Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (42 page)

Chapter 2

Only two hours later, and the fun and enthusiasm had definitely worn
off.

Now it was just dirty, grueling work, pure and simple. Each man hauled
an 80-pound pack, a 20-pound assault vest, and a 5-gallon water jug (another 40
pounds) that had to be carried by hand. Even their trusty rifles had become burdens
no longer welcomed.

No amount of training could prepare you for continuous slogging across
such rough terrain. Steep slopes covered in loose rock in the dark made for a
very strenuous and slow pace. For the men of S3, real-life missions such as
these also meant they were constantly being forced to stop and take a knee to
reposition gear, check their surroundings, or simply remove a stray rock wedged
deep in a boot tread. And then there were the full-out halts at the slightest
detection of any movement or sound that forced them all the way down into the
prone.

So far, Nick and his S3 entourage had heard a lot more than they’d
actually seen. The area was known for quite the array of wildlife, some of
which were often large and catlike. So the sudden rustle or the cascading of
rocks was a common occurrence. Luckily, almost every incident, after further
inspection at the evidence (paw prints, a startled bird’s cry, scat, and other
fecal material) was agreed to have been animal-based. Apparently, four over-loaded
and heavily armed men stumbling across a mountain top worked wonders when it
came to deterring curious wildlife.

But then there had been a
few close calls of the human variety. This was a very rural area, and its
inhabitants were not scared of the treacherous terrain or predatory creatures
that came out after dark.

There had been the
occasional stray, unarmed villager, including a set of young boys, both no more
than ten, playing a game that involved whacking each other with sticks. It
would have been a pleasant moment if the damn kids, so enthusiastically lost in
their play, hadn’t chased one another all over the hill, and at one point
gotten close enough that Nick and his men were forced to fall back and hold
until the boys tired of their antics and left.

They had also spotted
several goatherders, who thankfully seemed to prefer managing their flocks in
the lower lying areas. Perhaps they were avoiding predators or working their
goats back home.

However, there had been
one very unique exception. After a good hour without seeing another human soul
they suddenly spotted a particularly hearty goatherder literally hopping up the
daunting slopes with apparent ease all the while singing a peppy tune. Based on
the numerous inserted “baa’s,” Nick guessed the song had been composed by the
man himself and in dedication to his much-loved goats.

Nonetheless, all had been
oblivious to the four heavily armed, English-speaking men who most certainly
didn’t belong in this part of Pakistan.

Still, from a distance and
under the cover of darkness, they might have remained safe, if spotted
. They had worked hard to make an effort
to blend in as much as possible, carrying Communist Bloc weapons and wearing
Afghan-style clothing: boots, loose pants, and turbans.

But even with distance and darkness to aid them, it was their packs that
could easily give them away. Although theirs were foreign in make, packs in
general were uncommon in this area. Sure, there was the occasional shoulder bag
or belt pouch, but the closest thing to a pack one might see in this part of
Pakistan was the random small child’s backpack, maybe. Most families couldn’t
even afford those.

And it didn’t help that these particular packs were massive. Any local
transporting a load of this size would almost always use a mule, truck, or dirt
bike. Even if all a witness could make out was a rough silhouette in the dark,
the sheer size and odd shape of the packs could easily draw unwanted attention.

But Nick couldn’t do anything about the packs. He, Marcus, Red, and
Truck needed everything from food to water to ammo, and you didn’t go wandering
forty miles into a foreign country -- uninvited -- unless you brought along
some toys in case you were discovered.

Nick’s back was already screaming in pain, and he was certain his men
were hurting, too. Nick raised his fist, signaling a halt. The darkness allowed
for hand and arm signals to be passed, as stars and a half-moon shone down
unimpeded by clouds or fog.

The men of
Shield,
Safeguard, and Shelter passed the signal up and down the line, then stopped,
spreading into a defensive circle on the side of the steep hill. Each man eased
his pack to the ground and sprawled behind it, facing outboard behind their
weapons. They reached for canteens and bits of chocolate or other energy
snacks.

Nick’s whole body
protested loudly -- several hours of hard rucking was tough for a man in his
mid-forties -- as he attempted to lay his pack down as quietly as he could. He
wanted to rest a few minutes, like his men, but knew he needed to at least
appear unfazed by the three miles they had covered tonight.

