Love Me Knot (Knot PMCs #4)
Somewhere in Jordan
“This son of a bitch is gonna get us killed.”
Chief Benson, former infantry sergeant, turns toward his second in command, noting the man’s tight jaw. Keeping similar thoughts to himself, he places a hand on the former SEAL’s shoulder. “No, he won’t.”
The words were meant to calm the team of private military contractors, but Benson doubts they were successful. This deployment has been a four-star fuck up from the moment the task force landed in Jordan. Saying so won’t help anybody, especially since they know it already.
Benson and his men work for Iron Strike Security, a private military firm contracted to provide security for the US Army. Not an uncommon occurrence. What is unusual is the secretive nature of the mission. It seems someone from the Pentagon or higher up is doing their damnedest to make an already dangerous job more difficult.
Iron Strike wasn’t told who or what the Army would be moving or retrieving, whether it was a pickup or drop off, or even where the target was located.
Normally, Iron Strike would hesitate to accept a contract with so little detail. Larger companies wouldn’t have done it at all. These days, with so much bad press about private military, government contracts are hard to come by. Small firms like Iron Strike can’t afford to turn down paying jobs_even shitty ones.
The contract directive sent Chief Benson and his men to Andrews Air Force Base to travel with an Army unit to God knows where. GPS devices issued by Iron Strike allowed the PMCs to track the plane’s movement toward the Middle East, specifically, Muwaffaq Salti Air Base in Jordan.
Before now, Benson would have bet a year’s salary that he and his team would be part of a rescue operation for the three Americans kidnapped from a mall in Jerash. If that were the case, the plane would have landed in neighboring Israel. Stepping off the plane in Jordan blew away all his working theories.
Chief Benson has been on high alert since then. Equipment is offloaded, the team geared up, but still, no locations or objectives are communicated to the PMCs. Only when both units are ready to roll does anyone speak to the Iron Strike team.
The task force commander, who’s already demonstrated a deep disdain for the private military, sends a captain to deliver orders for Benson and his men. This could explain why the captain looks uncomfortable with the information he’s come to deliver. “We’re moving out in five minutes. Have your vehicles follow ours.”
That’s it. The captain doesn’t say anything about objectives, targets, or destinations. Benson is too much in shock and doesn’t react at first. Those orders go against every standard practice that dictates that security contractors complete a risk assessment before anyone moves, especially when protection was their sole reason for being brought along.
Contractors organize only after analyzing infrared satellite images and any other available intel. Standard formation puts protection detail in front of and behind the convoy, with spotters assigned flanking positions. That’s what should happen. Fucking idiots. What is happening is that Benson and his team are being benched without so much as a general direction of travel. They are not allowed to recon the route, either.
Everyone is loading up, but Chief Benson walks away from his transport to approach the officer who delivered their orders. So far, he’s the only reasonable leader assigned to the mission, which includes more brass than the entire Iron Strike armory. “Captain.”
The second-most senior officer sighs but pauses. “What is it, Benson?”
“I don’t know what’s going on here, but this setup is bullshit, and you know it. You wouldn’t put your own security forces in the back, so why are we the tail?”
Captain Taft pulls Benson away from the Humvee and the listening ears inside. “I know what you’re asking, and I don’t have a problem with your team. I’ve only delivered orders handed down to me by the colonel,” he says, gesturing to the front vehicle. “I know these orders aren’t SOP and are borderline dangerous.”
Benson nearly chokes. “Borderline? Marching into battle with your armor on backward isn’t borderline anything. It’s suicidal. Add to that, no one’s told me what the fuck we’re walking into.”
Taft scrubs his day-old beard scruff. “You’re in good company then because I don’t know either.”
Taft’s confession leaves Benson speechless, so the captain fills in the silence. “I wouldn’t worry about your men, Chief. With the way the colonel is running things, if anyone is in danger of not walking away, it’ll be my unit. I don’t like this any more than you do, but we both have our orders. Now, move out.”
Chief Benson stares wide-eyed at the captain’s back as he walks away. Does anyone know what the fuck we’re doing here? Turning to glare at the colonel’s transport, Benson shakes his head. “Stupid bastard colonels.”
If the captain agrees, he’s doing a good job keeping his mouth shut about it.
A loud whistle sounds from the group of armored Iron Strike trucks, calling Benson back to his men. Without explanation, he gestures for the group to load up and climbs into the first truck. The convoy rolls out in the dead of night, headed toward God knows what.
