The Suicide King (The Grave Diggers Book 2) Read online

  “Squad, let’s go,” he yelled.

  The rest of the squad took off, quickly joining up with him.

  “Kaiden, it’s Tate,” he said into his radio. “We’re here. Don’t shoot.”

  As they arrived at the chopper, Kaiden hopped out of the cockpit and pulled open the sliding cabin door.

  “Everyone load up,” said Tate, then turned to Kaiden. “You okay?”

  Kaiden holstered her Heckler and Koch UPS 9mm, and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

  "Come to Colombia for the fun. Stay for the adventure."

  "I'm all adventured out," said Tate.

  "Then you came to the right place," she said. "Let’s go."

  She climbed back into the copilot seat, as Tate got into one of the troop seats and put on an intercom headset, catching the tail-end of Kaiden talking to the pilot.

  "… Nobody else," she said. "Clear to go."

  Tate sat back, anticipating the lift of the helicopter, but nothing happened.

  "Pilot," said Kaiden. "What’s the problem?"

  “Yeah, sorry," said the pilot. "No problem."

  The whine of the turbines increased and the helicopter lifted off the pad.

  Tate looked around the cabin and got a thumbs up from some of his squad, while others looked down on the chaos in the camp below.

  "Let’s circle the camp and see where the largest group of soldiers are,” he said. “We can land near them and combine forces."

  The helicopter reached the edge of the camp, but instead of circling above it, the Blackhawk went straight past it.

  Tate leaned over to see around the gunner seat, into the cockpit. “What’s going on?” He checked the channel selector on his headset, making sure he was on the right channel. “I said over the camp. Pilot, you copy?"

  In response, the helicopter sharply banked to the left towards the base.

  Startled, Tate grabbed onto the metal frame of the troop seat. He heard the pilot say something over the radio, but it was garbled. He felt the helicopter begin to drift sideways, and wondered if the Blackhawk might have been damaged from random gun fire back at the landing pad.

  Unstrapping from his seat, Tate reached for the gunner seat to steady himself, when the floor of the helicopter fell away.

  The helicopter lurched sideways, sending the inside of the cabin into chaos.

  As Tate tried to shout over the roar of the engines, the helicopter violently pitched, throwing him onto other bodies of his team.

  Tate pulled himself off the tangle of bodies in time to see Kaiden struggling with the pilot.

  “What’s happening?” he yelled.

  Tate heard a muted pop and a of brilliant light in front of his face. Blinded, he fumbled for something to hang on to as the Blackhawk went into a sharp spin, throwing him backwards. His headphones were filled with people yelling in surprise and anger.

  Flailing for anything to grab, Tate was flung out of the open cabin, into the empty air.

  Just as he realized he was falling, his thigh slammed into something unforgiving. The pain sucked the breath out of his lungs and the impact sent him cartwheeling down.

  Twigs and branches slapped and clawed at him as fireworks of light filled his eyes, and it felt like he would fall forever.

  His body shuddered as it hit something dense and the falling stopped. His senses became murky and dull, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Tate thought he was passing out.

  He groaned, causing him to spasm and choke as something cool and thick climbed into his mouth and nostrils.

  He was sinking. The reality of drowning blew the cobwebs from his mind. His eyes sprang open as Tate flailed for the retreating surface.

  He’d lost all control and was going to drown if he didn’t take hold of his thoughts. He had to punch through the panic and confusion that was about to kill him.

  He fought down the urge to vomit and forced his limbs to be still. His chest refused to stop heaving, but he willed himself to ignore the desperation for air. Slowly, the confusion cleared and his mind came into focus.

  Seconds were going to decide if he breathed or drowned, and he clamped down on the thought, commanding his mind to listen only to the thoughts he wanted.

  There was nothing to see but blackness. He turned his head purposefully from side to side, seeing nothing, then looked up.

  There, a murky, pale glow wavered above him. His leg screamed in pain as he kicked towards the surface, but pushed through it.

  Tate wretched as his head broke above the water, spewing his lungs clear.

