Honor, page 8
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man replied.
“I know the merchant was there. I know he gave it to you,” she said.
He laughed. “You know nothing.” He turned away.
“I’ll tell the commander,” she called after him.
The anger on his face as he swung around startled even Striker. “Don’t make threats you can’t follow through on,” he hissed. “If you tell him, I will end you.”
She cowered from him.
After a long moment of charged silence, the man left. Striker stepped from his hiding spot, squeezing through the wall to see if Ellis was okay. She wiped her eyes before she spotted him.
She squared her shoulders. “Can’t handle the shopping?” she quipped, but the joke fell flat.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“It’s nothing.”
“He threatened you.” He didn’t venture close. At that moment, she reminded him of a skittish calf, ready to break and run.
“You heard that?” she asked, licking her lips.
He nodded. “I can help.”
She tossed her hands in frustration. “With what? Sorensen will deny everything, and he’s too smart to get caught.”
“Deny what?” Striker wasn’t sure what was going on, but nothing felt right.
She looked away.
“What is he doing?” He kept his mismatched eyes on her face, watching the emotions unfold. She didn’t want to tell him, but he wasn’t about to walk away.
She sighed, looking around at the base, taking in the orderly rows of structures, the soldiers walking past, the American flag waving proudly from the top of the flagpole. “You know, it’s an honor to wear this uniform. He’s disgracing it.”
“So tell the commander.”
She laughed, a scornful, bitter sound. “You heard what he said.”
“Let me help.”
She spun away, her head down. “Look, I’ll figure something out. Just leave it, okay.”
But as she stormed off, it wasn’t her words that rang in his ears. It was the threat from Sorensen.
I will end you.
The briefing room was the usual bustle of morning conversation. Most were in their seats, but without any of the officers present, the atmosphere was relaxed. The clock ticked past the hour, and there was still no sign of the commander.
“Ellis isn’t here,” Barnaby commented. The two women she normally sat with were in the usual spot at the end of the opposite row. An empty chair beside them marked her spot.
Striker replied with his usual grunt. He’s already noticed, and it was making him edgy. He hadn’t told his partner about what he’d witnessed, and he wasn’t sure he would. But his worry increased as the minutes ticked by.
“Not like her to be late.”
The door opened, and the officers walked in. The room snapped to attention. Striker studied the row of uniforms at the front of the room. Something was up. It was unusual for all the officers to attend the morning briefing, and the commander looked strained. Dread curled in his stomach.
“At ease,” the commander said, then cleared her throat. “I have some unfortunate news to share with you. A few hours ago, the body of one of our soldiers was found stabbed to death. Sergeant Heidi Ellis was murdered last night.”
Gasps rippled through the room. Striker looked again at the empty seat in the opposite row, his chest heavy, like a bull leaned on him. The commander allowed a moment before calling everyone to attention again.
“At this time, we have no further details to share. We have increased security, and all leave is on hold. Patrols will be doubled.”
The usual groans at such an announcement never came. It was an old trick to ensure everyone was too busy to get into further trouble, but everyone was in too much shock to protest.
The commander moved on to the daily reports and notices. Her final note was one they’d all been waiting to hear for months.
“We have received word that Sheik Ferran is now an active target. You are greenlit to take him out should the opportunity arise.”
Striker crawled into position, Barnaby right behind him. Together they unpacked their gear and settled in for a long day of lying still and watching the compound in the distance.
Barnaby made an entry in the log to note their arrival time. “Open season on the sheik at last.”
“About time,” Striker replied. They’d been watching him for months. But the usual anticipation that came with a green light was missing. Instead, his stomach twisted with dread. He said nothing to Barnaby about the argument with Ellis. No sense in dragging her name through the sand. Whatever Sorensen had been involved in, she knew about it. But he knew who was responsible — the soldier she had been arguing with. His focus was off throughout the morning as he debated the merits of telling the commander what he knew. But would he be believed? He had no evidence. Just an overheard argument.
As the sun rose, they honed their scopes on the compound, double-checking the range and the wind. The ideal spot for taking out the target was on the terrace. Being one story up, it gave Striker a better angle, with less chance of collateral damage.
The hours ticked by slowly. Striker began to hope that the sheik wouldn’t appear that day, that another team would be on site for the shot.
“You’re awful chatty today,” Barnaby said, handing over an energy bar.
Striker grunted, ripping open the package as quietly as he could. “Thanks.”
“See, was that so hard? Open mouth, and words come out.”
Striker figured a mouthful of energy bar was adequate reason for not responding, so he didn’t.
“It’s not your first kill, kid, so what’s got you so riled up?”
Striker shot him a look.
“Oh I know you’re no Chatty Cathy, which I appreciate, but you ain’t said two words all day. That ain’t like you. Is it Ellis?”
A faint buzzing sounded off in the distance. “Shh,” Striker warned.
“Don’t shush me.”
“Shh!” Striker said more urgently.
The rusty blue moped buzzed into sight on the road below them. A plume of dust grew behind it.