The Iron Strike team is silent on the radio, unsettled by the unorthodox procedure. Field security is inherently dangerous, which these guys knew when they signed up. Benson’s men aren’t cowards. Being in the rear is less risky for security, but not when you’re denied basic information on objective, destination, or available intelligence.
Once the last truck clears the gate, Benson takes a haggard breath and keys up his mic. He relays his confrontation with Captain Taft and delegates recon assignments to those not driving. Four trucks carrying four men, with each group focusing on a different heading.
The pilot truck heads south, leading the fleet through the desert city of Azrak. Colonel Jackass keeps off the roads for the most part, giving the Iron Strike team no clue about his destination. After skirting the wetlands reserve along the southern shore, the convoy turns sharply northeast. “What the hell?” Benson murmurs under his breath.
“Where the hell are we going, Chief?” Rodeo asks from the back seat. “There’s only fucking farmland and a mosque this way. Beyond that is nothing but a hundred and fifty miles of desert and the border with Syria and Iraq.”
Benson looks up and through the windshield. He had thought the same thing as the former field artillery specialist, but a striking realization hits him suddenly. “Not true. Tower 22 is up there.”
Tower 22. Small US military outpost half a mile from the Syrian border and six miles from Iraq. And we’re currently thirty miles from Saudi Arabia.
Rodeo disagrees with Benson’s line of thinking. “If that’s the target, why the hell would we be driving there instead of taking helos?”
Patch ponders out loud. “We could be headed toward the border.”
Rodeo rolls his eyes at the retired Marine. “Pfft. Which one?”
Benson shuts them both up. “We’re not crossing any border. It would attract too much attention. Besides, if we were looking at a target in any country within forty miles, the detachment could have landed at any installations there. This convoy is headed toward Tower 22. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
The chief keys up his radio to update the rest of his men, adjusting the recon assignments to focus on the course for the small outpost. Each group will study a forty-mile stretch between Azrak and the Tower.
The designated man from each truck reports within ten minutes. The news isn’t good. Hundreds of unmapped roads lead to unmapped towns. Numerous tree-lined creek beds create blind spots, and dry gulches with questionable soil conditions dot the landscape along the route.
In short, there are too damned many places a group of extremists could attack from. Our convoy is big and loud enough that, despite the late hour, all it would take is one person sighting and reporting us to their brethren. We could be in an all-out assault at any given moment during the four-hour trek to the tower.
Benson switches his radio frequency to that of the Army unit to share his concerns with whomever will listen. He keys in, but no one answers. Benson swears and tries again, hearing only silence. “What the fuck?!”
Rodeo drops all traces of sarcasm, answering in the quiet cabin. “They didn’t trust us. We’ve been shut out.”
Benson agrees and is ready to bug out on the mission, but his gut and a big-ass contract say he can’t. “Maybe they did, but I want one radio in each truck on the Army channel at all times. The rest of you, keep your eyes open.”
The fleet maintains a northeasterly course, traveling through the uncharted desert landscape. The night is thick as sludge, with no moon to cut through the darkness. Only the lights from the convoy trucks pierce through the veil of black.
Benson orders two men in his truck, Rodeo and Patch, to don vision optics and watch for invisible threats. One surveys the world through a haze of green, the other in shades of gray.
Fifty miles pass with no report of movement and no heat signatures, but the fleet is still ninety-five miles from the tower. They still have twenty-four miles of supposedly empty desert before they reach the closest mapped landmark.
The eerie trip continues, with Chief Benson finding it harder and harder to keep his men calm. Part of him wants to check in with Iron Strike HQ concerning the faulty arrangement, but doing so would give away just how nervous he is.
At least he has body cam footage of all his interactions with Army brass for his boss to evaluate later. That was a request straight from the CEO, and it wouldn’t be appreciated if any of the officers in this mission were aware of it. Given the current culture, the big boss felt a little CYA couldn’t hurt.
The former Ranger narrows his focus to the problem at hand, scanning the dark horizon for threats. Satellite maps indicate the existence of a nearby olive farm. A site shown to be a mosque twenty miles back was nothing but a circle of dirt. Beyond the farm, the map shows another landmark labeled as an ancient burial ground. Neither of those seem like legitimate targets, which pretty much confirms Tower 22 as the convoy’s destination. “Unless…” Benson mutters but stops when the Army trucks ahead in the line kill their lights.
