Saving Time

Chapter 1

Southeast of Benavente, Spain, afternoon, December 29, 1808

Melissa sobbed as she ran. Her lungs burned with every gulp of the frigid air. I failed ye, Emily. She’d risked all but couldn’t save her friend. The horror of it tore at her heart. Now, she must save herself.

Back down the bare slope, three men emerged from drifting smoke. She could still see the town of Castro Gonzalo burning in the valley below. Great billowing clouds of gray blew uphill, hiding her more than once. If not for the ash-laden haze and her decision to head up into the hills, those French minkers would have caught her for certain. The devilswere still chasing her, persistent as starving moor hounds, even though they’d not gained a yard on her.

Hadn’t there been four soldiers? Short of breath, panic hammering at her senses, she couldn’t think worth a cadger’s curse. She only saw the three in the blue-gray long coats of Napoleon’s regulars. Did one give up? Scanning the slopes, she saw no others. If she could only get wide of them. The top of the rise was just ahead.

Nana’s amulet swung from a chain around her neck, beating against her breast with every step. She stuffed it into the top of her stays, wishing it could do all that Nana had claimed. Aye, she wished. She wished she could see Nana and the bright waters of the Firth of Tay once more. She wished her uncle’s battalions were charging to her rescue. She wiped tears and sweat from her eyes. Wishes were fool’s scrap now.

Up the slope she labored, her chest on fire. Her temples pounded with every heartbeat.

She slipped on the wet grass, damp skirts tangling her legs, and she fell hard. Her limbs were heavy, as though tied to iron doorstops. Although the French devils laughed at her fall, yelling obscenities from below, they gained little ground for they were barely more than walking. She picked herself up and began climbing again, muddy skirts held in muddy hands. She couldn’t let them run her to ground like some exhausted deer.

From the top of the slope, she could see the glinting silver ribbon of the Eslar River a league to the west. If she could keep ahead of them and make it to the river, she had a chance of reaching the British army defending Benavente. Her pursuers were still far enough behind. She dared risk changing course now that the slope hid her. She hurried along the crest to put more distance between her and them.

She ran, stumbling on uneven ground. Sweat chilled her face and spots danced before her eyes. Only a hundred yards ahead, trees there would hide her flight. She needed that shelter for her strength was almost gone.

Suddenly, an apparition rose out of the ground only yards ahead. She threw out her hands to stop, one knee slamming into the ground. The fourth French soldier stood waiting, squat and powerful looking, a mustache framing a vile grin. A whimper escaped her as she scrambled to her feet.

Trapped.

They’d guessed she’d make for the river, so one had circled around. She could hear the victory whoops from the soldiers below. She spun and dashed away down slope, hoping for more speed. Her hand found the penknife in her skirt pocket as the soldier leaped after her. He grabbed her hair, and she lashed out with the blade, splitting his cheek.

Cursing, the brute seized her wrist, and twisted, forcing her to drop the knife, wrenching her arm, throwing her downhill, but he didn’t let go. She fell to her knees, all her weight on the arm bent behind her. A loud pop. An agony of fire exploded in her shoulder.

The soldier kept a vise-like grip on her wrist and pulled a long knife from his gaiter. Every jerk on her arm made her scream, but when he slipped the knife point under the buttons of her coat, she managed to sink her teeth into his hand. He swore viciously and brought the butt of the knife down on her temple. Stunned, she continued to scream and claw.

~ ~ ~

Murphy’s Laws of Combat #6

“When in doubt, empty the magazine.”

Southeast of Benavente, Spain, midmorning, February 12, 2010

“Safeties on.” Captain Richard ‘Rig’ Starke of the Seventy-Fifth Rangers watched the last six soldiers comply, outfitted in NATO camo. He continued in Spanish, “Check each other’s weapon.” The clear winter day was hovering in the forties, or 4 to 5 Celsius, cold for the three days of training.

Rig wasn’t happy with the Spanish brigade commander’s decision to carry live ammo for this exercise. He wanted ‘realism.’ It was downright dangerous and unnecessary, even if there would be live fire practice in the afternoon. The Rangers and Special Operations rarely ever carried live ammo into a training exercise. But that was what Brigade CO, General Campillo, wanted.

