The Grave Diggers Read online

  Jack Tate had left the army base after working up his action report, and Private Keeble's transfer forms.

  The captain had torn into him, threatening that he'd jump past an Article 15 and go for a court martial. It was white noise to Tate; his mind was far away from the squawks of his CO.

  He stood at attention and waited for the yelling to stop, then left without a word.

  It was his time now, and he was tired of seeing anything in camo. He knew a club in part of the city that was perfectly situated beneath trendy and above seedy.

  The Blue Orchid could have been in the nicer areas of town if the owner could afford it, but the bouncers kept the dirt out, so it was okay with Tate.

  The taxi pulled up outside the club, and Tate got out. He noticed a small tremor in his hand as he paid the driver. He was having trouble turning his back on today’s mission.

  As the taxi pulled away, Tate took a moment to fill his lungs with the evening air.

  A bouncer standing at the entrance passively watched him.

  The owner, Teddy Moon, didn't like the expression 'bouncer', and called them doormen, believing it gave the place some class. He was also a big fan of the 1940s noir movies, and it showed from the club’s decor to the music; if you didn't like Glenn Miller or Harry James, this was the wrong place for you.

  The doorman looked like a stack of boulders and just as solid. Tate couldn't tell if his face was naturally flat, or the result of stopping a lot of punches. If it was the latter, he was sure that face had left a trail of broken hands behind it. He was typical of the 'doorman' Teddy hired. It was impossible to get drunk enough to believe you could take on one of these guys, and yet all of them were civil and polite. He moved aside as Tate approached.

  "Evening, Mr Jack."

  "Evening, Rocko," said Tate. He didn't believe that was his real name, but Teddy Moon had a thing for nicknames, and if you stood still long enough, Teddy would put one on you.

  Rocko was as good a name as anyone could have come up with, and in this case, it was a good fit.

  "Looks crowded tonight."

  "That's how the boss likes it. But there's always room for you, Mr Jack. Enjoy yourself." Rocko opened the door, and Tate stepped inside.

  Tate walked in, greeted by the jukebox playing That Old Black Magic. The lighting was easy on the eyes; not too dark, but lit well enough to see around the place.

  The club was done up as close to looking like some place Bogart would get a drink at. Leather, brass and wood made up most of the décor, although on closer inspection everything had a worn look to it; some might think it was aged and shabby, but to Tate it just felt lived in.

  He looked around for an open seat at the bar; sitting alone at a booth made him feel alone and self-conscious.

  "Jaaaaack," someone called across the room.

  Teddy Moon crossed the club floor to Tate, with a large smile and friendly handshake.

  "It's a pleasure to see you, old man," said Teddy warmly. "Welcome back to the Blue Orchid."

  "Thanks, Teddy," said Tate. "Nice to be back."

  "Teddy? Don't be so formal," said Teddy. "All my friends call me Commodore." Tate had no idea how or why Teddy had come up with that nickname, but it did no good to ask.

  He was well groomed, and always in fashion should the 1940s ever come back. Tonight, he was wearing a simple but well-tailored, double-breasted jacket, with a white dress shirt and tie. His cologne was a warm mix of tobacco, citrus and leather, and he never went anywhere without it.

  Tate didn't go out of his way to make friends, or be chummy, but Teddy had that kind of personality that you couldn't help but like.

  "Let’s see. You'll be wanting a place at the bar, right?" asked Teddy, without really asking. He glanced at the bar and saw it was full.

  Tate wasn't feeling picky, and would have settled for anyplace that wasn't the center of Teddy’s attention.

  "It's okay. I can sit anywhere."

  But Teddy wasn't listening. He escorted Tate to the end of the bar, where a couple of girls were talking.

  "Ladies," said Teddy. "Excuse me, but it's just come to my attention that these seats were the victim of someone’s over indulgence, and I'll have to ask you to move to one of the booths while we clean them up."

  The girls looked at Teddy, uncomprehending. Few people talked like Teddy, and it took awhile to get used to him, although he understood himself perfectly and therefore believed everyone else did, too.

