15: Damian

 

Damian

 

 

          "FiSTer, call it in."

          "Roger, Sergeant. Magnificent actual, this is Bobcat three-zero. Requesting a fire mission, over."

          "Roger, Bobcat three-zero. Send it."

          "Wait!"

          Damian Gillespie sat up screaming. Sweat dampened his skin. His tan undershirt had dark splotches around the crew-cut neck and under his arms. His thickly muscled chest rose and fell in sharp breaths. He swallowed deeply and tried to focus his mind back. His eyes shifted quickly around the room. He grew aware that he was no longer dreaming. He knew exactly where and when he was.

          It was November of Twenty-thirteen. He was catching some sleep before his team was being inserted to begin Operation Poseidon.

          He wasn't a young NCO far from home.

          He was a sergeant first class in Special Operations Command detachment Delta.

          Damian swung his legs around to the side of the cot and sat up. His boots were still tied tightly to his legs, though one of his pant legs had become unbloused. His heart pounded in post-nightmare frenzy and his throat was in desperate need of water. Careful not to wake any of his team who slept in collapsible cots nearby, Damian trudged to the communal bathroom.

          The high, thin windows near the ceiling displayed the faintest blue disappearing in the sky. He checked the scratched display of the G-shock around his left wrist. It was closing in on nineteen-hundred. His team had another twenty minutes of rack time before he would rouse them.

          Sergeant Gillespie turned on the faucet, waved his hand through to ensure it was cold, and began splashing it on his face and neck. His reflection in the mirror revealed bloodshot eyes and a growing shadow of facial hair. As a Delta operative, he wasn't required to shave but he preferred to not allow his beard to grow too long unless it was viable to the mission.

          He touched lightly at the side of his face and stared into his own reflected eyes. He looked older than his thirty-six years. Retirement would be soon, if death didn't find him first. That much he knew. "One last war," he muttered to himself. Then, with pangs of guilt in his stomach, he reached into the cargo pocket on the side of his trousers. He pulled out a small zip-lock bag that contained several pills of Percocet. He slipped onto his tongue and dry-swallowed just as a young specialist walked in.

          Abruptly, Damian shoved the small bag back into his pants.

          "Morning, Sergeant. S**t, or night. Hell if I know, anymore. Wasn't your team supposed to getting some shut eye."

          The young soldier stepped over to the urinal and obscenely groaned as a stream of piss hit the porcelain.

          "Here's a note about leadership, warrior, and take it down. You may need it if you find yourself in command in your future. A leader should always be the first one up and the last one asleep. Your soldiers always come first, before your own comfort, your own career, your own life."

          Before the bewildered specialist could reply, Damian left. The room housing his team was growing heavier with darkness. But there was motion. The four men under him were slipping on their boots or putting on their tops.

          Damian turned on the light. His men nodded to him. He nodded right back.

          "Make sure you check each other so no one forgets any of their s**t. We can't afford to make any mistakes like that."

          He found his own jacket on the cot and pulled it on. Without bothering to cuff the sleeves, he knelt by the pile of gear he had set up against the wall. His Interceptor body armor was already rigged with the pouches and equipment he ended to bring. He lifted the heavy plate carrier and secured it around his torso. Next came the kneepads and elbow pads. Resting inside his Kevlar helmet were two Kevlar-infused shooting gloves with hard knuckles. They were Blackhawk brand, durable, and comfortable, but he hated them. They were caked in years of dirt and blood.

          But he wouldn't wash them and he wouldn't buy new ones. They were reminders that he wore right on his hands, so he could never hide. Damian pulled the gloves on and strapped them to his wrist.

          Grabbing his helmet and goggles, he looked to his team. Three he knew well, and one fresh to the force. Stocky, muscular, and intelligent every one. If he had to fight, he was glad to do so with only the best. It ensured there was less potential for stupid mistakes.

          And he knew all too well what mistakes in this line of work could mean.

          "Alright, I know we just had the briefing, but I would be a piece of s**t leader if I didn't refresh your memory on the mission and how paramount it is that we succeed."

          The four Delta operatives turned their eyes to Damian.