Rig got the ‘ready’ sign from the waiting group. He gestured to Sargento Reyes, saying, “The Sargento is lead.” Walking up to the cinderblock building, Rig pulled the pin on a smoke grenade and tossed it through the door. The Spaniards grinned and shook their heads. The smoke hadn’t been expected.

Gesturing to the smoke billowing out the doorway, Rig said in Spanish, “Everyone knows their place and procedures. Now, you will have to depend on where your squad mates should be clearing the house. Weapon muzzles will still never cross a body. The evaluators are watching on infrared cameras. Rely on touch to establish your location with the man in front of you. No talking. You are a silent team.”

Rig waited for the go ahead from the debriefing officers at the exit, confirming the buildings were clear of the preceding squad. He pushed his sunglasses up to get a better view of the rolling brown grasslands dotted with patches of snow. He had to shade his eyes against the sun glinting off the Rio Esla a few miles to the west. It might be decent farmland with enough irrigation from the river. He’d rather be on the family farm than here, not that it was his family’s anymore.

The high desert of the Lagunas de Villafafilas nature reserve stretched out around him flat and oppressive. An out-of-the-way place to set up fake buildings to invade. The command had wanted the training in different terrain, instead of the familiar ground at Base Militar El Goloso.

So, the companies had transported north where several exercises could be carried out simultaneously. They would be camping for the next few days, so everyone carried a full kit. With the go ahead over his helmet phone, Rig gave the signal to Sargento Reyes, who pumped his fist and the squad lined up along the building, each soldier disappearing inside the doorway, one after the other. Once they had completed the clearing exercise, they would exit the building complex on the other side and Spanish officers would debrief using the camera recordings.

Watching the men vanish into the gray haze, Rig ground his teeth for the thousandth time in the last four weeks. He should be in Afghanistan with his company, his team, not in ‘Bumfuque, Espa?a’ training NATO allies. With a frustrated grunt, he resettled his rucksack. Training foreign military wasn’t something Rangers did. That was left to the Green Berets who were taught how to do it. Some of the Spaniards resented his presence, the Guardabosques americano who had the affront to come teach them how to be soldiers. No, he shouldn’t be here.

He shifted the sheathed, outdated Spanish M125 sniper rifle so it hung vertically down the side of his rucksack. He liked the dependable weapon, so he borrowed it for the afternoon’s live-fire exercises to demonstrate targeting with a thermal scope. He blew out a long breath. He squatted and set his cover down, running his hands through his short hair. He tore at the dry grass, waiting for the ‘all clear’ signal, in case any of the last squad, confused in the smoke, wandered out the way they’d entered.

Chief Dunn had referred to Rig’s TAD—Temporary Assigned Duty—in Spain as ‘hang time.’ He’d screwed up, gone Bravo Foxtrot, which reflected badly on the whole company. He was damned lucky to not be kicked out of the Seventy-fifth, released for standards, let alone the colonel letting him keep his bars for the time being. ‘Conditions’ and returning from a difficult mission were cited in his defense. Too ‘invested’ and a lack of objectivity were the criticisms. ‘Burn-out’ after six tours of Iraq and Afghanistan was the informal conclusion. Regardless, the Chief told Rig it was his own damn fault, and his warrant officer was seldom wrong.

As it was, the final disposition of his case wouldn’t be resolved until he returned to battalion stateside. Doing the right thing was always trouble, always cost him. He didn’t know what he’d do if he was ejected from the Rangers. They were the only family he had.

What was done, was done. He’d fucked up, forgotten the basics, let his desire for justice trigger him.

Maybe. But he wouldn’t have done anything different if given the chance, except torch the bastard’s Mercedes.

Rig hated feeling sidelined, used, and useless. It gave him a twitchy, hollow sensation. The acrid smell of the smoke made it worse. He’d sacrificed to earn a captain’s command in the Rangers, to be the best. He’d signed up for every training program he could to qualify for the Special Forces’ Regimental Reconnaissance Company. He grimaced. Out of reach now.

