhere along the line. So Vince knew, he must have brought him home. He weathered the storm of John and Violet’s tight-lipped expressions and went to bed. In the morning, while he was sat eating a late breakfast, he saw John nod to Violet, and she disappeared into the kitchen.
“We need to have a word, Kyle.”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“You know you have two kids who live here with you?”
He felt his anger begin to rise. “Yeah, of course I know. I’ve done everything for those kids, always have, and always will.”
“We know that, Kyle. But have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“No!” he snapped. It was true, for he didn’t want to see the face of the man that had been a thousand miles away when they fired the shot that killed his wife. He called NCIS and San Diego PD each day, but they still had no leads. Except that the shot had come during a particularly vicious turf war between two prominent drug lords. But there was no proof, and no new leads.
“You look like a failure,” John said quietly.
Nolan started to reply, but his father-in-law held up his hand. He was a short, plump man; a real estate broker before he retired with enough wealth to keep him and his wife in comfort for the rest of their days. He looked the part, and even this early in the morning, he was well groomed, polished and well presented in casual Ralph Lauren chinos and coat, Egyptian silk white shirt, and hand crafted loafers. At that moment in time, Nolan hated him.
“No, I don’t suppose you can. But don’t you think your kids care about having a father who looks like a bum? Take a look. See what kind of a person their friends see when they come calling.”
He stood up angrily and stormed out to the hallway where there was a full-length mirror. He avoided it each time he went past, but now he stood and looked at it hard. He was shocked. The man there was not someone he recognized. The hard, ramrod posture had slumped to a beaten stoop. His eyes were red rimmed, and half closed against the morning sunlight. His clothes were stained and soiled, and he realized he hadn’t changed them for the past few days. A noise made him turn. John had joined him.
“It isn’t you, Kyle. Not the man my daughter Grace married, not the father of Daniel and Mary. Where is that man?”
His shock soon turned to anger. What did this man know about loss?
He swiveled to face John Robson.
“That man is standing here, trying to deal with a shitty situation. If you don’t like it, fuck you! I’m going out.”
He drove his Chevy Camaro downtown, parked on the street, and opened the glove box. Inside was a Glock 9mm, a personal weapon. He picked it up, checked the load, and held it for a long, long time until he lost consciousness. It was one occasion when a blackout was a blessing. Afterwards, he decided he needed another drink. Talley and Merano found him in a bar two blocks down from Popeye’s. He was slumped on a stool, trying to forget. They took him home and spoke to John and Violet, but he never learned what was said.
That was two weeks ago, and now things had gotten worse. Whenever he went into the house, the conversation died. Even the kids were silent over dinner, and before he went out, he took them to one side.
“What gives, you two? We don’t seem to talk anymore.”
Daniel, the elder looked away. Mary, with the innocence that was typical of a child, dived straight in. “It’s not the same, Dad. Not since Mom died.”
He tried to put a brave face on it. “I know it’s tough, but you’re the same. I’m the same, so…”
“No, you’re not the same!” Daniel was staring at him through eyes screwed up against the tears that were trying to force their way through the lids. “You’re different. I don’t know why, but it’s like you went away when she did. You’re a stranger, Dad. You don’t spend time with us, you’re, you’re…nothing!”
He jumped up and ran up the stairs to his bedroom. Nolan was dumbfounded. Mary was sobbing, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“It’s okay, honey, he doesn’t mean it. I’ll take care of you.”
She stared at him. “No you won’t! Don’t you see? You couldn’t take care of Mom. You were away somewhere, and they killed her. How the fuck can you take care of us?”
“Mary! Don’t use language like that!” He could hardly believe what he’d heard.
“Why the hell not? You’re never here!” she stormed.
“But, honey, I’m here now. I’ll take care of things.”
“You go out all the time, and you smell like a bar, Dad. You know that some people say you’re becoming a bum? What’s a bum?”
He was rooted to the chair, shocked, and disbelieving.
“I’ll explain another time. You’d better go and do your homework.”
“Mom used to help me with my homework.”
“Well, I’m not your Mom, am I?”
He could have bitten off his tongue as he said it. He tried to make amends, chatted about school for a few minutes, and packed her off with a peck on the cheek. Then he went out.
Somehow, he’d known it would come to this; almost from the moment he had the news about Grace. He slid onto the seat of his Camaro, leaned across to check that the Glock was in its place, and drove away. He didn’t call in at Popeye’s. Instead, he drove across to Mission Beach and parked where he could look out at the waves breaking gently on the sand. In front of him was a line of palm trees, framing the view of the bay, and on the water a late sailboat skittered home before nightfall. He took out the Glock and examined it. What else was there for him? The kids hated him, that was obvious, and he was an unwanted visitor in his own house. He’d lost the physical and mental edge of perfection that enabled him to do his job, and worst of all, he’d lost Grace. So that was it, he’d lost everything. He cocked the action and held the gun in his lap. Was it a coward’s way out? Yeah, maybe it was, but it was also the only way out. He slid off the safety and put the gun in his mouth. A delicious feeling of release washed over him. Wherever he was going, maybe he’d meet Grace there, be able to touch her, smell her, talk to her. And if there was no afterlife, he wouldn’t know, would he? He thought of his wife. She was well named; Grace, graceful, fragile looking as a ballet dancer, but as strong and beautiful. A sudden thought flashed into his head.
