The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) (37 page)

“I know that.” Lance looked at him a little quizzically. “But I have the great luxury in life of not giving a shit about anyone or anything, right? That’s why you folks brought me into this deal isn’t it?”

Preacher continued, “Don’t get all sanctimonious with me Foxy. We came here to kill people plain and simple. Some of us were just kept in the dark about the real mission.”

“Need to know.” Fuchs turned away.

“I guess I didn’t need to. Now this whole thing turns into a piece of shit because you and Daddy O didn’t think to have someone take a SAM or RPG up to the top floor so we could shoot ol’ Saddam’s bird down. Details Foxy, details.”

Beaver 1 came roaring in from above with gun blazing and spotlight putting Iraqis on stage for all to see. Fuchs and Lance rolled out into the street with three others and put down another dozen or so soldiers in the brief moment they were illuminated.

“We have troops moving in from the east over here.” It was one of the four Delta Teamers at the other end of the alley. “I can see three jeeps and a troop truck.

“Cashmere, we are going to be pinned in here in about three minutes. Any word on that air support?” Fuchs barked.

“Hold.” Seibel issued a one-word response.

“Sure would love to have a couple Apaches come to this party,” Marsh said as he rolled back into the cover of the building.

“I think Cashmere is calling in a little bigger bird. Should light this place up plenty. Just hope we don’t get caught in the scraps.” Fuchs looked around the corner at reinforcements joining the other Iraqis 100 yards back up the street.

“I’m thinking something,” Lance was flat on his belly. But he was also 2,000 feet in the air looking down. A light bulb went off and he saw a plan. “I’ll bet if we put down a shitload of cover fire and one of our birds shot em’ up at the same time, the other Hawk could land right out here in the street and fly a good many of us out of this. They can hold 10 or 11 right?”

“You know that’s not the dumbest thing you’ve ever come up with kiddo,” Fuchs pulled his head back around the corner and thought about it for a moment. “Half or more can get out. Let’s make that happen.” Again, the German accent gone. Lance thought Foxy sounded like he was from the Midwest, maybe Chicago.

Fuchs relayed Lance’s plan to the two helicopter pilots. They agreed it offered the best chance to get most of the 18 remaining mission mates out, especially the injured. Fuchs then spelled out the plan to Seibel.

He too liked it and commended his young protégé with another one-word comment. He also informed them that two fighters would be on scene within five minutes.

“All players listen up,” Fuchs spoke into his radio mic. “Plan is to evacuate as many as we can on Beaver 2. Landing spot is right here on the street east of this burning Sausage mess. We will keep the locals occupied and push out to them to give time to load up half of us, especially the wounded.”

The teams reloaded and two grabbed Hubbard again. Another seriously injured Delta was hoisted up by one of his comrades. Tarwanah and Jamaani on the rooftops moved out closer to the Iraqis. Inside a minute, all were ready for the pickup. On cue, both choppers came in, keeping close formation. At the last possible moment, Beaver 2 turned on his spotlight to see the landing space below. And simultaneously almost every member of the team began firing at the assembled Iraqi troops. Marsh and Lance stepped out around the corner and pushed toward the line 100 yards off. At the other end of the alley, two Deltas also stepped out a few feet to pin down the Iraqi troops coming up from the rear. On the rooftops, Tarwanah and Jamaani inflicted heavy casualties on any and everyone they could see down below.

Overhead, Beaver 1’s M60 mercilessly sprayed the Iraqi line. Another vehicle exploded when a round struck the gas tank. The explosion served another purpose in lighting up Iraqi soldiers positioned around it. They were sitting ducks and many were killed quickly by the expert Delta shooters.

Hubbard and other wounded were loaded onto the waiting bird. Fuchs basically pushed several others onto the helicopter. Some objected and wanted to stay, but he wouldn’t have it. Eleven of the 18 were loaded and the bird lifted off. The remaining seven included Captains Doster and Parkhurst, Marsh, Fuchs, Tarwanah, Jamaani and Preacher. To be sure he wasn’t shoved onto the chopper, Lance had been one of the two pushing out. He and Marsh were furthest from the chopper. He knew Fuchs would have hoisted him onto the bird because Seibel wanted it that way. And truth be told, he was seriously injured. But he wasn’t going anywhere.

As the helicopter climbed into the night sky, another sound could be heard. Two F-16s were screaming toward the scene, the explosion set off by the jeep gave them a precise location to hit. The remaining members of the mission hit the deck. Two missiles were loosed and came wailing in. The explosions they set off made the jeep and Sausage blasts seem less than tame. Just a hundred yards down the street, dozens of Iraqi soldiers were blown into little bits of burning flesh and bone.

That was it. Cue to leave. Exit stage right.

“We move.” Fuchs was first on his feet and made his decision within a second. Fifteen seconds later all team members had assembled back at Pepperoni. “On foot, single file we have just over a quarter mile to the pick up. Stay close to the buildings. Lets hoof it fast, now. Beaver 1 we are heading to pick up on foot. We may need suppression fire along the route.”

“You go boys. I got your back.” The pilot responded.

Marsh took the point. Each filed out after the one in front of him. Fuchs brought up the rear just behind Lance. They hugged the fronts of the buildings as they ran. Fuchs looked back over his shoulder. He hoped the aftermath of the missile strikes would cause a few minutes of chaos among the Iraqis. That might just be enough time to get out.

Preacher’s leg was beyond killing him. The shrapnel in his back didn’t feel all that great either. He did his best to hide his limp, but this running thing was just about the last thing his aching and bleeding leg and hip wanted to do. He did a little calculation as they ran at about three-quarter speed. Back in his high school track days, he could cover a quarter-mile, or 440 as they called it, in 52 seconds. Not the fastest, but fast enough to get him to the state finals.