  Every cough brought a stabbing pain in his side. He knew at least one of his ribs were broken.

  Wincing through the pain, Tate scanned the jungle for shadows moving within shadows, but all was still. There was only the chorus of the nocturnal jungle.

  The muddy shore clung to him, adding to the weight of his soaked clothes. His combat pack was saturated and nearly double in weight as he struggled to reach dry land.

  He unbuckled it and felt instantly lighter as the pack fell to the ground.

  His hand went to his hip and he felt the reassuring, solid bulk of his Colt 1911.

  Tate opened an outside pocket on his pack and took out a flashlight, then swept the ground around him. Insects buzzed in the beam of light and he cursed under his breath as he searched for his lost rifle, but it was nowhere to be seen.

  Turning the flashlight off, he went back to the pack to find his radio.

  He grinned at the sound of static. Finally, something was going his way.

  “Grave Diggers Two One. This is Grave Diggers Actual,” he said.

  He waited a moment, then tried again, but got no response. He checked the settings on the radio and saw it on the wrong channel.

  Shaking his head at his mistake, he switched to the pre-designated channel used by his unit.

  Come on, Jack. Get your head together.

  “Grave Diggers Two One. This is Graver Diggers Actual. Do you copy?”

  The reply came an instant later. “Tate, it’s Kaiden. Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m banged up, but I can walk, I think.”

  “Wesson says she spotted where you went down,” She said. “We’re heading to you.”

  “Copy. I’ll keep the radio on,” he said.

  Ten minutes later, Tate’s radio crackled awake.

  “Grave Digger Actual. Strobe your location. How copy?”

  Tate smiled as he recognized Wesson’s voice. He double pressed the button on his flashlight, and the beam began strobing.

  He panned the flashlight around him, ignoring the gathering cloud of insects.

  “Grave Digger Actual,” said Wesson, “we have your location. Be there soon.”

  A few minutes later, Wesson and Kaiden came through the brush, bringing a smile to Tate’s face.

  When he didn’t see the rest of the unit, his smile faded, lines of worry creasing his face.

  “It’s all right, Top,” said Wesson, reading his expression. “The rest of the squad is okay. Banged up a little, but combat effective. We left them at the helo.”

  With the adrenalin fading, Tate began to feel the beating he took falling from the helicopter. His right thigh was cramping, and every step was painful. The broken rib punished him with every breath, but he wasn’t coughing up blood.

  Small favors, he thought.

  “What happened in the helicopter?” he asked.

  Wesson stood a good four inches taller than Kaiden’s five-foot-eight frame, and looked down on her critically.

  “Me and the pilot were on the way to the Blackhawk,” said Kaiden, “when we got jumped by Vix. I thought we took them out with no problem, but pilot must have been bit. Pretty bad considering how fast he turned.”

  “Poor guy,” said Tate.

  “He was a dick,” said Kaiden. “He lied about being bit and nearly killed all of us.”

  Tate shrugged his shoulders, which was one of the few things that didn’t hurt. “I c
an’t argue with that. What about the helicopter?”

  “It’s not going anywhere,” said Wesson.

  “Lucky for you,” said Kaiden, “we weren’t very high up when you did your swan dive out the door. Not so lucky for the helicopter, because it smacked into the trees as I got my hands on the controls.”

  Tate winced at the sharp, hot pain of his broken rib and nearly useless leg. “I didn’t know lucky hurt this much.”

  They made their way back to the Blackhawk, and the rest of the squad showed their relief to see him alive.

  Sergeant Tyler Rosse, the unit’s medic, pushed past the others with his stout frame and shined a light in Tate’s eyes.

  “Ya stink like a swamp,” said Rosse. An ex-prison guard, and built like a bulldozer, he looked like he was better suited for dishing out damage than repairing it. His personality was rough as sandpaper, but he was as dependable as Tate could want on his team.

  Tate flinched at the unexpected white light in his eyes. “That’s because I fell in one,” he said, trying to swat Rosse’s hand away. “We can do this later,” he snapped.

  “It ain’t gonna take long,” said Rosse, undeterred. “Look up. Now down. Where’s it hurt?”