The Colonel doesn’t issue orders for the PMCs to do the same. “Shit. I don’t like this, Chief,” Brizzle, the driver, complains. “If someone is out here, we’re now sitting ducks.”
Benson keys his radio to reach everyone on his team. “Kill your lights. Focus all scopes forward. You watchers are now the drivers’ eyes.”
With his team now scanning the landscape ahead, Benson picks up his radio and tries to raise the Army team again. “Ghost Rider to Mephistopheles. What’s the current situation? Over.”
There’s still no answer. “This is Ghost Rider. Sit Rep.”
No one from the Army is answering, and there’s no radio chatter. “Shit.”
Benson scans through the radio channels, convinced this is another power play by the colonel to cut the PMCs out. He reconsiders when none of the channels produce a sound.
“What do we do, Chief?” Rodeo asks from the back seat.
Benson turns around, studying the man’s face in the soft glow of the dash lights. “Switch optics with Patch. I want NV on the right as we pass this olive farm.”
He pulls out his own NV optics and says, “Scratch that. Keep your eyes on the road. Here’s what we’re doing. Briz, speed up and pull left alongside the convoy. We’ll pass them and fan out, so they’ll have to stop.”
“You sure we ought to do that, Chief? The colonel may have sniffed out something he didn’t like over there.”
“Well, if he did, he ain’t telling us shit,” Patch points out.
Benson once again opens his team mic. “All teams, pull alongside the Army trucks. It’s time we get some answers.”
The other trucks acknowledge the order, and Brizzle floors the accelerator. Right as Benson’s truck pulls level with the lead Army vehicle, the handheld unit Taft gave him crackles to life. “What the fuck are you doing, Benson?”
The PMC chief smiles at hearing the colonel’s voice.
“Guess the radio’s working after all,” Brizzle says.
Benson brings the unit to his mouth and hits the transmit button. “I’m doing my damned job, and part of that is to find out if you’re an idiot or if you’re trying to get my men killed.”
“Wha… Listen here, you son of a bitch! You_”
An explosion cuts off the colonel’s shrieking yell, and Chief Beau Benson closes his eyes. The blast is quickly followed by two more. Everyone is screaming now.
Time slows to a crawl, and an image of Benson’s wife and their nine-month-old daughter comes to mind. Thoughts of the tiny girl bring a small smile to his lips. He would have liked to see his daughter grow up.
Benson’s clenched eyes fly open at the panicked shouts of his team, and his spine stiffens. Not without a fight.
No more than a second has passed when two more blasts sound. Two corresponding fireballs light up the darkness. The cab lights up in orange, and Brizzle yells, “We’re not dead! How are we not dead?”
“I’m not waiting around to find out. Everybody out now!”
The PMCs spill out of the trucks, and all sixteen men huddle together. Benson yells above the flames. “The grenades had to have come from the east, or we would have been the ones blown. The fire will cover our approach. Get to the Humvees and look for survivors!”
The group disperses toward the rear Army rides. The flames mask the sounds of more incoming RPGs, but no one misses the ensuing blasts or streams of molten metal shooting from the grenade cores. Nothing of the Army trucks is left, and there’s no way these guys see ours. So why are these bastards still firing?
Everyone on Benson’s team hits the dirt, expecting to get taken out with the Iron Strike trucks. The echoes of the blasts end, leaving only the crackles of the flaming Humvees.
Benson calls the colonel through the radio, knowing there won’t be any answer. The colonel is dead. His vehicle was the first hit. All five of the Army trucks were targeted and are now burning.
The shots came from the olive farm, meaning Benson’s team is invisible. He doesn’t waste time thinking about useless what-ifs, such as he’d be dead if the Iron Strike trucks had remained behind the others.
While the PMCs continue their fruitless search, Chief Benson fumbles for his satellite radio, dialing his boss and handler with shaking hands. Iron Strike’s CEO, Roman Cargill, answers, and Benson yells into the speaker. “Roman, we’ve been ambushed.”
Benson sees movement at the same time the man at his elbow does. A door on the leading Humvee opens, and Patch jumps up. To do what, God only knows. Benson reaches for Patch’s foot, just getting a hand around the man’s ankle before he’s out of reach. “Stop! They’re all dead.”
“Oh, Jesus. What’s happening?” Roman asks.
Benson doesn’t hide the horror in his voice. “A massacre.”