The Rising

Chapter 2 of the Rising which is a fast paced action/thriller loaded with military special operations and the supernatural.

Chapter 2

            Clay Hawker lay on the surplus army bunk staring up at the ceiling.  He didn’t mind the army bunk; God knows he had slept on a lot worse in his time.  The cell he was in was only about six and a half feet wide and eight feet long. 

Other than the bed, his only other furniture was a small chest of drawers with a ceramic wash basin and pitcher.  His lone source of light was a candle burning in its holder on top of the chest.  The door to the cell was solid oak, three inches thick and currently closed, but Hawker was not a prisoner.  This monk’s cell was simply where he slept when not on assignment.

            With his fingers laced together behind his head, Hawker stared unseeingly at the white plastered ceiling.  His mind wandered back to two years ago and to the circumstances that brought him here. 

His coal black hair had been cut short then.  He closed his eyes and saw his past unfold.  Hawker had been a Sergeant First Class assigned to a Special Forces Team in Afghanistan.

             The small five man Special Forces team had been dropped off by helicopter well away from their target two nights ago.  They had humped into the mountains and found a good hide spot where they could hold up until it was time to descend to the hills below them. 

This morning before daylight they had left their hide spot and silently crept down into the hills overlooking the nondescript village.  The village was typical of an Afghan village, a little bigger than some, but still fell short of anything that could be called a town. 

The team had found a slight depression at the top of the hill that would hide them from sight.  They had a good view of the village that lay west of their position.

            “Chico, who’s got eyes on the village,” whispered Sergeant First Class Hawker to his number two man. 

            “I’ve got the newbie on it Hawkman; we got to bust his cherry sometime.”  Then seeing the concern on his bosses face, “Don’t sweat it, he’ll do fine.”

            “Did you remind him what he’s looking for?” questioned the team leader.

            “Yeah, yeah, three cars coming in with our target in the middle.  The newbie will let us know as soon as he sees ‘em.  Chill out Hawkman, I swear you worry like a mother hen.”

Hawker smiled at his long time friend and thought, “Let’s see how much you worry when you get your own team.”  He then glanced down at his olive drab wristwatch. Their Intel had said that the terrorist leader was supposed to be arriving at noon and it was already ten after. 

“Don’t worry,” he reminded himself.  “These terrorists are not known for their punctuality.”  He was resisting taking another look at his watch when he heard a low whistle.  It was Sergeant Jones, their new team member who Chico had assigned to watch the village.

                Crawling quietly to the lip of the depression, Hawker slid next to Jones and took the binoculars that Jones handed to him.  At the same time that Jones was handing the glasses to Hawker, he was pointing to the road coming into the village from the south.

            Making a quick adjustment, Hawker focused on the three vehicles coming fast, trailed by a cloud of dust.  “They’re SUVs, probably Toyota Land Cruisers,” he thought to himself.  He heard Chico quietly prepping the Laser Designator then move to the spot they had pre-selected.

            Hawker handed the glasses back to Jones then pushed himself back down into the depression and fired up the radio.  He would trust his teammates to do their jobs and they would trust him to do his.

            Jones watched the three vehicles stop in front of a house in the middle of the village.  Four men carrying AK 47 assault rifles ran from the front vehicle into the house.  Four men from the rear vehicle also carrying AK 47s jumped out and quickly set up a security perimeter around the house. 

Jones then watched two men step unhurriedly from the middle vehicle.  One of the men walked with the air of authority into the house followed by his lackey.  Jones raised his hand signaling that their target had entered the house.

            Hawker glanced at Chico and saw his signal that he had the Laser Designator on target.  Hawker keyed the radio, “Foxtrot Echo, Foxtrot Echo, this is Sierra.  We are painting.”

            He heard the single reply, “Roger that,” from a lone F-15 Eagle circling high overhead.

            Even though he knew that the F-15 had released a smart bomb that would hit the target right where the laser was pointed, Hawker was still amazed at the bomb’s precision when he heard the blast. 

With the radio in his right hand, Hawker called out, “What’s it look like Chico?”

            “They’re toast Hawkman; it looks like minimal collateral damage.”

            Hawker keyed the radio, “Foxtrot Echo, you’re one for one and we’re out of here!”

            “Roger that Sierra, good luck,” replied the F-15, who left to return to base.