He wanted to serve his country, make a difference, but most of all, return to his family, the Rangers—which sure the hell wasn’t here. Regardless, he’d give the rest of the assignment here his best. Shaking off his frustrations, he stood, ready to join the squads on the other side.

From the smoke-filled doorway came a distant explosion, a gunshot.

“God damn it!” Rig dove into the smoke, navigating the building from memory. He yelled “?Diga!” to the squad, telling those still in the building to freeze, that he was coming to them. There was another deafening ‘bang,’ the shock staggering him, but he saw and heard nothing of the Spanish soldiers. What the hell? No one had stun grenades.

After running eighty meters to clear the buildings, he stopped, disoriented. He should be running into the gathered squads by now. Damn it, he’d left his cover and the helmet’s com, so he couldn’t call them. Looking back the way he’d come, all he could see was an unbroken wall of bright gray. Even with his sunglasses, the intense glare made him squint.

The air now held a strange, chilling cold and the quiet felt like a smothering weight. With a glance around, he realized he didn’t hear anything—at all. The eerie silence made the hair on his neck stand at attention. Had whatever went off in the building deafened him? He removed a glove, snapped his fingers, and was relieved to hear the sound.

His relief only lasted a second.

As though the snap was a signal, a drawn-out scream filled the air, the snarling, high-pitched cry of a woman fighting for her life. Under that, he heard men’s laughter.

Rig tensed. He knew those sounds all too well.

He sprinted toward the voices, the air growing colder with every step. Shit, it’s freezing! He drew his pistol, slapped in a clip, and cocked the Beretta. Maybe he could scare off the attackers, even if he couldn’t see them. He flipped the safety and fired into the ground. A gratifying silence followed, but now he wasn’t sure which direction to go.

As Rig stood listening, the smoke evaporated.

Thirty meters downhill in a wide depression, four men stared back at him. One short, broad-shouldered bull of a man with a bloody face held a struggling, half-naked woman by her arm with one hand, and a knife in the other. The second man, close by, interrupted dropping his pants to stare at Rig. The third, a tall, gaunt scarecrow with red sergeant stripes on one sleeve, had a long, gray coat halfway off. The fourth man to his far right, baby-faced, leaned on his flintlock musket looking uncomfortable with the scene, still wearing a cowhide pack and a white haversack at his hip. The other men’s packs and haversacks lay strewn on the ground along with black cylindrical hats, gray coats, and muskets.

Rig gaped at the weird sight. He’d seen pictures in history texts and a few Napoleonic War reenactments in Europe, enough to recognize the costumes. They were all dressed in blue coats and gray breeches or knee-high gaiters—the uniform of Napoleon’s infantry.

Damned re-enactors! It had become a popular European hobby, but these bastards weren’t playacting.

He shouted in Spanish, “?Déjenla!” and strode toward the group, waving his pistol at them, but no one moved. The four men continued to stare at him. They looked at each other and laughed.

Rig grimaced. The four hadn’t shaved in a week and what teeth they had were various shades of gray and yellow brown. They continued to grin, their unkempt, long hair fluttering in the light breeze, their circular earrings glinting gold. The one pulled up his pants and the sergeant let his coat drop, a determined gleam in his eye.

Rig stopped about fifteen meters away, anger burning through him. So, they think it’s funny, do they? He fired two shots at their feet. Dirt flew and all the men leaped away, their eyes round. The woman cried out when her arm was released but then she too stared at him.

He kept his attention on the men. Outnumbered as he was, he had to break this up—chase them away, pronto. He certainly couldn’t arrest them or start shooting Spanish civilians. Shit.

The four all began talking at once—in French—their breath white puffs in the icy air. Rig knew some of the language, but the words sounded too guttural. He heard ‘no smoke?’ and ‘stupid Spaniard’ among the comments flying between them. They considered him very strange. Terrific. All he needed was an international incident with crazy, armed Frenchmen.