Three miles didn’t seem
like much, but the unforgiving terrain and need to keep every sense on high
alert really took every ounce of energy out of you. Especially when you added
in the adrenaline rushes that came from hearing a disturbance or seeing
something in your night vision googles.

Despite wanting to rest,
Nick heaved himself up and walked toward his point man. He knelt beside Red and
put his hand on his shoulder, looking out to their front. The small man was
breathing hard and sweating heavily.

“How you holding up?” Nick
whispered.

“This ain’t shit,” Red
said with a smile.

Nick imagined that the
weight they were carrying had to be especially difficult for a man of Red’s
size. Being the smallest man on the team meant that proportionally, he was
carrying much more than the rest of them.

“Good,” Nick said. “Go
ahead and relax a few minutes. Then you and I can check our maps and compare
where we think we are.”

“Roger that, boss.”

Feeling his legs and back
threaten to mutiny if he attempted to stand from a kneeled position again, Nick
made a mental note to stay on his feet as he moved over to Truck. The big man
was laid down behind a RPK machine gun. The gun’s bipod legs supported its
weight on the front, while the rear of the gun lay on its seventy-five round
box.

“Hey, Truck. How you
holding up?”

“Good. I was wondering if
you might give your pack up so I could make this more of a challenge?” the
smartass managed to choke out between deep gulps of air.

Nick smiled, shaking his
head.

“Yeah, yeah. Now shut your
mouth,” Nick said, “or you’ll be carrying three of them.”

“Shit, sir. I’m Special
Forces. I could carry three packs plus little Red up there.”

Nick patted Truck on the
head and said, “I’m glad you’re on our side. And you better pray that Red
didn’t hear that little comment. Because there is no way I’m carrying your big,
dead, dumb ass through these mountains.

Lastly, Nick walked up to
Marcus, who was leaning against a nearby rock to keep him from squatting and
having to stand again.

“How you holding up, man?”
Nick asked.

“I’m hurting,” Marcus
admitted. “Damn packs are heavy as hell, and I’m twice as big as Red and in way
better shape than Truck. We’ll need to keep an eye on them.”

Nick nodded.

“I was thinking the same
thing,” Nick said. “I know my back’s killing me, but I’m not some diesel,
former linebacker. Tell you what, before we move out, let’s make sure all of us
take eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen to kill the pain and help keep us
focused. I know Truck’s probably starting to feel that busted knee about now,
too.”

Truck had reinjured his
knee five months earlier -- an old football injury that had never fully healed
-- but it wasn’t just Truck. All four men were nearly twice the age of most
military men, and they’d all been banged up over the years in training or
various scrapes.

In truth, all of them were
a bit old to be doing this kind of work. They certainly lacked the qualities of
younger fighters, but no amount of youthful vigor could make up for the
decades’ worth of experience among them.

And there was no question
that Nick would always choose seasoned, accomplished fighters over young bucks
still trying to prove themselves. Besides it wasn’t like his unit was into
parachuting, diving, or any of the other crazy feats elite units had to be
capable of doing.

Nick groaned as he pushed
himself off the large rock and slipped back to Red’s position. Red was
breathing easier and sweating less, the break already doing its trick.

“Ready, Nick?” Red asked.

“Sure,” Nick said.

Red pulled a poncho liner
out of his pack and draped it over the two of them. Inside it, they both
produced small flashlights, covered by red lenses.

They compared each other’s
pace count and azimuth, confirming their location on the map. In the day and
age of the GPS, neither man used one. Both had learned that when you relied on
GPS, you checked your azimuth and pace count less frequently. And in turn, you
paid less attention to your land navigation.

GPSs were a serious crutch
that were all too easy to become reliant on, but GPSs broke. Batteries died.
Satellites were sometimes not available for accurate triangulation. Armies had
made it for centuries without GPSs, and neither of the two veterans wanted to
break tradition and chance risky gear. Not to mention tote an unnecessary
device and its required batteries.

After determining their
position, Red put the poncho liner up and Nick hunched over as he crept back to
his pack to rest a few moments. His legs and back ached to the bone and he
caught himself guzzling more water than he should.