          "We know Ivan has got the Space Coast by the balls. Which means they've got the Naval Ordinance Test Unit, too. So all the Navy's plans and procedures and specs on the Trident nuclear program and the one intended to supercede it are up for grabs. Our job is to make sure the Russians get none of it. This goes way higher than my pay grade, but if I were to guess, I'd assume the Navy's been working on some not-so-public projects there as well in conjunction with the Air Force. I'm talking satellites and rockets. So this is big. This comes from the top and we need to make sure we get it done. No excuses."

          "Never," the four operatives agreed.

          "Let's go f**k Ivan's day up, gentlemen."

          Less than an hour later, the five operatives of Task Force Specter were seated in a UH-Sixty Blackhawk as the engines began to whine and the routers thrummed through the cool air. The tarmac of Orlando International Airport was becoming a fortified staging area for elements of the Florida National Guard, the Air Force, and a few select elements of the regular Army. The Guard provided the six Blackhawks, but aside from those, the air power and ground power amassed were limited.

          The steel of the chopper began to vibrate and the fuselage lifted, tilting so slightly, before rising higher into the night. A small red light glowed in the compartment that housed the five Deltas and two crew chiefs.

          "Alright, Specter," the pilot called back, "Once we get to cruising altitude, we're going dark the whole way. No radio, no cell phones, no last minute online pornography. Intel says Russians don't have an anti-air system in place yet, but their warships still control the Atlantic right off the coast, and I don't want to take my chances. I take it some brass big-wig told you all the plan right? Or did they just give you a couple new toys and tell you to f**k s**t up?"

          "We infantry. We make things go boom. We like things go boom," one of the Delta's called back to the pilot who laughed.

          "Typical stupid-sticks infantry background. Look, man, I'm just saying everything's gone to s**t. Air Force is sending some B-Twos out of Elgin to do the heavy lifting. And that's my cue to drop you cowboys off at Hanger H at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station and from there, it's your show to the NOTU headquarters. God speed cowboys, nightlight's going out."

          The red light went out.

          Damian sat on the far seat closest to the open side door. One of the crew chiefs sat with his hands around the dual-handles of a door-mounted minigun. A few of his team sat testing their night vision optics. The rookie had his night vision turned on and was reading a pocket Bible. The thirty-six year old sergeant wondered if his team felt the same stomach-dropping apprehension that chilled the blood. He had felt this same pre-mission anxiety before leading his first "combat" mission at Infantry OSUT at Benning, but he had always assumed those jitters would disappear with experience. It turned out he was wrong; it never disappeared, he just got better at hiding it.

          The air chilled to a crisp and biting sting as the aircraft rose. The high whine of the engine and the snarl of the wind assaulted his ears. All the Army recruiting brochures always seemed to gloss over the fact that a loss of hearing is part of the contract.

          "Last war," he said to himself, so quietly it was lost amongst the ambient noise. "Last one."

          The darkness outside was deepening, drawing them in, inviting them into the gullet of the unknown. Damian wondered, without much attached emotion, if the reaper was waiting on the other side of that darkness. And so what if he was? At least someone was waiting for him.

          He wished he could say the same about those in his life that he loved. That he missed so much.

          His fingers dropped to the cargo pocket on his pants, but he couldn't take anymore. He was already feeling slight numbness in his hands and toes. The sharp pain of emotions were almost fully blunted, and that was the only thing that mattered. There was no room for emotion. Not anymore.

         He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift. Serenity. If only for a few minutes, twenty maybe. Maybe these were his last twenty minutes to reflect.

          She had such a beautiful face. He had fallen in love the moment he saw her. He still cared about her more than anything else in the world. But she was now so far away. Too far to touch her hair, stroke her cheek, embrace her. By whatever token, divine providence, a God's entertainment, or pure dumb luck, all signs pointed that he was not destined for that life. The one in every sitcom and feel good movie.

          Instead of mowing a perfect suburban lawn while his wife and daughter drank lemonade and played with a golden retriever, he was sitting in a drab military helicopter with his blood type taped to his boot and an assault rifle at his side. It was funny how life turned out.

          Life sure has a fucked up sense of humor, he thought.

          The co-pilot lifted a hand with all digits extended. They had five minutes before they reached their drop-off.

          Damian turned to his team and tapped the night vision optics secured to his helmet. They all gave him a thumbs up.