  The girls continued to stare at Teddy as they waited for him to say something they understood.

  "A guy threw up on your seats," he said impatiently.

  The girls leapt off the seats like they'd just been stabbed by a pin, craning their heads around, looking for stains on the rear of their tight dresses.

  "Yes, it's horrible," said Teddy, as he took each of them by an arm, leading them over to an empty booth and sitting them down. "I'll have your drinks brought over to you."

  "We left our purses at the bar," objected one of the girls.

  "I'll have them sent over," said Teddy.

  "What about our bill?" asked the other girl.

  "I'll have that brought over, too," said Teddy, leaving them gaping at his back.

  Tate couldn't help but smirk as Teddy came over and sat him at the bar, leaving an empty seat between Tate and the other patrons.

  "Bertie," said Teddy, catching the bartender’s attention. "Take care of my friend here."

  Then to Tate, "I heard things got dicey on your outing today. You're at the Blue Orchid now, so put your feet up and take it easy."

  Tate was troubled, but not surprised that Teddy knew about the patrol; it wasn't difficult for him to believe that Teddy's enterprises reached beyond running a nightclub.

  "I don't suppose you'd tell me how you always know so much?"

  Teddy appraised Tate with a smile that held more meaning than he was willing to explain.

  "The Blue Orchid caters to those who pay in currency other than money, and speaking of money, keep your wallet in your pocket tonight. It's on the house. If you need anything else, just give me the high sign."

  Before Tate could ask what the 'high sign' was, Teddy was gone.

  Bertie looked at Tate, patiently waiting for his order. "I'd like a bourbon."

  The bartender gave him a slight nod and reached under the counter for a bottle. He put a tumbler in front of Tate and filled the bottom of it.

  The aroma of alcohol and oak coming from his glass filled his senses, and he could feel himself beginning to relax.

  Bertie left him to take care of others along the bar, which was fine with Tate; it was just him and a glass of smooth bourbon.

  He held the tumbler up to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled. He let his mind drift around the sounds of the bar, while he settled against the bar.

  Suddenly, his peace was shattered with blood and screaming. Images of Yeler's shattered face filled his mind. Horror gripped at Tate, and his eyes shot open, finding only a dimly lit club filled with people. The memory faded, leaving his trembling hand holding the tumbler.

  Startled and angry, Tate knocked back his drink in one swallow. He stopped himself from banging the tumbler down on the bar-top, and struggled to get his emotions back under control.

  The bartender appeared and poured his glass again.

  Tate held up his hand, before the bartender walked off.

  "Hang on, Bertie. You're going to be pouring a few more of those in a minute." Tate lifted his glass, about to empty it in one swig, when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

  "You need a good cigar with bourbon," said a friendly voice. "Anything less is a crime."

  Recognizing the voice, Tate stood up and saluted. "Good evening, Colonel Hewett."

  "Sit down, Jack," smiled Hewett. "I'll have one of those," he said to the bartender, pointing to Tate's drink.

  The colonel sat in the stool next to Tate and reached into his jacket, taking out a small cigar case. He slid two ci
gars from the case and offered one to Tate.

  "No, thank you, sir," said Tate.

  "Let’s leave the 'sir' back at the base," said Hewett. Replacing one of the cigars, he put the case back in his jacket pocket.

  The bartender produced a cigar cutter and lighter for Hewett, who took them with a nod.

  "I like this place. I can see why you come here." He snipped the end off the cigar, and put it in his mouth. He started the lighter and held the flame to the end of the cigar, while he puffed on it a couple of times until the end briefly glowed a dark orange.

  Tate watched the colonel go through the ritual. He'd met Earl Hewett a year earlier, when he first joined the A.V.E.F., and they had immediately clicked. There's a connection soldiers share who have been through the merciless forge of combat. They don't wear it on their sleeve. It's something in their presence, a vibe that other soldiers of shared experiences recognize instinctually, and in spite of his lax demeanor, the colonel saw it in Tate.

