Mark Lemke
Red North!
Dedication
The main character in the book is named after Nicholas Connor, born in the eye of a great typhoon as it passed over Naha, Okinawa. May he grow up to be as strong and proud as his daddy!
PROLOGUE
As I struggled to open my eyes, I felt my head pounding. I slowly came to realize that I was laying face down, choking on dust, and not able to hear very well. It was difficult to focus on where I was and what I was doing. Something inside of me said, ‘Get up! Keep moving!’ Without knowing exactly why, that’s what I did. I pushed myself up to a kneeling position, found that that worked, and then to a wobbly standing position, after which I took off running as best I could — slowly at first, limping as if working out the kinks — then picking up speed as my limbs and joints loosened. I knew I wasn’t running to get away from somebody, but rather that I was running toward something, the purpose of which was on the fringe of my consciousness. Even though my recollection of why was vague, I knew I couldn’t stop to figure out what that was. I ran on, sure — hoping — that the reason would reveal itself before I got ‘there’. I was vaguely aware of pain in my back and legs, finding it odd that I considered that irrelevant. I just needed to keep moving.
As I ran through streets and by buildings, I remembered that I was in a town — somewhere in a third-world country by the looks of it. The ‘buildings’ were mostly one story and made of brick and mud. Roads were dirt or stone. While the town was not modern by any measure, it appeared to be functional and, to a point, clean. People were almost non-existent, which I realized gave me one less thing to worry about, as if people were a threat to me. Up ahead, there was a building that looked like it might provide some cover. Cover from what, I didn’t know, but I sensed it was what I needed. Running toward the building, I saw that it had an alcove with a recessed door. Good. Quickly stepping into the shadows provided by the niche, I instinctively reached down and drew out my Yarborough, a knife with a 7-inch blade of CPM S30V stainless steel. Why would I know those details? I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew; and I remembered that a Medal of Honor recipient gave it to me in some kind of ceremony. I held it in my left hand, so I assumed I was left-handed.
I slowed my breathing as if that’s what I’d been trained to do, and the world around me came slowly into focus. There was a throbbing in my head, like I had cotton in my ears, so I had to rely on other senses to figure out where I was and what I wanted to do next. I carefully leaned forward to look around the corner of the building and then back toward the direction I’d come. I saw three men lying dead on the road. More importantly, I saw two more shouting, in what I assumed was some Chinese dialect, pointing in my direction and running toward me, with automatic weapons at the ready. My mind started processing information. I didn’t even try to figure it out. It was almost instinctive, which was good, because I still didn’t know where I was or what I was supposed to be doing. As the two men who I’d identified somehow as ‘threats’ neared me, I exhaled and sprang out from the recess to attack them. This was probably the last thing they’d expected, because they slowed down and hesitated. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I did not.
With surprising speed, considering the pain I felt in my back and legs, I rushed toward the one closest to me. I switched my hold on the knife so the handle was forward and the blade was laid back, next to my forearm. When I got to the first guy, I swung my arm forward, as if throwing a punch while running past him. With a wide sweeping motion, the Yarborough sliced across his throat, causing a huge gash that immediately spurted dark red blood. To push the knife into his chest cavity in an attempt to find a vital organ would have required me to have to pull it out again, and that would have taken time that I didn’t have. As the knife cut through his windpipe and severed his carotid artery, he dropped to his knees and grabbed his throat, losing his grip on his rifle. I bent over, dropped my knife, and picked up the dying man’s weapon, laying down a withering field of fire in the direction of the other man. He died with his mouth and eyes wide open, but died nonetheless. I turned back to the man kneeling in the dirt, bleeding out at the neck, and put one round in his head. He fell to the ground and didn’t move again.
I reached down, picked up my knife, wiped the blood off on my pant leg, and sheathed it. I stood still and looked for the next threat. Sensing none, I stood still for a moment, disconnected memory fragments just beyond my reach. I looked down at the weapon I was holding, knowing in an instant that it was an AK-47; a selective-fire, gas-operated assault rifle capable of firing rounds of 7.62x39mm with a muzzle velocity of 2,400 ft/sec, first developed in the Soviet Union by a guy called Mikhail Kalashnikov. It had a distinctive sound when fired and was a reputable weapon under a variety of adverse conditions. I seemed to know everything about the rifle, but at the moment only cared that it was a weapon and that I was holding it and they weren’t.
I felt a surge of adrenaline because I had a weapon other than my knife, gratified that I was standing up, and that there was no one in my direct field of vision trying to kill me. Something told me to keep moving. Time was of the essence. The fog in my brain was lifting and a sense of purpose was starting to come back to me. My team was in trouble, but where were they now? As I took off running again, the blood pumping to my brain helped revive me. Memories were surfacing like flashbacks, dots were connecting, and reason replaced instinct. We’d been tracking the whereabouts of a particularly well-armed, well-connected terrorist cell. Without thinking about it, I recalled that the guys we’d been looking for had infiltrated a business being run overseas — something about trying to destabilize an entire industry. The breadth of our involvement was unclear, but I remembered why I was there. We started in Hong Kong and followed the trail out here — to wherever ‘here’ was.
Holding the Yarborough helped me remember I was part of the US Army’s elite Green Berets. The media called us the masters at the dark arts of counter-terrorism. We just shook our heads when we heard that kind of bullshit. There were no ‘dark arts’ that we knew about. We were just guys that hit harder than the next guy, had good intel, and had the courage to finish whatever we started.
Memories started exploding in my mind, causing my heart to race as I remembered hearing ‘Danger close! Danger close!’ in my earpiece. I looked off to the right and recognized the building where I’d sent Billy to maintain overlook. Why didn’t I see him or hear him now? Several large, well-armed men had come crashing through two doors from the building left of where I’d been standing and descended on us. I heard the distinctive sound of Billy’s rifle as he cracked off five quick rounds. I saw three of the men drop before they got to us, but there were just too many of them. Protocol said Billy had to break off for fear of hitting one of us.
Eric leapt over me and grappled with one of the men who was preparing to shoot me. He wrapped one arm around the guy’s head and positioned his other hand on the man’s jaw. With a sharp, quick twisting motion, he broke the man’s neck, severing his spinal cord and terminating his life functions. The guy went limp and fell to the ground in a heap when Eric let go of him.