“Understood. Our S3 officer in charge managed the transmission, and he requested they call again in an hour for further orders. By then we should have further intelligence confirmation, and we’ll pass along your instructions,” said Lieutenant Colonel Simpson.
“Excellent,” replied the general. This was the first good news out of Mesquite since the fight had broken out. He couldn’t wait to tell Ortega, and he would, but it was vital to keep a lid on the story. “Colonel, this entire event is classified. No leaks to the press. Both of their lives could be at stake. If anything changes, I want to be the first to know.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Simpson with a smile.
Lieutenant Colonel Paulson sat across from Federal Inspector Cone in a small pre-fabricated conference room attached to the mobile command post. The colonel half listened to the rationale concerning the mission. Truth was the battalion commander didn’t care why the mission mattered; instead, he was excited about the opportunity. Once again, the gods of war were shining on him, putting him in another heroic position. “Yes, yes, Inspector Cone, I get that it’s important we capture her. I’ll put a plan together and get everything organized. We can execute this evening just before dark. It’ll give us an advantage with our night vision.”
“With most of the day to escape, I’m worried she’ll run,” Cone reasoned.
“She’s under surveillance. I’ve seen the live feed from the UAV. Neither of them is going anywhere without being spotted. If they move, we’ll alter our plans, no problem. With my leadership and the men under my command, I’ll make it happen.”
“I need to review your plan and approve it,” said Cone.
Paulson didn’t need this bureaucratic spy telling him how to do his job. “Negative. I call the military shots, you call the political ones. End of story.”
Cone wrung his hands. “Colonel, I understood you’re in charge of the troops, and you’ll execute the planning, but the needs of the president come first. General Gist has given me overall authority for her capture. I must see and approve any plans.”
Paulson gritted his teeth and looked hard at the skinny dark-haired man with the pointy nose. “No inspector. You can review the plans and offer opinions. But you won’t approve them. I lead my men into battle. You haven’t the talent or the requisite military skills. You’re nothing more than a political cop.” Paulson caught himself as he saw Cone turn red in the face. Worried he’d stepped out of bounds, he put on his best smile for the federal inspector. “Sorry about that. Sometimes I get a little overzealous. Still, you must trust my superior skills in planning and executing the mission. No one in the entire Army can do it better. You are fortunate to have me.”
With a dark look, Cone stared back. After a long, tense pause, he nodded. “All right Colonel Paulson. I appreciate the opportunity to review your plans and offer suggestions. You know your business. But can you give me an idea of how you propose to capture her?”
Paulson sat back, pleased. He’d forced Cone to reconsider and see the light. Keeping the man subservient wasn’t going to be easy, but Paulson felt a surge of confidence. Excited, hands out of sight, he reached for the cloth in his right front pocket. There it was, the torn name tag. Between his fingers he twisted and rubbed the material. The power from the memento strengthened him. With conviction and complete faith in his military prowess, Paulson answered, “We’ll surround her and use the man she’s with against her. And I never fail.”
From the garage, Lisa entered the house, and Upton closed and locked the door behind them. As ordered, they had just completed their second video call with CENTCOM. The setup and use of the satellite phone turned out to be easier than expected. Concealment from prying eyes remained the highest priority, and Upton had come up with the idea to make it happen. After opening the side door to the garage and setting the phone on the ground inside, he aimed it through the splintered doorway at the western sky. Unseen from the outside, the phone, rotating on its base, found and locked onto an ROAS quantum secure satellite. Seconds later they were in direct contact with CENTCOM.
What they learned wasn’t altogether comforting. As they assumed, the entire battalion was routed, and they were stuck behind enemy lines. Right now, extraction wasn’t practical. US Army roadblocks ringed the roads in and out of Mesquite, and no civilian traffic was allowed. Around the entire area, US surveillance drones monitored the area. Their orders were clear: both were to remain hidden in place until the enemy presence decreased. Once the heat was off, the ROAS would aid in their escape and rescue. Meanwhile, they were to call in every eight hours for further updates and instructions.
Now in the kitchen, Lisa and Upton whispered back and forth. Determined to stay undetected, they agreed to make as little noise as possible, keep the window shades drawn, and make sure at least one person remained on guard.
Careful to make the house appear untouched, looking around, they determined their hiding place was well stocked. Inside the kitchen cabinets there were plenty of canned and dried food stuffs. If needed, they estimated the food would last a few weeks. Although no electricity or hot water, there was running water.
Around the rest of the home, it was clear the owners were elderly. Photographs on the walls depicted their travels, enjoying life, others displayed grown children joined by the smiling faces of younger grandchildren. While searching, they found no weapons of any sort, but they discovered a room dedicated to sewing. Board games filled another pantry—a typical retirement home. A search through the master bedroom closets revealed a nice wardrobe of casual wear and footwear. Although not perfect in size, most were close enough.
Exhausted, they needed to leverage the opportunities afforded by their shelter. Lisa was functioning, but even with the painkillers, her head still throbbed. Both were filthy, their smell, rancid. Together they decided Upton would keep the first watch while Lisa got clean.
Inside the master bathroom, Lisa stripped out of her borrowed boots and laid aside her blood-caked outer garments. Under cold water, shivering, using a bar of soap, she scrubbed at her scalp and winced when she discovered a welt the size of an egg on the top of her head.
Eyes closed against the pain, a vision of Kinney struggling above her flashed through her mind. She felt the knife twisting and recalled the horrible sounds. Near panic, she gasped and felt the water flowing between her legs. The sensation brought back the memory of luring the young man to his death. She sobbed, thinking of herself as a murderer, and scrubbed harder. To her relief, the cold water and pain helped push away the self-loathing.
After much effort, she washed the blood clots from her hair and noticed she couldn’t hear well out of her right ear. The shelling, she guessed, busted the drum. Nothing to be done about it, she spent time scrubbing her arms and torso, then focused on her legs. With care, she removed the soggy bandages and let the streaming water wash over the long, nasty scratches inflicted by flying shrapnel. Without the liquid body armor in her combat shirt and pants, she knew the scratches from the shelling would have been much worse, maybe fatal. Not wanting to, she scrubbed the wounds. In pain, she hissed while fresh blood trickled from the effort. Afraid, standing in the shower, she needed help. Still bleeding into the tub, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body. In a loud, urgent whisper, she called out for Upton.
The master sergeant hurried in, saw the situation, and went to work. From the medical supply pack, he removed fresh bandages and ointment. On the rim of the shower tub, she placed a foot. On his knees, she watched as Upton bent over, and after moaning slightly from the obvious pain in his ribs, he wrapped her leg. Then she switched her stance, and he began bandaging her other leg. Watching him work, she still questioned why he’d removed her combat pants in the pipe. The confines were tight and pulling off her britches wasn’t necessary. But she trusted the man. His touch was soft and gentle. Maybe she was thinking too much.