  Tate had a mixed opinion of officers, but appreciated that the colonel cared about those under his command. When he was on base, the colonel was often seen away from his desk, talking to his junior officers, watching the units going through their training, combat shooting practice, etc.

  What had Tate curious was that he and Hewett didn't socialize on or off the base. Following the normal chain of command, Tate reported through his captain. He'd bet good money the colonel wasn't here by coincidence, and sooner or later he'd get around to it; as it was, Tate didn't have to wait long.

  "You know, Jack, if you stay in the Army long enough, you either become a very good politician, or a very good soldier. If you're not good at either, you end up dead either way. I think you're a good soldier."

  "No disrespect, sir, but I know a lot of people that would disagree with you," said Tate.

  "You know what they say about opinions and assholes, Jack. It's true most good soldiers get weary of the death," said Hewett. "It wears them down. When their tour's up, they retire and go home, which is why the Army is top heavy with politicians."

  Hewett took a sip of bourbon, followed by a long draw on his cigar. He blew out the smoke slowly and took a sip of his bourbon. "I'm wondering why you haven't gone home."

  Tate was beginning to dislike where this was going. His past was a topic he avoided talking about, but when put on the spot he'd lie. Lying made him uncomfortable. Not that he couldn't; on the contrary, he could lie easily and be convincing, but lies left behind tracks that a clever person might discover. He didn't have to worry about that this time.

  "For example, I heard about a guy, Jack Tiller, that served with the 471st until a couple of years ago," said Hewett. "That's one of those hush-hush Delta, special mission units. They get the messy jobs nobody wants to do, or admit doing. They keep to themselves mostly. Not a lot of guys have their unit tattoo. Easy to spot, though." The colonel stopped and eyed Tate expectantly for a reaction, but Tate stared, stone faced, at his glass.

  "So, this guy, Jack Tiller, one day he just ups and vanishes into thin air. Those spec-op guys are a tight-lipped family, and they wouldn't say anything else, but I did hear some chatter that something bad happened at home."

  Tate only nodded, but said nothing as the colonel took his time getting to the point. Tate wasn't in a hurry either, and waited to see how many gaps the colonel would fill in.

  "Must have been pretty bad for this guy, Tiller, to quit an entire life just like that."

  "Must have," Tate said, as he stared into his glass.

  "Part of my brigade is the Mortuary Affairs, where they slipped in the All Volunteer Expeditionary Force. Those AVEFs aren't even real soldiers, not that the Army would complain. They need all the bodies they can to make a dent clearing out those rotting meat sticks. They'll take anyone who walks in the door, so it's not hard to imagine how low the bar's set on performance. Hell, if they can button their own shirt we're satisfied, so when your name kept showing up on action reports I got curious. Where the life expectancy in that unit is a few months, you're not only alive and kicking, but demonstrating advanced squad tactics. The kind of tactics someone with special training would have."

  Tate knew he'd been found out, but was too annoyed and stubborn to admit it.

  "Knock it off, Jack. I don't have any more time for this crap." He was tired of this game, and had used up what patience he had for innuendos. "Show it to me," he said, bumping Tate in the shoulder with his knuckles.

  The colonel knew too much for Tate to claim ignorance. With a sigh, he pushed up his right sleeve, exposing a tattoo. It had two snakes intertwined up the handle of a double bladed executioners axe. It was framed with a shield and three words surrounding the axe, 'Iudex Iudices Carnificem'.

  "Well, isn't that a thing," said the colonel in mock surprise. "My Latin's rusty. Iudex, Iudices, Carnificem. Judge, jury and executioner. Did I get that right?"

  "What else do you know, or want to know?" sighed Tate.

  Hewett took another pull on his cigar. Now that he was confident he had the right man, the hard part was out of the way.

  "I know you were one of the best operators the 471st had. I know you have a box full of medals and ribbons, probably stuffed away somewhere. I know you pulled some hellacious high-risk missions, deep infiltration and high value terminations. I could go on, but I think I'm hitting inside the ten ring."

  "I wouldn't know about any of that, Colonel."

