CHAPTER TWO
“What’s up McDonald?” smirked his teammate.
“Same shit, different day,” he frowned. “Where the hell are we going this time?”
“Syria.”
“Syria? Fuuu-ck,” he said in a long, drawn-out voice. “Why? Why are we going there? Again.”
“Because orders are orders,” said their commander. “Listen up. We have a suspected site hoarding nukes. We need to get in, get all the data we can, neutralize it if we can, and get the fuck out.”
“What about that group of tourists that were taken? I figured that’s where we were going,” said Marshall.
“Well, you figured wrong. Someone else will worry about the tourists. They’re low on our priority plan.”
“If you say so,” said Cole shaking his head.
“I say so,” growled the older man. “You’ll go in together and get the fuck out. Do not separate. It’s bad enough we’re there without anyone knowing.”
“We’re going in dark?” asked Marshall.
“Yes.”
By the time they landed in Lebanon, their vehicles were loaded and waiting for them. In the darkest of night, they drove toward Aleppo Citadel, and eventually their goal just beyond Al-Safirah. The site was allegedly dug into the rocky terrain, hidden from views above.
The problem was the entire area was covered in massive holes from construction, and mostly, destruction.
“Listen to me, McDonald, I know it’s difficult to turn a blind eye to those who need us but these people don’t need us. We heard that one of the tourists is an ex-Navy Intelligence officer.”
“He’s one of ours,” said Cole frowning at his commander.
“I get it but he’s not our priority right now.”
“If they find out, they’ll kill him,” said Fletcher.
The commander nodded and the men knew they wouldn’t win this one. Their guts were telling them to find the man but their command was saying there were other priorities.
They were shocked at how easily they moved through the night, the roads mostly quiet other than a few herds of goats and a few wagons. The night was giving relief from the intense heat but when the sun rose, it would be miserable once again.
“There’s our target,” whispered their commander. “Let’s go.”
Leaving the safety of their vehicle, they hiked toward the entrance of the cave. Apparently new, or previously unseen, there were small temporary outer buildings surrounding the site, along with several concrete stands.
“These are for missile launchers,” whispered Cole. The others nodded. They were in the right place. But where were the guards? Where was the security if this location had the nukes hidden in it?
Walking down the ramp, deeper into the tunnel, they could hear the noise of people working and talking below. Staying hidden in the shadows against the walls, they went as far as they could, snapping photos and taking notes of the surrounding areas.
“If this cave is housing a nuke, that’s a fucking big ass nuke,” muttered Fletcher.
“Let’s go,” said their commander.
As the men reached the entrance to the tunnel, new workers were coming in. Praying they could stay hidden against the walls, they waited until the men were by them, then moved quickly to get out of sight.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t quick enough. One of the workers had been dragging behind and when he saw them, raised his weapon and with a shaky hand, started firing at random.
Luckily for them, he had terrible aim. As the men took off, they became separated in the darkness, running in different directions.
“Meet at the extraction site,” said their commander. They heard the echoes of bullets being fired and then nothing.
“Fuck,” said Cole racing toward their vehicle. If he could get to the truck, he could pick up the other men and hopefully get them out of there. Instead, he hit something else.
With the first step, he heard the cracking of the splintered wood and felt his body tumbling into the darkness below. His last thought was he would die in this shithole and never see his sisters, or any family, again.
There was light coming into the hole from above, so Cole knew that it was daylight. What he couldn’t be sure of was what day it was, or the exact time. He tried to move and hissed in pain.
The fall had broken at least one rib, possibly two, but the more concerning injury was his head. If he moved, he vomited. His vision was blurred, the headache unending, and as far as he could tell, no one knew where he was.
His team had been working their way toward the coordinates of the site given to them by command. Find the nukes, send back the signal, and get the hell out. The flyboys would take care of the rest.
But the team got separated, each man choosing to run in a different direction and meet up at a checkpoint. He couldn’t even be sure that his team had survived.
If his ribs were good, he could crawl and climb his way out of the hole, but just lifting his arms caused so much pain and difficulty breathing, he knew that he wasn’t getting out the traditional way.
Besides the ribs, his hand was most likely broken as well.
The same damn hand that he’d broken Arnie Moore’s nose with.
He tapped his comms once again, hoping to hear a familiar voice, but all he heard was white noise. He wasn’t sure if it was his head injury or if his comms were somehow damaged when he hit his head during the fall.
“Either way, you’re fucked, big boy,” he whispered to himself. With just enough room to wiggle out of the backpack, he dug to the false bottom and prayed that his VG device was still working.
Thank goodness he had a paranoid family.