TWENTY-THREE: “False Alarm”
Captain Eddie was on one end of the radio, demanding play-by-play commentary through the audible gunshots. His men in Montana had called in the rapidly approaching single red dot on the screen, and Eddie had nearly mobilized his entire company in their direction. He and his brother had taken off east in their jeep, but as soon as the red truck was apprehended they were called off. “Captain. It not the Americans.”
“How you know?” Eddie demanded.
“Three Spanish men, sir,” was the reply.
Spanish? Mexicans? Eddie pulled to the side of the road. He’d almost made what could have been a critical strategic mistake in moving all his men east. And for what? One stupid truck. He glanced at his brother, and Lazzo’s look said it all. Eddie was letting his emotions control him. “I know, Lazzo.” He waved off whatever his brother was about to say. “I know.” They turned their jeep around and went back to their post.
Over in Montana, the soldiers were celebrating their easy kill. One of them had turned the tape player on in the truck. Another was searching it for any food or items of interest. They had no idea how far the sound from the truck’s radio carried, nor were they paying attention to the two tiny parallel dots—with heat signals like rabbits—approaching their location on the screen. Finally, one of Eddie’s officers hollered to shut off the tape player. They did and headed back to the fire.
Danny and Cameron were within a mile now. They had concealed their bikes and flanked out to the right of the four encamped jeeps. They were about twenty yards from each other and approaching the fires in the distance. One of the fires turned out to be the red truck. The other was a bonfire surrounded by laughing and singing men. Cameron took position high up on a rock outcropping, about four hundred yards from the bonfire. Through his scope, he watched Danny edge closer.
In their Marine sniper training, the two of them had always been paired together. They were, in fact, the first teenage duo to win the International Sniper Competition, against the world’s best shooters. Their instructors had given them the monikers “Digger,” for Danny, and “Dice,” for Cameron. Danny’s nickname referenced the traits of his home state’s mascot—the gopher—hard to pin down, seemingly everywhere at once, and capable of wreaking havoc without being seen. Cameron’s was less complimentary. He was known as a gambler, in the field and at the card tables in the barracks. He was a risk taker and that didn’t always work in his favor. Danny was cautioned repeatedly that Cameron was going to get him killed someday, but Danny stuck with him.
Danny was qualified enough to move on to the Navy Seals and, with his reputation, they’d have been glad to have him. But Cameron was a different story. His attitude didn’t sit well with a lot of people and he had no interest in more training to even try to become a Seal. Cameron’s reckless, brawler mentality didn’t bother Danny, but it was frequently a distraction, and there was no room for distractions on this particular journey.
Most sniper teams had a shooter and a tracker. The two of them were adept at either role, but Danny’s instincts in competition and field drills were unmatched. Cameron typically relied on Danny’s call and, in this instance, Danny wanted point with Cameron watching his back. Danny needed to get close enough to hear the radio chatter. He was within two hundred yards of the jeeps and the men by the fire now and edging steadily closer. Cameron saw Danny check his watch. It had been eighty-two minutes since they’d left. In less than half an hour, the rest of the group would be here.
Danny counted four jeeps, two on each side of the road, and eleven men. Seven soldiers stood around the fire, two were in the jeep with the radio, and two more were in another jeep. Danny raised his hand and indicated the number eleven. He saw a rock inches to his right light up for a split second with a laser dot. Message delivered and confirmed. Eleven it is. Had it been to his left it would have meant Cameron had counted a different number. This meant the same thing to both of them. This was only a small patrol. There was no sign of Captain Eddie, but these were clearly men from the same army, all dressed in the same red uniforms. Danny took that to mean every road probably had a similar roadblock east of them, blocking all the passages south. Who knew how many more of these groups were scattered along the way? If Danny and Cameron could take these guys out, we might be able to pass by and get away again. But eleven on two was not going to be easy.
Danny and Cameron had to wait for the next radio communication, clear the men in the jeeps first, and then keep the rest of the soldiers away from the radios. If they attacked too early, others would likely be alerted by this patrol’s lack of response and be on the way before the rest of us could get to them. If Danny and Cameron waited too long, we all would be picked up by the radar and called in, and soldiers would be on the way before we even made it there. Danny checked his watch again. Ninety-three minutes. There had been no radio communication in the nine minutes since he’d taken up his current position. Hopefully that meant they were only checking in every half hour.
Danny and Cameron, each had a ten-bullet magazine in their R11 and another clip at their side, ready for a quick switch. They had to make every shot count, and the four men in the jeep would have to go down fast. A Marine sniper is trained to hit their target center mass, middle of the chest, for the quickest kill. The four men in the jeep didn’t afford them that opportunity, with only their heads visible. Those four shots were going to be testy. Danny made another quick scan of the area around them. His two years of training had prepared him for a lot, but he wasn’t sure if he was ready for this. War? In America? No one had even considered this. He guessed for his first fight it was better to be on land he knew, rather than in some other country where the enemy would have the home field advantage. But Danny hadn’t gone through Special Ops training to hurt people. He’d done it to protect people. He’d joined the Marines to challenge himself and to get away from all the personal pain at home. His dad had let him down. He’d let his mom down. He needed to focus on a cause bigger than himself. He wanted to make a difference.
Lying here trying to decide which oblivious person he was going to kill first—even if they would gladly trade places and take him out—wasn’t something he had ever wanted to do. Another glance at his watch. Ninety-seven minutes. Come on, radio.
Up on the rock ledge, Cameron continued to watch, waiting for Danny to indicate his first target. At ninety-eight minutes, Danny signaled him to take out the driver and passenger of the second truck first. He then tapped his watch and held up two fingers. Another red dot flashed beside him. Two minutes. When the radio crackled at ninety-nine minutes, the voice was unmistakable, Captain Eddie. “Anything?”
So these were his men, after all.
“No sir.” The reply. “Nothing. Is quiet.”
“Good. Thirty minutes. Yeah?” Eddie again.
“Yes sir.” The soldier hung up.
There was a moment of silence. Followed by four quick consecutive kill shots.
It took a few seconds for the men around the campfire to react to the popping sound of the bullets piercing the windshield glass, and the first one who responded went down a split second later. Danny and Cameron each took out two more before they could find shelter. The last two took off running towards a line of boulders. Cameron got one of the runners. The other made it to the rocks. Cameron kept him pinned down while Danny went for the jeeps. As he opened the driver-side door, the window exploded beside him, spreading shards of glass across the side of his face. Danny dove down and rolled under the jeep. There was someone else out there.