            Hawker quickly secured the radio then called out, “Okay gang, make sure we’ve got all our s**t and let’s get the hell out of here before anyone gets nosy.” 

Chico had already put the Laser Designator in its heavy duty carrying case and Jones took one last look at the destroyed house and three wrecked SUVs then backed away from the depression’s edge.

            Chico, Jones and Hawker silently withdrew from the hill and were joined by two other team members, Sergeant Drury and Corporal Rice who had been providing security on their flanks.  Drury took point and the five men began their march to the extraction point ten miles away where a Blackhawk helicopter would pick them up.

            Once across the mountains, the team entered a narrow valley where they began a mile eating pace.  Corporal Rice brought up the rear and would turn around every few minutes to check their six o’clock just to make sure that nobody was following them. 

In the monotony of the march, Hawker’s mind began to wander to his wife Jeannie and his six year old daughter Beth.  It was when he was first posted at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.  Hawker had been newly promoted from corporal to buck sergeant and was assigned to the 82^nd Airborne Division. 

He was focused on getting into Special Forces and could think of nothing else until the day he went to the PX and was smitten by the new cashier.  Jeannie’s dad was career military and after she had graduated from high school she had gone to college for two years.  She had dropped out, frustrated with the liberal professors who had no concept of the “real world.”

            Hawker had asked her out and of course she had said no.  He had gone back to the PX every day for a week and asked her out.  Each time he had gone to the PX he had bought a can of shaving cream. 

Finally she told him that she would go out with him if for no other reason than to keep the PX from running out of shaving cream.  Hawker took Jeannie to a little Italian place and they talked for hours.

            While on the march in Afghanistan he smiled when he remembered Jeannie asking him, “Your last name is Hawker, are you native American?” 

He had laughed as he explained that when his family had come over on the boat it was actually Halckur.  Some underpaid civil servant at Ellis Island heard them pronounce their name and spelled it Hawker. 

The family thought the spelling made them sound more American and decided to keep it.  Hawker explained to Jeannie that he was now the fifth or sixth generation with that name.

            They continued seeing each other and became engaged.  When Hawker had told her that since he was getting married, he was rethinking his application for Special Forces, Jeannie had put her foot down. 

“I was an army brat and now I’m going to be an army wife.  I know what that entails, don’t you even think about changing your career.  If you withdraw your application to Special Forces I’ll cancel the wedding.”

            “God, I’m lucky to have Jeannie,” he thought.  Beth had been a blessing that he loved dearly.  He missed them both, but he was due to be rotated home in a month.  In three months his enlistment would be up and he would re-enlist for a duty station where he could spend time with his family. 

“Yep, life is great,” he thought.  “When I re-up it’ll put me over 14 years and I’ll be due a pay raise.  Then I should make Master Sergeant on my next enlistment and that will be more money for our family.”

            “Hey Hawkman, did you say something?” asked Chico who was trudging along behind Hawker.

            “No Chico, just thinking about Jeannie and Beth,” said Hawker apologizing to his friend.  “S**t,” he thought, “we’re still in Indian country.  I better keep my head in the game.” 

Hawker looked at the time on his watch and realized that the Blackhawk would be coming in to pick them up in an hour at the extraction point.  There would be no radio transmission unless they were in trouble. 

The helicopter would be coming in fast, make a quick landing, scoop them up and be back in the air in less than fifteen seconds.  If they weren’t there on time, the Blackhawk would not stick around and they would have to make it to the secondary extraction point.

Hawker called up to Sergeant Drury at point, “Pick up the pace Drew, we’re a tad behind schedule.”  Sergeant Drury didn’t say a word; he simply nodded his head and the team’s pace picked up.

  Hawker and his team made it to the landing zone with fifteen minutes to spare.  They quickly spread out to secure the LZ and waited for the worst part of the mission.  At least it was the worst part for Hawker. 

They were done with the mission and waiting for their ride.  This was where things could go wrong.  They were exposed and could be spotted by the bad guys or the Blackhawk could have engine trouble and have to return to base.

Right on time though, the Blackhawk swooped down with its wheels barely touching the ground.  The team was up and in only a matter of seconds they were in the helicopter. 