Barnaby whispered the wind speed and direction as they watched the merchant dismount and knock on the massive doors. A second man materialized from the hillside, his sandy-colored clothing and kerchief providing adequate camouflage.
“Where’d he come from?” Barnaby whispered.
The gate opened, and the men were ushered inside. They milled around the courtyard while the servant vanished inside the house. They were agitated, moving around, unsure of what to do. Avoiding each other. The stranger finally turned to face the snipers.
“That’s him,” Striker breathed, his raging thoughts suddenly still.
“Same guy as before,” Barnaby confirmed.
The same man who met with the sheik only a couple of days earlier. The same man Ellis was worried about. The same man who had threatened Ellis the day before she was murdered.
An icy rage filled Striker. No matter what Ellis knew, she didn’t deserve to be stabbed to death.
At last, the two were directed up the stairs to the terrace.
“Sheik’s coming,” Barnaby whispered.
Striker pressed his eye against the scope and tuned out everything else. His heart pounded against his ribs, but he found the rhythm and the space in between the beats.
The sheik appeared. Through the scope, it was as though he were standing right in front of Striker. The sun was at the perfect angle, lighting the whole terrace. The curtains of the tented shelter over the table were raised to let the morning breeze pass through.
The merchant bowed, and Sorensen followed suit. A thousand thoughts chased one another through Striker’s head. He had orders to kill the sheik.
A desire to kill Sorensen flooded through him.
If he took the shot now, he could take them with the same bullet. He could fulfill his duty and avenge his friend. No one would fault him for the collateral damage. The American wasn’t even supposed to be there.
His finger slipped from the guard to the trigger. He breathed in, then out.
All of his senses expanded. A bird chirped loudly in the tree above them. The berry aftertaste of the energy bar mixed with the dry sandy feeling in his mouth. The tangy scent of the tall grass where they hid filled the air. He could feel every part of his uniform. The cloth as it shifted against his skin with each breath. The stitching in the collar on his neck. The patch of the American flag as it pulled against his shoulder.
It’s an honor to wear this uniform. Ellis’s words echoed in his mind.
The men stepped apart. Take the shot now and kill them both.
He held his fire.
With his usual hospitality, the sheik welcomed the two to his table. The merchant moved to sit down, followed by Sorensen.
The sheik stood alone.
Striker’s heart beat once. Twice. He pressed the trigger, and the round fired.
Two thousand meters away and two-and-a-half seconds later, the sheik collapsed to the ground. Sorenson dove out of sight, lost in the shadows.
After a pause, Barnaby confirmed the kill.
Striker laid down his gun and turned to Barnaby. “That’s the man who killed Ellis.”
“What? You had the chance to take him. Why didn’t you?” Barnaby’s usual husky voice spiked.
Striker shook his head. He wasn’t sure himself why. A court martial and life in Leavenworth were too good for this guy, though Striker was going to make sure that’s where he lived out his days.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the base, his mismatched eyes seeking out the American flag that was just visible in the distance. “Wouldn’t have been honorable.”
Major Rat
Ed Teja
About Ed Teja
Ed Teja is a lifelong writer and denizen of the margins of the world. A martial artist, former magazine editor, and Caribbean boat bum, he writes stories about the people he meets and places he goes—stories that reach deep into the odd corners of the world and often disappear into the margins.
www.edteja
Why I wrote this story
When young, during an otherwise short and uneventful time in the US Navy, I was sent on some unconventional operations. I learned quickly that anyone able to execute such things well wound up being revered and feared by the brass. They needed people who understood how and when to break the rules but didn’t enjoy having them around.
Loyalty became a rather one-way street.
That situation provides great and fertile ground for stories where honorable people are found doing things that break the rules. Right and wrong might fall into the shade, but honor doesn’t.
The story of the Stealth Team is about that dynamic and the strong bonds that can grow among such “necessary but undesirable” people.
Major Rat
ED TEJA
At ten that evening, I hunched over the pool table, staring. I was trying to ignore the enticing aroma of someone’s burger cooking, the buzz of isolated conversations, the dull thud of the bass in a rock song I didn’t know pounding out of the juke box sitting by the bathrooms, and my unease.
Suzy Wong was smiling.
She had a right to. Her calculated, well-placed shot had left eight ball squarely between the cue ball and my three ball, snuggled tight against the rail at the far end of the table.
I would have to make one hell of a shot.
Suzy Wong took a long drink of her beer and laughed.
“No way you make that, Easy Parker, even if you are a martial arts guru.”
I circled the table, sizing up my options.
I saw only one option and it led to two variations. I had to carom the cue ball around the eight ball, aiming it at the side rail so it would strike the three.
The variations had to do with the English. I had to gamble that I could make it run along the rail to the corner pocket or bounce it off the rail and drive it toward the opposite side pocket.
“Five bucks says I make it,” I said.
“Ten and you call the pocket,” she said.
