“Do it! Tell them!” Trest ordered.
“Radio your commanding officer,” Hal said.
“We’re on a classified training mission, sir,” the sniper replied. “A war game, code — named Seahawk. Aimed at coordinating Marine ground targets with AF birds in the air.”
Hal released the bow tension and set it down. He picked up the spotter’s M4 and ejected the clip. Eyeing the cartridge at the top. He flicked it at the spotter with his thumb. “A war game — with live ammo??”
The sniper keyed his radio. “Cobra-22 to Falcon. We have an issue here. A local airman in civvies happened upon our op. He wants to speak to you. How copy?” The reply came over his headset.
“Negative,” the sniper relayed to Hal. Hal motioned to the sniper to give him the earpiece. The sniper handed it over.
“Repeat it.” Hal said.
“Please repeat, Falcon. I have given the airman my earpiece. He can hear you now.”
A static reply sounded over the earpiece. “Falcon to Cobra-22. Instruct the airman to vacate the area immediately, under the authority of Air Base Wing Commander Nathan H. Malcolm. If he has any other questions, he can take it up with the wing commander’s office.”
Hal handed the earpiece back to the sniper, who gave him an arrogant look like I told you so. “Happy hunting, fly-boy.”
“Shade your scope next time,” Hal said. “And be sure to tell your superior that you were both KIA’d by a civilian with a hunting bow.”
Hal walked down the valley, meeting up with Yarbo. “Did you get the pig?” He asked. Yarbo shook his head no. “What was that all about?”
“Joint exercise. War games, they said. Which way did porky go?”
“He ran off over that hill.”
“And you’re ready to give up?” Hal threaded an arrow in his bow, taking off toward the hill in a jog. Yarbo followed behind. Readying his bow.
“You think he knows?” Baldo asked McCreary.
“Knows what?”
“That it was us. That it was your voice on the radio. Do you think he recognized it?”
McCreary shrugged. “He wasn’t acting like he knew. And he’s still out there hunting. If he suspected something, he’d be on his way to see the wing commander. Which reminds me…” McCreary turned to Trest. “…We need to get recon’s story straight and give the WC a heads up.”
Trest nodded in agreement. “I’ll talk to Malcolm.”
“Does this mean Sheridan’s back in the bullpen, sir?” Baldo asked Trest.
“We can give him Saudi as a warm-up,” McCreary said, “if you think he’s ready.”
“If he can hunt,” Trest replied, “he can hunt.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SHAFRA
A mouth-watering aroma of bacon and mesquite-barbecued pork ribs filled Hal’s backyard. The night was cool, and moonlight glistened off the wild hog’s shiny and crispy golden-brown skin. It was skewered on a spit over a smoldering pit of coals. Half of it was gone — eaten or wrapped up for Hal’s guests — Henry, Yarbo and Yarbo’s much younger flavor-of-the-month girlfriend. A dozen empty beer bottles littered the table and concrete patio nearby. Hal saw his guests off, threw a cover over the pig, protecting the remaining meat, and went straight to bed. Telling himself he would deal with the backyard mess in the morning.
Hal slept unusually long. Once again, his alarm clock failed to wake him. Time to get a new one, he thought. Good thing it’s Saturday. He grabbed his left forearm, stunned to see a two-inch gash running down it, and his blankets spotted with dried blood stains. The wound had started to scab with globs of dark red clots. He grabbed a T-shirt from the floor, wrapping it around his arm. He applied pressure and felt a sting that jolted a flash in his mind, followed by the image of an Arab man in night vision green. The man wielded a shafra — a slightly curved and very sharp dagger. The vision continued. The Arab swung the dagger blindly through the air, slashing downward and raking across Hal’s forearm in a lucky strike.
The memory faded, and Hal examined the cut, rinsing it in his bathroom faucet. It was clean and not deep enough for stitches. A relief for Hal, not knowing how to explain it to the base doc if he did need stitches. It would need dressing though, and Hal called upon his Pararescue medic training. He dug around in the cupboard under the sink, pushing detergents and a toilet brush out of the way, removing an old PJ first aid kit.
He set the kit on the counter, looked straight into the mirror and stopped. A sinking feeling overcame him that reached down into the pit of his stomach and the inner depths of his intuition. Telling him he was being watched through the mirror. A sensation Hal didn’t take lightly. With all his Special Forces experience, if he could name one trait, skill or weapon that served him best over the years, one thing stood out — his intuition. Nothing else even came close.
Hal’s intuition was right, of course. McCreary and Baldo watched Hal dress his wound through a surveillance camera behind the two-way bathroom mirror. Another monitor played recorded helmet cam footage from the previous night’s mission. Identical to Hal’s memory, only the video footage told the full story.
Hal was in an opulent palace in Saudi Arabia. The target — a wealthy Saudi responsible for funding Al Qaeda terror attacks. He lay dead in a pool of blood. Easily dispatched by Ghost One in stealth mode. A guard was nearby, looking for the assailant, shafra raised and ready for battle. He must have heard Hal’s footsteps, prompting him to blindly swing the shafra through the air. McCreary took a mental note: train them to walk softly. Hal lunged backward from the swinging blade, taking the gash on the arm. The Arab knew he scored a hit and he lunged hard in the same direction. This time Hal was ready. Hal blocked the stab, forearm-to-forearm. His Muay Thai instincts kicked in and his arm slid down the Arab’s wrist, breaking the knife free and flipping the grip into the hand of Ghost One. He wasted no time using the weapon, slashing a deep chasm across the man’s throat. The Arab dropped. Legs kicking and body writhing. Gripping his neck with both hands as liquid crimson flowed between his clenched fingers, mixing with the pool of blood of his employer. Hal mic-dropped the shafra and stepped over the savage’s carcass. Leaving the room.
Baldo was jazzed. He rewound the video to the mic-drop of the shafra. “I can’t. Stop. Watching!” He cracked himself up and watched the whole duel from the beginning.
Hal finished cleaning the wound with an antiseptic towelette and stretched a butterfly bandage over it. He wrapped it lightly in gauze and taped it off. Pressing the tape end to his arm to seal it, provoking a sting and another vision from the same fight. The Arab screamed while swinging the knife through the air. Hal didn’t understand the Arabic scream, but one word was clear and unmistakable. Hal darted to his room, grabbed a pen and something to write on — a crumpled up grocery receipt on his desk would do. He scribbled down the phonetic sound of the Arabic word. Doing his best to write long vowels and syllables in CAPS and softer sounding ones in lower case. He would figure out a way to translate it later. It may not even mean anything. It could be nonsensical like some of his surreal visions. Or… it could mean something. Hal looked down at the word he just created, wondering if his spelling is anywhere in the ball park of the actual Arabic word. The result of his phonetic dictation — DahRJin. DARJIN he thought. Hal stuffed the receipt in his pocket. He could no longer research on his computer at home. If they’re spying on me through hidden cameras, they’ve hacked into my computer too, he reasoned. It would have to wait until Monday when he could research on a secure computer at work.