Part of the thirst came
from the fact he was anxious. Nick hated to admit it, but it was true. It was
one thing for two scout snipers to sneak into a foreign country, as Nick had
against the Soviets numerous times in the ’80s, but quite another to take four
heavily weighed down guys. Two men could sneak and hide better, but four
required larger hiding places. And larger hides were more obvious and limited.
And more likely to be searched by the enemy if they ever detected your
presence.

Even now, if the Taliban
discovered them, just three miles inside Pakistan, they would be screwed. If
one man got hit, it would be all they could do to fight their way back to the
border while carrying a man. And even then they’d have to get by the Pakistani
army on the border, who would be more alert this time.

Shut up, Nick, he thought to
himself. This is how missions fail. You start thinking about all the things
that can go wrong, and then you lose your confidence. Before you know it, you
lock up with fear. Get in character.

The sound of Marcus
approaching broke him from his thoughts.

“Here are those pills,” he
said, before handing them to Nick and moving on to the next man.

Nick shook the pills in
his hand, placed them in his mouth, and swallowed them with a large gulp of
water. He braced himself for the next hour-long leg of the mission. On the
bright side, this was physically the hardest it should be. Their packs were
heavily laden with water and food, so with every drink and snack consumed,
their packs would grow lighter.

Ounces count, Nick thought
as he rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen them up.

After everyone was watered
and medicated, the team continued on its trek, inching deeper and deeper into
enemy territory.

Chapter 3

Hour after hour, the S3
team pushed on. Following one hour of movement, they’d take ten minutes of rest,
reorient themselves to their maps, and pick up again.

Although the routine was
the same, it now felt like every step was a battle, both physically and
mentally. This mission was already much more difficult than any of the men
could have anticipated. The realities of their situation and the high potential
for failure or even death was quickly sinking in. That realization, in addition
to the growing fatigue and unrelentingly harsh elements, had them all headed in
a downward spiral of self-doubt. And despite each man’s desperate desire to
disguise it all, the wear and worries were starting to show though.

Truck worried whether his
knee would hold up. The pain continued to worsen, and when Nick wasn’t looking,
he found himself beginning to limp. On breaks, he’d check the swelling when he
knew no one was looking.

Red worried about his
senses. A nagging fear had been growing that he really had to do more than see
the enemy first. Even a successful firefight without casualties would mean
mission failure, since it would alert the enemy and attract more fighters.
Therefore, he needed to not only see the enemy first, but see them so far away
that none of the team could be discovered. And in worrying about this, Red
failed to realize that his pace had slowed.

Marcus continued to psych
himself up, mentally preparing for whatever would come. He was easily the
biggest man on the team. Easily the strongest. And he wasn’t toting a machine
gun, as Truck was.

Without question, if
someone was hit or killed, it would be Marcus carrying him out. And with so
much weight already on him, this was something Marcus wasn’t looking forward
to. His pack was already testing his limits, and so he took deep breaths and
told himself over and over, “This ain’t shit. Nothing can break me. This ain’t
shit. Nothing can break me.” Inside this mental repetition, Marcus maintained
his stride in rhythm with his words.

Nick Woods fought the
impending doom he could feel coming. It reminded him of the time he and his
spotter had entered Afghanistan on what would be their final mission. The two
had grown used to the dangers, but when they saw their target location had
nearly a thousand troops, and not a hundred as they had been told, they knew
they were in deep shit. And instantly, a nagging fear had risen up in Nick’s
mind that the two men had been betrayed and sold out.

This mission didn’t feel
like they had been sold out, but it seemed fraught with things that could go
wrong. It’d been so simple on paper back at the base camp, but now Nick grappled
with the realities on the ground: how long it took to cover even a short
distance, how far they were from assistance, how they had no means to contact
reinforcements or air support, and how totally isolated they truly were.

Aside from the threat of
literally hundreds of enemy fighters in the area, the biggest thing eating at
Nick was the distance and realities of how slow they must move to avoid
detection.

Nick realized that Red was
moving slower than he had been, which was arguably needed. If they killed one
man, others would soon know -- even if they didn't hear the silenced shot. And
once they knew, the hunt would be on.

Besides Red’s pace, Nick
hadn’t fully considered that moving at night on such steep terrain would make
the forty miles feel more like fifty or sixty.

Nothing to be done about
it now, he thought. Just keep pushing and dig deep, baby.