  Tate was sore, wet and worried about what was happening back at the outpost, and didn’t have the time or temperament to indulge Rosse’s prodding.

  “It hurts everywhere,” he growled. “Give me something for the pain and let’s get…” He gasped sharply as Rosse pressed on his ribs.

  “Busted a rib. I knew it,” said Rosse, with a satisfied smile. “I saw how you was carrying most of the load of your pack on the other shoulder.”

  “You do that one more time,” hissed Tate through the pain, “and I’ll hang you by your fat neck.”

  Rosse chuckled as he dug through his medical kit. “Look who’s talking. If you wasn’t sport’n that extra thirty pounds of padding, you’re whole side would be busted in.” He handed Tate two pills. “Take these and don’t lay on that side. Ya might shove that bone into something important.”

  Tate didn’t waste any time downing the pills. Luckily, swallowing didn’t hurt.

  “All right everyone,” he said, as he eased himself down on a tree stump. “Let’s assess our situation. We’re a long way from home and, from the look of it, our ride’s had it.”

  The fuselage of the Blackhawk laid on its side at the base of mangled trees. All that was left on top was the rotor mast and a couple of blade pitch control rods.

  Tate rightly assumed the rest of the rotor assembly was nothing but scattered fragments. The tail section was completely gone, making the helicopter look like a deflated football.

  “Wesson, can we radio for help?” he asked.

  She was about to answer, but Kaiden answered first. “I tried, but it’s out of action.”

  Wesson looked at Kaiden with irritation filling her pale, green eyes, then turned to Tate. She paused, looking like she was swallowing something bitter.

  “I tried,” she said, as she wiped sweat from her face. “But the radio isn’t working. Sergeant Monkhouse?”

  Bret Monkhouse was the unit’s engineer. Like many, his past was mostly unknown, but he proved a valuable jack of all trades.

  “I tried to jerry-rig it to the batteries,” he said, “but kept blowing the circuit breaker. We’re not calling anyone from here.”

  “What about our field radio?” asked Tate. “Corporal Fulton?”

  “Here, Sergeant Major,” said Fulton, raising his hand like he was in a classroom. Young and wiry, Corporal Jeff Fulton was the squad’s radio operator.

  Tate’s glanced over Fulton, seeing there was no radio on his back.

  Fulton knew what Tate was looking for and looked at the ground, embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry, Top,” he said. “When we ran out of the barracks I forgot it.”

  Tate nodded as he processed what he had already guessed. Fulton knew he’d screwed up, and yelling at him wouldn’t improve the situation.

  Tate decided to ignore Fulton’s mistake for now, and focus his attention on getting them all home alive.

  “Then our only option is to go back to the outpost and use the radio there.”

  “Go back? It was nuts there,” said Fulton. “Those guys were shooting at anything that moved – Vix or human.”

  “That’s why, Radio Operator Fulton,” said Tate. “it’s important that each squad member makes their assignment priority one.”

  Fulton could feel the other squad members purposely avoiding looking at him, which only made him feel worse.

  Tate looked over his shoulder at the glow of the distant fire.

  “Judging by that fire,” he said, “we’re about 300 meters from the base. We make our way back, but stop at the clearing. Sergeant Ota?”

  Sergeant Kasey Ota gave Tate an easy smile as he unslung his Dragunov SVD sniper rifle. “Was this what you were going to ask me about?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  AMBUSH

  Tate smiled back. Ota stood out from the rest of the squad because of his constant state of calm. A deep believer of Zen philosophy, Ota was nearly unflappable.

  Tate believed, and he was right, that it was Ota’s ability to still the chaos of combat in his mind that allowed him to be one of the most remarkable snipers he’d encountered. Although Ota had never talked about his past, Tate suspected he had been through sniper school.

  In general, Ota had very little to say about anything, making it easy to forget he was there, which Tate also suspected was by design.

  “Me and Ota will take point,” said Tate. “Wesson will be rear guard. Questions?”