He rummaged his memory for the right French words, and then cut through their chatter, ordering them to beat it, “Sortez d’ici, maintenant!”

They shut up but didn’t move. Instead, the four glanced at each other significantly, then at the scarecrow with the sergeant stripes. All four turned to face Rig. The sergeant pointed to Rig’s Beretta and said in Spanish, “Where did you get that, insensé?”

Rig’s palms began to sweat. These scumbags were used to having guns pointed at them, and they’d obviously worked together for some time. The knife-wielder and the sergeant were the apparent leaders of this little gang, so the most dangerous, but they were several steps away from their muskets. The one on the right held his.

Where was the Spanish Army? They must have heard the shots.

Rig snarled in French, “Don’t push me,” and pointed the gun at the sergeant. “I don’t like batards. Leave now!” The four tensed but made no move to leave.

Ah hell. Rig knew what was coming. He dared them with a half-smile.

They all moved at once.

As the soldier on his right cocked his musket and raised it to his shoulder, Rig shot the son-of-a-bitch twice. He screamed satisfactorily, falling to the ground. The pants-dropper froze, eyes wide. Rig faced the other two.

The sergeant grabbed his musket, but instead of trying to shoot Rig, unexpectedly charged him with a teeth-baring yell. His decision gave Rig a few heartbeats to deal with the remaining man.

The knife-wielder grabbed a musket on the ground. Rig fired again. Wood and metal exploded in the man’s hands. Mouth agape, he hugged a bleeding arm against his chest, his eyes never leaving the muzzle of Rig’s Beretta.

Ice-calm in his rage, Rig faced the charging sergeant and his bayonet. Time seemed to slow as he crossed the last meters. Rig raised the Beretta, but the man never stopped.

Rig put a bullet in his thigh. The sergeant staggered back, glancing incredulously at the hole. Rig shook his head and whispered, “Très stupide.” Close now, the sergeant heard him, and his fierce grin faltered, but the bastard lunged, his bayonet only feet from Rig’s face. Rig fired point-blank into the man’s eye. His head flew back and the rest of him followed, the momentum throwing his legs and musket in the air. The body hit the grass with a wet thud.

Rig pointed the pistol at the remaining three men. The knife-wielder ran, disappearing north over the rise. The first man he’d shot writhed on the ground, holding his stomach, while the last one, still frozen in place, stood with his hands out, pleading in French for mercy.

Rig motioned him to beat it. The pale Frenchman helped his wounded comrade stand and they staggered up and over the rise heading north downhill as fast as possible. When they were out of sight, Rig slumped to his knees, hands trembling, the semi-automatic in his lap.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Now that the adrenaline rush receded, he felt sick at heart and weak. Out of habit, he changed magazines in the Beretta from his ammo harness, even though he’d only fired eight shots.

Rig stared at the body of the sergeant, imagining the political mess he’d created in the last few seconds. You can’t go around killing French nationals—even in Spain.

He was certain of one thing. He was looking at the death of his army career. He would be DOA with his superiors, regardless of why it happened. A deep ache blossomed in his chest at the thought, but he crushed it immediately. What needs to be done now? He swore some more. He’d have to report this to General Fernandez and the Spanish authorities.

He stood and holstered his weapon. Behind him, all he saw was smoke. How far had he run? This was screwy. Where was everyone? He contemplated the frozen ground, the freezing air, trying to make sense of it. With a shake of his head, he realized he’d allowed his mind to wander, a post-combat spacewalk, annoyed with himself for the weakness.

The woman.

She still lay back on one elbow, her long skirts pushed up her bare legs. Whatever clothes she’d been wearing above her waist lay shredded about her. Her face, neck, and arms were tan, her body white. As he approached, she sat up, staring open-mouthed at him, making no attempt to cover herself.

Rig saw her breasts, but after a moment’s staring, the woman attempted to cover her chest. Chiding himself, he shook his head. Noting her headwound and her arm, obviously dislocated, he made a mental inventory of what she needed and took off his rucksack and rifle. The Spanish military would come looking for him sooner or later, but in the meantime, there were things to be done.