The Blackhawk rose and went to full military power as it raced across the ground fighting for altitude.  The helicopter pilot knew that smart bad guys would wait for the helicopter to arrive before opening fire so the sooner he could be out of here the better.

Hawker was leaning back, finally able to relax and take a deep breath when the pilot called to him.  “Sergeant Hawker, Colonel Greenwalt needs to see you as soon as we get back to base.”

“Did he say what it was about?” asked Hawker.

“Nope, just that he needs to see you ASAP.”

“Okay, thanks,” replied Hawker who leaned back and wondered just what the hell the colonel needed to see him about now.

The Blackhawk arrived back at base and touched down.  The team jumped out and went to clean their gear and take hot showers.  Then maybe they’d grab a bite of chow or lie down and catch up on some sleep.  Hawker watched them with envy as he carried his gear and walked to Colonel Greenwalt’s headquarters.

Hawker approached the headquarters building, it was one of the army’s pre-fabricated buildings that army engineers could set up and make fully functional in just a couple of hours. 

Before entering, Hawker stopped at a 55 gallon drum cocked at an angle and half filled with sand.  He unloaded his M-16, stuck the muzzle into the barrel and dry fired to make sure the weapon was safe.  Then he repeated the process with his sidearm, a 9 mm Beretta 92F.  He put the Beretta back in his holster and entered the building.

He saw a Spec Four sitting at a computer outside Colonel Greenwalt’s door and asked, “Do you mind if I put my stuff down here for a couple of minutes?”

The young Specialist looked up from his computer, “No Sarge, I don’t mind.  Your stuff will be fine there.”

“Thanks,” said Hawker, who then knocked three loud raps on the door frame. 

He heard the command to enter so he opened the door and stepped smartly to the front of the colonel’s desk, gave a sharp salute and said, “Sergeant First Class Hawker reporting as ordered Sir.”

Colonel Greenwalt returned the salute, and then in an uncharacteristic gentle voice said, “Please have a seat Sergeant Hawker.”  Hawker sat down and for the first time noticed that the base chaplain was also seated in the colonel’s office. 

The colonel folded his hands and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “Sergeant Hawker, I’m afraid that I have some very bad news for you.  I regret to have to inform you that your wife and daughter are dead.”

Hawker sat stunned, “That can’t be right, I just spoke to them a couple of days ago on my laptop.”

The chaplain came over and placed his hand on Hawker’s shoulder, “I’m sorry son, we were just informed this morning by CID at Fort Bragg that your loved one’s lives were taken yesterday.”

“We have made arrangements for you to fly out today; you should be back at Bragg tomorrow.  Sergeant Major Ferris, your father-in-law, will meet you when you land at Pope Air Force Base,” added Colonel Greenwalt.

The trip home was all a blur in Hawker’s memory.  He barely remembered his father-in-law’s sorrowful face and sad eyes.  When they got in his father-in-law’s car, this strong man, this career soldier, broke down in tears as he told Hawker that his daughter and granddaughter had been murdered right in their own home in the post’s senior NCO housing.

“I want to see Jeannie and Beth,” asked Hawker.

“Trust me, you don’t want to see them,” responded his father-in-law.  “They’re still in the morgue where I had to go to identify their bodies.” 

Then taking a breath and wiping the tears from his eyes, the old soldier said, “Their throats were cut and their bodies were dismembered, but they caught the b*****d who did it.  We’re going to CID now, the agent in charge of the case wanted to see you when you arrived.” 

Hawker just nodded his head and didn’t say anything.  As they drove to CID headquarters, the U.S. Army’s equivalent to the FBI, Hawker was past grief, he wanted vengeance.

They arrived at CID and were greeted by Special Agent Meyer, who Hawker guessed was a warrant officer.  Meyer escorted them to his office and as they sat down he said, “I’m sorry for your loss Sergeant Hawker, but I want you to know that we have the man who killed your family.”

“Who was it?” asked Hawker with a hard edge to his voice.  “And why did he murder a defenseless woman and innocent child?”

Meyer saw the hatred in Sergeant Hawker’s eyes and a hardness that he had seen in other combat soldiers.  He picked up a case file on his desk and opened it up, “The man is a soldier, a Private First Class Eddie Johnson who has been in the U.S. Army for eighteen months.  He has a history of drug use and it appears that he was given a choice by a judge, enlist or go to jail.”

