“So you’re a Ginger, then?”
She paused a moment and smiled, large green eyes blinking at him in the square of moonlight casting through the barn window.
“I’m surprised you know the word for an Irish redhead.”
Matt considered her comment a moment and said, “I imagine you’re full of surprises as well.”
For a moment, the gravity of the situation eluded him. The hijacked Air Force airplane, firefights with extremists, and an arduous escape through rugged terrain were all momentarily set aside by the fleeting, yet all-too-natural, allure of a beautiful woman. The anxiety and worry subsided like an ebbing tide, leaving exposed something he was unprepared to bare.
“Well, get some rest,” he sighed, stitching up the moment. “We’ll need it.”
Matt rested his head against the straw. His mind automatically drifted to a time when he and Zachary were growing up on the farm. Some people were close to their siblings, others weren’t. Matt had never understood why families would diverge and lose contact. Perhaps being raised in the Blue Ridge, where neighbors were nice but remote, he and Zach had focused on their family. So much land and space between families created a natural pull inward. Instead of walking across the street to join the stickball game, he roamed the 120 acres with his brother, exploring their own world. Losing Zach had devastated him, but now he felt as if he were pulling out of his nosedive. Hellerman had been right. Shed the self-pity and get back into the game.
Garrett nestled his head further into the straw.
Resting. Uncertain.
Thinking.
He looked through the open barn window at the children’s art moon and closed his eyes. Like Jesus appearing in a prayer, Zachary’s face hovered above him like an angel as he fell asleep.
PART 2:
Brothers in Arms
CHAPTER 17
Major Winslow Boudreaux bounced in the back of the MC-13 °Combat Talon as it flew just 100 feet above the ground. The pilots had taken off from Pope Air Force Base in south-central North Carolina, kept a due-east heading until they were fifty miles off the coast, then turned north, keeping at 200 feet above sea level. To the pilots, the ocean was a solid mass, indistinct from the dark horizon. They passed Boston and Halifax, then banked west through Cabot Straight into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The north shore was the thirty-minute mark. Their instructions were to stay off the civilian radar screens. Half an hour from the objective, they had some climbing to do before they reached the drop altitude at 20,000 feet.
Boudreaux felt the airplane rise suddenly, shooting skyward like a rocket. If they were lucky, they wouldn’t stall. Two men had fully briefed him on the mission. They had used maps and photographs. For the past two weeks he had rehearsed this mission and believed he knew every detail. But there were blank spots that sometimes didn’t make sense with what they had told him.
He was on a classified mission for his country, which was fine. He was a member of an elite organization, and he could never reveal his identity to anyone, even if captured. Especially if captured. Fair enough.
He was recently wounded in combat and had gone through extensive physical therapy to become fully mission-capable again. Sure, he remembered most of the therapy and had some instincts, some memory of that kind of information, but other things bothered him.
They told him his name was Winslow Boudreaux, that he was from a small town in Louisiana and had been in the army for nearly twelve years. They had shown him pictures of his childhood. They were trying to get him to remember something, anything, from his childhood or even from his recent past. Nothing seemed to work. None of it rang true.
Something about the doctor had bothered him. The man was nice enough but seemed troubled. In his white smock, the doctor often would sit in a wooden chair next to Boudreaux’s Spartan bedroom and go through the pictures with him. It was more educational than exploratory, it seemed. Endless days of reviewing the same thing, over and over. Boudreaux felt as if the information was being pushed onto him from the outside, as opposed to his delivering any conscious memory from inside his mind.
And so he knew his name was Winslow Boudreaux and that he had a mission to kill someone named Ballantine. He would go do that and then think about these other things.
He watched Colonel Rampert get close to him to inspect his equipment. A spark of memory erupted in his mind like a flashbulb in a dark room, and quickly faded. The man was leaning forward, his tightly buzzed haircut like bristle, his weathered face darkened with streaks of green and black camouflage.
They each squatted to absorb the rapid ascent of the airplane. They had even practiced this part of it in the rehearsal. He remembered that much, but the rest of his memory was like a sieve with large holes. Only the big chunks were captured: his name, his mission, his enemy.
And so Boudreaux was able be forward-thinking, connecting smaller details and using his instincts for guidance. It felt as if the instincts had never left him. He was a soldier, a killer, and a patriot. That much rang true.
He looked at his reflection in the porthole window. Dark hair, longer than it should be, he thought. He didn’t know why that thought had come to him. It just seemed that it should be shorter. Strong face with high cheekbones, dark green eyes, almost neon.
Rampert walked him through the mission one more time. “I’ve checked your parachute for the third time. It’s okay. Watch your altimeter and remember to open at eight hundred feet. You should be above the horizon with canopy for only a few seconds. If you’re spotted, move to hide site number one, come up on satellite communications, and wait. We have Pave Low helicopters ready to extract you in less than thirty minutes. You’ve got enough ammunition to hold anybody off for that long. But remember, you’ve got to be near an open area. We’ve got a beacon on you so we’ll know where you are all the time.”
“Yes, sir.” Boudreaux nodded.
“You won’t be detected, though. You’ll get in under the cover of darkness and find your way to Ballantine’s camp. If you’re compromised there, just kill him as quickly as you can, then fight your way out. The Pave Lows will be able to respond to any trouble you get into. If you’re not compromised, move to your link-up site. There, you’ll find an old, green john boat with a nine-horsepower motor. There will be two fishing poles and another Satcom radio inside. The radio will be in the live well, so don’t put any water in it. Call in at each checkpoint so we know your progress. If you can, try to find the operations center first. You’ve got the three template locations. It has got to be one of those.”
Rampert talked slowly, his eyes locked onto Boudreaux’s. The vice president had asked him to guarantee success. He couldn’t do that. He never guaranteed anything. Particularly now. He had personally saved this man’s life a year ago, and now he was certainly sending him to his death. Rampert remembered being there.
They were hidden in the creek bed watching the enemy file out of their base camp, ready to smash the weak Marine defenses. The weather had prevented any kind of air power, and it looked like the Marines were going to fight without reinforcements. Rampert remembered the enemy artillery opening on friendly positions with the distinct report of the cannon, the nerve-racking whistling, and the deadly explosions.
Out of the wood line from across the field came a deep bellow, reminding him of the rebel yell he had read about. U.S. infantrymen rushed the enemy fighting positions and artillery pieces, firing anti-tank missiles and destroying most. The enemy soldiers turned on the Americans, and their lines merged in a fight more akin to a Civil War battle than the high-tech warfare of late.