  Hewett chuckled and sipped his bourbon. "I'm sure you wouldn't. What I don't get is why a highly skilled operator would go off the reservation, and a year later sign up in a loser detail, scrubbing the worlds toilet."

  Tate's glass stopped halfway to his mouth, and he put it down on the bar hard, rattling the ice cubes. "With all respect, sir, where is this going?"

  "Come on, Jack, you snake eaters all have it in you. You guys can't resist testing yourselves, pushing yourself to the next level. Honing your skills."

  Tate didn't say anything, but rolled his sleeve back down, covering his tattoo.

  "Since you've been in Mortuary Affairs you've been drag-assing your way from one commander to another. The word is you're on your last leg. Your captain's going to file a court martial and probably get it. Anyone else and I'd say they deserve it, but I don't think that's you. You act like you hate the Army, but you always seem to do just enough to keep from getting kicked out, until now, and I think that was a mistake. That wasn't part of your plan. If you wanted out, you would have been gone a long time ago."

  Tate emptied the last of his drink, wishing the bourbon would hurry up and blur the world out of existence. "Well, if that was true, and I'm not saying it is... or isn't, none of that matters, now. I don't think the captain'll have much trouble getting his court martial, and I'll be gone.”

  “Which brings me to answering your unspoken question, of why I'm here. Ever since we got South America, the prevailing strategy has been to systematically work our way across the country, wiping out the Vix as we go. It's a simple plan. Easy to execute, easy to understand, and wrong. Our country is in trouble. I don't have to tell you the devastation we've suffered because of the outbreak. Our infrastructure is broken and some of us have done the math. The current plan is too little, too late.

  “Jack, the country will collapse if we don't do something fast. South America has silver, copper and gold mines, oil fields and natural gas that we desperately need. Those resources would go a long way to getting our country on her feet again. But the government refuses to see the danger. They're so afraid to admit their plan isn't working, that they reject anyone who disagrees with them, discrediting in public as alarmist. There are some who aren't willing to sit back and watch the government drive the country into an early grave. They've come together from branches of military, corporations, and even a few in the government. The objective is to scout out the most accessible resources, ones we can tap into and bring online with the least amount of expended assets, then the government will have no choice but to
change its direction."

  "And you want to form a covert unit inside the AVEF, right?" said Tate.

  "Exactly. They're so insignificant on everyone’s radar, it's the perfect place to operate from."

  Tate swirled the ice cubes in his glass, watching the play of light winking off them. "Why are you telling me about this? Whatever you think you know about my past, I'm not that guy. The most exercise I get is convincing myself to get out of bed in the morning."

  He didn't show it, but the prospect of running operations again was making his heartbeat quicken. He knew the colonel was trying to read him. Tate kept an attitude of bored interest; he wasn't going to give the colonel any emotional leverage.

  "I'm not looking for supermen, but I do need a guy with experience under his belt. You'd be tasked with creating a small unit," said the colonel, "which would conduct specialized missions to insert and recon suspected high value targets."

  Hewett lightly rapped his cigar on the edge of the ashtray, knocking off the ash and giving Tate time to digest what he'd heard.

  "You report back, and we send in assets to collect the resources. That simple." Hewett took a sip of his drink, saving the best part of his offer for last. "I'll authorize your request for a limited number of promotions within your unit, and you'd be promoted to sergeant major, as befitting your responsibility."

  Tate couldn't hide his expression of surprise. "That's three grades. Nobody's going to sign off on that, and even if they did, that's going to attract a lot of attention to your secret unit."

  Hewett tapped the rank insignia on the shoulder of his uniform. "That bird means I do the worrying. All you need to do is sign on. Besides, wasn't that your rank in the 471st? You earned it, you wear it."

  Hewett paused, giving Tate time to consider his offer. He casually looked around the room for a few moments, buying himself some time. The next part of the conversation could get rocky, but this was too important and he wasn't going to shy away from it.

  "It'll be your unit. Your people," said the colonel. "The thing is, Jack, a man of your experience is hard to come by, and would be a great benefit to me, but I have to know you're squared away." Hewett looked straight at him, studying Tate's every expression.