He didn’t know if it was the pain or maybe blood loss, but for some reason he thought of that state final race in Edmond, Oklahoma. He was behind from the starting gun, but out in the 6
^th
lane he didn’t know it. He kept his eyes on the lane before him and the poor guy out in the 7
^th
. About 100 yards in, he saw three guys come up on his left shoulder. No way they should be up to him this fast. At this rate he was going to be out of it by the 220 halfway mark. He committed to staying with the guy to his immediate left in lane 5. The extra exertion caused his rhythm to be off, but he said dammit all.

By staying shoulder to shoulder with lane 5, he passed the gent in 7 and stayed ahead of the inner lanes. Who, by the way, had won those inner lanes by running faster times in the quarter and semifinal heats earlier in the day. They now had an advantage around the inside turns.

By the 220 mark, it was six-wide across the lanes. All six were even; lane 7 had dropped. With the turn ahead, it was expected that Lance and likely the guy next to him in 5 would drop since they had more distance to cover than the inner lanes. Lance had other ideas. As they worked through the turn, he hugged the line and stayed abreast of lanes 1 through 3 as lanes 4 and 5 fell off. By the end of the turn with 110 yards remaining, it was down to 1, 2 and 6. Lance was stride for stride with them and felt like he had a good bit more to give.

As usual, at this point in the race, Lance started hearing a song in his head. Always happened; never failed. Whether he was running a 220, 440 or 880. He always took this opportunity to sing along with the song; sometimes he sang out loud. It undoubtedly caught other racers off guard hearing another runner waste breath singing. But Lance just couldn’t help it.

He took a look left at the guys in 1 and 2 at 90 yards and gave a little push to their pace. He’d gone ahead by a half-stride by 80 yards. The guy in 1 cracked which left him and 2 to duel it out down the stretch.

He turned from 2 to look at the finish line. It was out there at 60 yards now. Eight, maybe eight and a half seconds away. The pounding rock song in his head; his lungs barely taxed; his legs full of spring. He had a state championship if he wanted it.

And then that new reality and its consequences set in. State championship meant his name at the top of a list, maybe in the newspaper. The local paper might mention him and the school paper could write an article about him. That would put a crimp in his greatly prized anonymity. There was peace and security and power in being anonymous, or at least second place. He knew this when he’d won the district and then took a close second at regionals. But he kept going because he’d something to prove to a coach who questioned his heart in front of everyone on the team.

Now with the finish line 50 yards ahead, he realized he’d proven himself. He’d shut that fool coach up and shown he could beat the best in the state, no problem. At 40 yards he had a full stride on lane 2. With the crowd cheering in the stands and his coach looking on with stopwatch in hand at the finish line, Lance eased up. Just a little, but enough to give the guy the opening he needed to catch him. By 30 yards they were even and by 20 yards, lane 2 was half a stride ahead.

With the song in his head into its dual chorus and the crowd cheering at the top of their lungs, Lance Priest eased in for a second-place finish and just kept on jogging after the finish line, right off the track and over to his duffle bag. He picked up the bag without stopping and jogged right out of the stadium. He didn’t ride the bus back to Tulsa with the team and didn’t catch a ride with his parents who were proud of his silver medal they accepted from Lance’s coach after he missed the medal ceremony.

He did that night for the first time what he’d done dozens times since. He went off into a town he didn’t know and made his own way home without calling a friend or family.

Lance smiled to himself at that thought as he limped along with the others in Baghdad. He suddenly jumped to the right and stopped, letting the others move ahead. His leg appreciated it immediately. Fuchs stopped and grabbed him by the arm.

“Preacher, keep going.”

“No, I’m good. You go on.” Preacher bent over to put his hands on his knees.

“Now. Let’s go, there’s no time.” Fuchs was in no mood.

Preacher swung his arm to knock Fuchs hand away. “No, I’m cool right here. You go on, I’ll get home on my own.”

Fuchs went from irritated to pissed. “This is bullshit. You are jeopardizing everyone. Let’s go now.” He subtly moved his gun to point at Lance.

“Don’t point that damn thing at me and get going. Go on.” In that instant, Preacher had produced his silenced SIG and pointed it at Fuchs’ midsection. “Go on, now. I’ll see you back at the ranch. And don’t call Seibel. Just go on, catch up to them. I’ll be fine. I always am.”

“Jesus. You are such an asshole. Such a child. You’re not worth half the crap we put up with.”

“You’ve read my file more than a couple times Foxy. You know I don’t play well with others and I’ve gotten through life just fine on my own. I’m turning this corner here and walking away. You need to get on the little bird and get the others out of here. Now, go on. I’ll see you back at home.”

And with that, Preacher turned away, “Don’t call Papa. Just get out of here.” He said as he walked into darkness. Fuchs watched him take a few steps and then looked at the guys moving away to his left. He turned back to his right to see some activity back at the explosions. Looked like they were starting this way. He turned to Lance.

“Go on little boy.” Fuchs called out.

“Adios meine freunde.” Preacher raised his hand but didn’t look back. He began jogging down the side street hoping Fuchs didn’t have a gun pointed at his back. He started singing the song he had sung during that state championship race.

Fuchs caught back up to the others. Thirty seconds later, they were crossing under an overpass and in another 20 seconds they were boarding Beaver 1 waiting for them with blades whirring. Fuchs looked back in Lance’s general direction out the door of the Black Hawk. As the chopper lifted into the night, he put on a pilot’s helmet to speak with Seibel.