“My God is that still happening?” asked Sergeant Major Ferris, shaking his head in disgust.

“Not nearly as often as it used to in the old days, but yes, it still goes on,” answered Special Agent Meyer.  “His last performance evaluation reflects minimal effort and requires close supervision.  In other words he was a slacker and a problem child.  PFC Johnson received disciplinary action, an Article 15, for a second positive drug test.”

Meyer closed the case folder and looked up at Hawker, “This soldier was definitely a waste of space, a drug user, but there is nothing in his history that suggests violence.  We suspected that he was on something like PCP because when the Military Police responded to the call, it took four of them to subdue him.” 

Then shaking his head, “We drug tested him but only found traces of marijuana and cocaine.  I don’t have any idea what could have caused him to commit such a brutal act.  As to why he chose your family, it appears to be random.  There is no connection to you, your family or your father-in-law.  He apparently was walking through the senior NCO housing and just chose your home.”

“I want to see him,” said Hawker, evenly, and in a dead voice.

“I can arrange that,” said Meyer tentatively.  “But I’ve got to warn you not to do anything stupid.  We’ve got him in the mental ward at the hospital where we have had to keep him strapped down.” 

Then standing up behind his desk, Meyer said, “You can ride with me.”

The three men got into the CID agent’s car, an unmarked government sedan.  Sergeant Major Ferris sat in the front passenger seat and Hawker sat in the back seat trying to make sense of the loss of his wife and daughter. 

They arrived at the hospital and an orderly escorted them into the mental ward.  He showed them to an observation room with a two-way mirror.

They were standing on one side of the mirror looking into a lighted room when a gurney was pushed into the room escorted by a Catholic chaplain.  Hawker saw what appeared to be a thin young man strapped down on the gurney. 

“That’s PFC Johnson,” said Meyer.  “He can’t see us on this side of the mirror.”

“Who is the chaplain?” asked Hawker.

“That is Captain Sheehan, a Catholic chaplain.  He seems to have taken quite an interest in the case.  I don’t know why, PFC Johnson’s records reflect that he was not Catholic.”

They saw Johnson thrashing about on the gurney, gnashing his teeth and through the speaker they heard him cursing the priest.  Suddenly he stopping moving on the gurney and turned his head to look at the two-way mirror.  His mouth shaped into a deformed smile and he said, “Clay, or should I say Hawkman, I’m so glad you could make it.”

Sergeant Major Farris leaned over to Special Agent Meyer and whispered a question, “I didn’t think that he could see us through that mirror?”

“He can’t,” said Meyer in a shaken voice.  Then he looked at Hawker and said, “I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

“I don’t,” replied Hawker, suddenly very interested in PFC Johnson.  Cold chills had gone up Hawker’s neck when Johnson had called him Hawkman.  No one outside of his team ever used that name.

“Hey Hawkman,” yelled Johnson. “Do you want to hear how your little girl screamed when I cut her throat?  She called for her daddy but you were not at home.  You were halfway around this dust ball dropping a bomb on a house, weren’t you?”  Johnson then let out a shrill laugh.  Hawker was stunned that Johnson knew about his classified mission that had just happened.

“You guys want to see something fun?” asked Johnson.  The young PFC lay back on the gurney and closed his eyes then the men watched in amazement as the gurney floated a foot off the floor then came crashing back down.

Captain Sheehan, the Catholic priest left the room and went to a nearby telephone where he made a long distance call.  “It is confirmed your Eminence, the subject shows all the signs of demonic possession.”

 

 

 

Author's Note

I have added this second chapter at the request of Sue Hart. It is also in apology for the first chapter which was not cut and pasted, but rather retyped on my iPad.

Reviews

[wordman]

well I could see a novel on this and a pretty dam good movie series
it kept me glued to the screen

[Sue Hart]

I am so honored. When this is published, because what idiot wouldn't want it, I want to buy a copy. I can't even see an editor touching it. Man it is soooo good. I'm itching to read more, but you should finish the third chapter and find an agent. ASAP. Wow, I'm not kidding. This is amazingly good.

[Ron Toppings]

I'm really glad you like The Rising. It is currently available through Amazon Books and if you're interested in looking it up, do a search under Ron Toppings and it should come right up. The sequel, Mengele Plague, is scheduled to come out in a March 2014 time frame.