          Three minutes.

          The quick ropes needed to be set up for a fast insertion. The sooner the helicopter could leave the airspace, the better it would be for Task Force Specter. Damian rose to begin securing the ropes.

          "F**k me!"

          The pilot's shout coincided with a swift jerking of the Blackhawk. Damian sprawled flat onto the cold steel below and into the angled seat supports that were bolted into the flooring. The angle swiftly changed and he began sliding toward the open door. His hands darted out to the seat supports and closed around the cold metal. His arms ached as his weight was being sucked out toward the night. Invisible hands were yanking him and winning.

          Friendlier hands latched onto his vest and jacket and held tight. "F*****g A, Sergeant, don't be afraid to use your own strength too," one of them grunted.

          "Hang on! They've got a lock!"

          "Who's got a - ?"

          The wind whipped around his head, whistling so loudly in his ears that no other sounds prevailed. His stomach swam into his throat and his legs were weightless, floating high above him. It was a surreal, dreamlike feeling.

          "Daddy."

          Swirling blackness.

          "Daddy."

          Nothing but darkness.

          "Daddy!"

          Damian coughed violently. "I'm coming," he wheezed. His chest constricted. "I'm coming baby girl."

          His limbs felt useless and in the absolute darkness he had no bearings on where he was going. He was paralyzed and blind.

          "Don't worry," he choked. "Baby, don't worry, I'm coming."

          His head was swimming. Images and thoughts faded to and from his mind like smoke.

          "Baby. Baby girl."

          The sun beat down on his face. It was cruel and unrelenting. The sand drifting across the rooftops was a harsh and sickly yellow.

          "That's the place."

          "You sure, Sergeant?"

          "Yeah -"

          "Daddy."

          Damian lifted himself off the cracked concrete. "No. Not here." He tried to push himself up but his body wouldn't budge. "Baby, get away from here!" he shouted, causing the soldier beside him to turn to him with alarm.

          "Sergeant? Are you okay?"

          "Get her out of here! Now!" He began to cough, the cough became a violent wheeze, and the wheeze became wet and sticky. His eyes squeezed shut as he wretched, and when he opened them, the sun and sand were gone.

          Instead, a cloudy sky with clear pockets saturated in stars looked down on him. There wasn't much pity in their twinkle. He didn't need it anyway. His neck and back felt unbelievably stiff. He tried to move his fingers but only felt a dull, numbing throb shoot from his shoulder to his knuckles.

          A soft, whooshing gasp whistled in his throat as he inhaled. Lingering in his mouth was the bitter taste of copper. He drew his saliva to the front of his mouth and spit. A strand of spit ran down the side of his cheek from the corner of his mouth, and he wiped at it with a gloved hand. The smear was a light pink.

          His right arm tingled, which was more than he could say for his left. It took all of his focused effort to lift his right arm across to the left side of his chest to his radio. The manpack felt like a lead brick more than a handheld radio. Even depressing the talk key was a chore. There was a small click to indicate he was on the net.

          "Specter four, this is Specter six, over," he choked then released the push-to-talk key.

          Silence from the other end.

          "Specter four, this is Specter six. I'm authorizing an override of the radio silence. What is your status, over?"

          He knew it was risky. Breaking radio silence on this kind of operation was dangerous, but if there were surface-to-air missiles locking on to their aircraft, their cover had already been blown.

          Damian tried to key in the talk again to contact his team, but his fingers locked and he dropped the radio onto his chest. He swore and grasped for his radio again.

          "Warlord actual, this is Specter six, over."

          Nothing.

          "Warlord actual, this is Specter six. Come in, over."

          No one responded. They were either ignoring him and maintaining radio silence, or the Russians had jammers set up already.

          He prayed that the radio operators back at the makeshift tactical operations center were cursing him and vowing to skin him alive for going against the regulations. Because if they weren't, it meant that the Russian Federation was much farther along in their foothold than the intel spooks predicted.

          Damian had never been one for religion or faith, not anymore, but as he lay on the ground with almost no feeling in his body, he sent up a silent prayer to God. He prayed his team was continuing with the mission. He prayed they could truly slow the growing storm surge that was assaulting the entire east.