We crept to the mesa and began a slow, arduous climb upward. We had previously identified a few routes from satellite photos so we didn’t have to explore in the dark to find a route but it was precipitous. Going quietly up a steep, sand covered slope is not easy but we managed to make the top before sunup with our tail man covering our tracks. We placed trip flares and claymores to cover our six before settling into observation places in crevices among the rocks. Taking turns in teams of two, we monitored the road as the sky to the east lightened and our task began in earnest.
The sun peaked above the horizon and cast its rays across the bleak terrain. Shadows from the few features cast long across the sandy soil. The road, more of a raised embankment with a line of gray running through the middle, lay in the distance to the south. With the rays came the warmth. If you don’t know, the desert heats up quickly and we were nestled down in the rocks covering ourselves with shemaghs to provide a measure of shade against the rising heat. As the day moved on, we became rather warm but didn’t dare move for fear of being spotted. The camp and the road were in close proximity.
A few medium-sized pickups passed our position coming from the camp during the day and, as evening began to descend, we noted their return. Night fell. I was roused later for my watch and remember the cold that I instantly felt on my cheeks. I recall distinctly disliking my current time and place in the world as that required me to move from the warmth I was enjoying. With a sigh, I rose quietly and felt the cold immediately envelop my entire body. I believe my exact thought was, Fuck I hate this. Moving into position, I was shaking so hard that it threatened to shake my teeth loose however much I tried to ignore the chill.
A short time later, through the night vision binoculars, I picked up a motorcycle moving along the road toward camp. It bounced and slid through the sand covering the road looking like a drunk returning home after a “few” beers with his buds.
“I have a vehicle on the road coming this way. Go wake the others,” I whispered to my teammate.
I heard him shuffle backward along the gritty rock and soon there was the quiet sound of the team settling into positions. Two were covering the trails to our backside. Our shooter took a position next to me in a position that gave him the best vantage point and field of fire.
“Can you tell if it’s him?” he whispered.
“No. The only thing I can tell is he can’t ride a bike,” I whispered back. “I’m calling our ride to tell them to warm up and standby.”
We continued to track the single motorcycle as it drew closer. The details slowly became sharper as he continued to bounce along the track through the sandy wilderness. There were times that I wasn’t sure that he was entirely in control of his ride but onward he came.
“It looks like he has a satchel strapped to him, but I can’t get a clear look at his features,” I stated quietly.
“I can. It’s him. Permission to fire,” he asked without taking his eye from the scope.
It was quite a distance but chances were that we weren’t going to get another shot at this. Our priority was the target and we were to take him out if given the opportunity.
“Take it,” I said, calling our ride and telling them to get airborne. Regardless if we hit or missed, we were about to be done there.
I peeked through the binoculars as the crack of the shot echoed across the landscape. I had a hard time hearing out of my ear as it was but the sound of the round being discharged right next to me made it worse. I watched as the rider was flung off the motorcycle — it’s not like he was ever really on it anyway. The bike flipped to the side and skidded along the ground with a few sparks showering the dark road. I continued to watch as the others pulled in our claymores and trip wires. The figure didn’t move. That was the single greatest shot I had ever seen or witnessed since.
“Okay. We’re out of here,” I said when everyone was ready.
We tracked to our pickup location and were soon heading back to civilization. I never did find out if they managed to track the cell phones.
Shaking the memory from my mind, I climb out of my bag with the last traces of the memory fading rapidly. The others within stir and soon the rear ramp is lowered to allow the interior to air out. The wind has died down and high overcast clouds blanket the area. Looking across the tarmac while doing a walk around, I notice that our tracks from the day prior have been covered to a large extent. I still don’t spot a single bird flitting through the early morning light.
Leaving a large plume of dust behind to slowly settle back onto the runway, we take off to search for the source of the radio signal. We level off at a low altitude. The needle points to the northwest and our flight soon takes us over the Black Hills. The forested hills, with their deep valleys and ravines, pass under our wings. With Robert flying, keeping the needle and the aircraft pointing in the same direction, I keep track of our progress on a map partially unfolded on my lap.
There are a few small, winding roads and remote houses tucked in the folds of the hills. Passing a large, open mine which has been cut into several ridges leaving a brown scar in the midst of the green, a valley widens. A large reservoir ahead seems to aim directly at a small settlement farther to the northwest. The ADF needle points at the same town like an arrow. As we cross over the center of the city, the needle wavers and then slips to the side.
“Looks like the station is located in that town,” I tell Robert and Greg, who is poised over my shoulder looking out of the side window. Looking closer at the map, I add, “It’s named Lead. Robert, circle us around and let’s see what’s up.”
As Robert begins the turn, the radio signal ends. Just like that. One moment it’s playing music loud and clear and the next, the speakers are silent.
“Circle but keep on the borders of the town. There has to be someone down there,” I say.
“Okay, Dad,” Robert replies, maneuvering the 130 so that I can look down into the heart of the small township.
Another deep, open pit mine borders the town. Several white-roofed buildings and churches line the main road which skirts the northwestern edge of the city with the mine on the other side of the street. Green trees dot the area but the lawns and open areas are much like what we’ve seen lately — brown. Although it appears a little sand is on the roads, they look clearer than those around the base and Sturgis.
As we circle over the city, I don’t see anything moving. There is one building with a large antenna beside it but nothing around it indicates that someone is there. The fact that the signal stopped and hasn’t resumed since we passed over is a little ominous. If there were survivors, I think they’d come outside and try to get our attention. Of course, it could be that they are as wary of us as we are of them. Perhaps they’ve run into bandits and are just lying low. It’s really hard to tell in a world like the one we’re living in now.
“What do you think?” I ask Greg.
“I don’t know. It seems a little odd that the signal cut out right as we were passing over. It’s like they don’t want us to know they’re there. We haven’t been shot at so I guess that’s a good sign,” he answers.
“And you?” I ask Robert.
“Honestly. I think it’s a trap or bad news at the very least. I can’t think of a good reason someone would shut it off just as we arrive. And it didn’t turn itself off. There’s someone down there,” he replies.