It was a tough shot and I'm not a pro, but Suzy was already twenty bucks up on me and gloating about it. Needling me.
I took the bait, nodding and pointing at the side pocket with my stick. “This one.”
She put a ten on the rail, stood her cue stick on the floor, and stared. “I want to see this.”
I put one of my last two tens on the rail and sat my beer on top of it. Then I lined up my shot, practicing my ki breathing to calm my mind and steady my hands.
I sighted it twice, shook it off, then lined it up again, trying to feel how it would go.
The cue responded, aligning itself in my hand. I drew back and smoothly stroked the cue ball, sending it toward the rail. I froze not wanting to disturb the trajectory, watching it glide toward the three ball, kiss it gently, pushing it off the rail and on its way.
It rolled straight and true and came to the lip of the pocket.
And a hand grabbed it, plucking it off the table.
“We have an issue, people!”
“What the fuck you doing?” Suzy Wong asked. “I had ten bucks on that shot.”
I didn't have to look to know that the familiar barking, commanding voice belonged to one Connie Taylor, formerly Lt. Connie Jean “Grunt” Taylor, Executive Officer of the now defunct Stealth Squad.
We knew her far too well. This was the woman we all swore grew up reading Marine recruiting posters and who had become a poster child for the words 'hard ass' before leaving high school.
I looked up at her. “You owe me ten bucks, Grunt,” I said.
“Where are the others?” she asked.
Demanded, actually. Ignoring me.
When I nodded in the direction of the table where Christian and Barker sat blissfully unaware of her entrance, Grunt tossed the three ball on the table.
“Time for games later. We've got a mission.”
I sighed. “Who does? They disbanded the team and tossed us all out.”
“Rat needs the unit,” Grunt said. “Let's go talk.”
We made our way to the table with me wondering what the hell Rat could possibly want from us now.
The Rat in question was Major Richard A. Thomas but shortened to Rat. What can I say? The military runs on acronyms.
And nicknames. He gave us all nicknames. Not necessarily inspired ones, but functional.
“Chopper, Sparky,” Grunt said as we joined them at the table.
Christian was Chopper, named for his daring exploits flying a chopper. Barker was Sparky, an expert in communications and all things electronic.
Suzy Wong had once been known as Charlotte Frost but once Rat decided she was our spy, he probably got it changed in her records. I think he was thinking of Mata Hari but got it wrong. Really wrong. The woman was a combat-hardened cold-eye killer, a SEAL.
Maybe Rat had a romantic streak.
Rat named me too. Easy. He found me teaching unarmed combat to special forces people and brought me in to “do more than teach.”.
“I need you to take out bad guys, I want it to look easy,” he said.
Easy it was, from then on.
I was glad it wasn't kung fu or some shit like that.
“Archie and Rat are in trouble,” Grunt said once she had settled down with a double bourbon in her hand.
Archie was another veteran of many battles who also had a flair for “off-book logistics.”
Smuggling is another word for that.
“Doing what?” Chopper asked.
“The DEA asked them to run a mission on a small island down in The Bahamas. They were playing major buyers and went there to negotiate with a cartel. It went south, probably through a leak.”
“And the DEA is disavowing all knowledge of the mission,” Sparky said.
Grunt nodded.
“What are we supposed to do?” Sparky asked. “The government disbanded our unit because Rat wouldn't play politics.”
“We do what we do best,” Grunt said. “Kick ass and take names. Just because the Pentagon brass didn’t have the balls to support us, doesn’t mean we don’t exist. They used the first fuck up as an excuse to toss us all out but who gives a shit?”
“And it was their fuck up,” Suzy Wong said. “They gave us bad information.”
“So Rat and Archie are moonlighting?”
Grunt smiled. “They thought it was better than trying to form a private security company when you can’t even tell prospective clients about your qualifications without being busted for security violations. What is this, your thirtieth organizational meeting?”
She was right, but we didn't like hearing it.
Chopper had found a job flying a guided tour copter, but the rest of us were scrambling.
“What else is there?” Sparky asked. “The supermarket isn't hiring.”
Grunt downed her drink, slammed her glass on the table, and waved at the waitress for another round. “Right now, that 'else' is rescuing Rat and Archie.”
“We are supposed to save Rat's bacon?” Suzy asked.
She glared at us. “Damn right. It's a matter of honor.”
“How is that?” I asked.
She looked around the table. “If there is a solider here who can say Rat never saved their life, speak up now. If someone can tell me that he didn't practice the same loyalty to the team that he demanded of each of you, I want to hear it.”
We sat in silence.
A sulky silence.
As much as each of us disliked Rat on a personal level, when we bonded as a unit, and we had, we'd all sworn we would watch each other's backs. The military dissolving the unit didn't undo that oath.
“Will one of you please kill Grunt right now?” Chopper asked. “If she's right, we are going to have to work for free.”
Grunt slapped Chopper on the back. “Your part's simple,” she said. “You fly the bird close to the island and push Easy and Suzy Wong out the door, then make noise on the other side of the island.”