  They were about to head out when Tate paused. “Yeah, uh, one more thing. I lost my rifle when I fell out of the helicopter. I don’t suppose we have an extra one?”

  Tate could feel Fulton’s eyes on him, but ignored the irony.

  “You might be in luck,” said Kaiden. “The pilot had one. It might still be in the cockpit if it didn’t get thrown out in the landing.”

  Tate smiled at her use of the word ‘landing’ instead of ‘crash’. Even though hitting the trees was unavoidable, Kaiden had her hands on the controls for a couple of seconds, and that technically made her the pilot. Nobody would actually hold her responsible for the downing of the aircraft, but Kaiden wasn’t going to leave any room for debate.

  Tate picked his way through the shattered trees and limbs to the pilot’s door of the Blackhawk. The inside of the pilot’s window was splattered from the point-blank bullet the pilot had taken to the head, making it impossible to see inside.

  Taking no chances, Tate drew his .45 and cracked open the pilot’s door. The slumped body of the pilot didn’t move.

  Tate holstered his pistol and opened the door. Grunting against the pain in his side, he reached behind the pilot’s seat and found the strap of the rifle looped over the medkit.

  Even in the gloom, Tate instantly recognized the classic M4 black rifle, and judging by its condition the pilot hadn’t used it much. He checked the magazine and slid back the bolt, confirming there was one in the chamber. Now he felt ready to get down to business.

  The outpost’s ruptured fuel tank was still burning, making a vivid beacon which helped them find their way back.

  The squad stopped at the edge of the clearing and took up defensive positions. Vegetation had been cleared in a wide perimeter around the outpost making a concealed approach impossible for a stealthy approach.

  Relying on the confusing patterns of flickering shadows cast by the fire and the absence of any guard at the fence, Tate and Ota crept closer to the outpost to recon while the remaining squad stayed behind.

  The outpost’s floodlights washed the area, giving Tate a clear view into the main compound with his binoculars, while Ota used his 3x-12x variable sniper scope.

  The normal complement of the outpost could be up to forty soldiers, making Tate wonder how many survivors were still in there.

  “What do you se
e, Ota?” he asked, keeping the binoculars to his eyes.

  “It’s hard to put a number on it,” answered Ota, as he peered through his scope. “There’s ten, maybe more Vix wandering around, but they keep moving in and out of view.”

  “Rough guess, we have thirty unaccounted for,” said Tate. “That would be more than soldiers enough to clean the Vix out of there.”

  Ota continued to probe the base through his scope.

  “Unless the thirty we don’t see are all Vix,” thought Tate out loud. “Either way, where are they? Somewhere in the bush around us?” The unsettling thought made Tate look around.

  Speculating wasn’t going to get anything done, and he looked over at the silent Ota. “You could try to help.”

  “I am helping,” smiled Ota behind his scope. “I’m scouting the base.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” said Tate, already wishing he hadn’t started this conversation. “I’m talking about what happened to the soldiers in the base.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Ota. “I have the same questions. Like you, I don’t have answers to those questions. What’s the use of two men asking the same questions of each other, knowing neither have the answer?”

  The adrenaline and shock of everything that had happened so far had caught up with him, and Tate had picked the worst person to burn off that jittering energy with.

  “Okay, when you put it like that,” he said. “Nothing rattles you, does it?”

  “Irritating, isn’t it,” said Ota calmly.

  Tate’s annoyance with Ota was climbing quickly, when something occurred to him that made him grin. “You enjoy doing that, don’t you?”

  “A little, yeah,” said Ota. “There’s no rule saying I can’t have a sense of humor.”

  Tate nearly laughed out loud at his new discovery of the obscure Ota. After a moment, he turned his attention back to the base. “I’m going back to the rest of the team. Sit tight and let me know if anything changes.”

  “Yes, I will,” said Ota.

  Tate rejoined the team at the edge of the clearing and told them what he’d seen.

  “Infiltrating the outpost,” he said, “is too dangerous. If there are survivors it’s a good bet they’ll shoot anything that moves, including us. If they don’t kill us, the gunfire will draw the Vix, who will finish the job.”