A low hum reached Mason’s ears and steadily increased in volume. Scarface jerked his head about as he searched the fast-darkening sky. A banshee howled from above, streaking through the night. It came to an abrupt end at the largest building in the compound. The building shattered in an explosion of bright orange and yellows. The shockwave that followed hit Mason like a two-by-four across the face.
Scarface hit the sand and sprawled on his stomach, hands tented over his head. The second blast hit the tower, lighting it like a torch, as a chorus of terror-filled screams and yells tightened the confusion.
Rotating blades swooped in, cutting the desert air, vibrating the earth. They were followed by barks from 30mm chain guns. The rounds hit the sand digging shallow trenches. Mason felt wind from projectiles narrowly missing him on either side and watched their trails charge forward, peppering Scarface as he lay on the ground, across his head and back.
AK-47s rattled in the background, and Mason caught M16s answering back with authority. There was no doubt in his mind that the United States Army would win this battle with relative ease. What he did doubt, was that he would be alive to witness the victory.
Chaos reigned in the firefight with ululations intended to strike fear in the heart of the interlopers. Mason’s mouth formed a weary grin as the battle cries were snuffed out one by one.
Rifle fire diminished to sporadic bursts. Multiple boots hitting the sand and orders given, told Mason that his mission was about to come to an end, finally.
“Hey, Captain! Over here. I think we found one of ’em. He’s alive, I think. Someone get a medic!” A U.S. Army Private First Class had come within ten feet of Mason and had his flashlight out scanning the buried man’s face.
“Help . . . me.” Mason’s words were barely audible.
A large figure approached, stooped down, and wiped sand and crusted blood from Mason’s brow with his hand. He didn’t hide a grimace. “Good God, man. How bad off are you?” As the man waited for Mason to respond, he called, “Get some men over here and dig this soldier out! Where is that damn medic?” He returned his attention to Mason. “I’m Captain Hart. There were three of you. Where are the other two? Can you tell me where the other two are? Are they . . .”
Hart stopped speaking while Mason shook his head. Hart rose from his feet and placed both hands on his hips. He coughed as the wind shifted, forcing smoke laced with the smell of burning debris and flesh into his face.
Within minutes, Mason was out of the hole. Two medics attended to his care. One gave him a sip of bottled water as the other cleaned his smashed face, taking care to wipe away all the sand and grit that had become impacted in his wounds.
“Find out his name.” Hart lit a cigar.
The rich, leathery flavor drifted down on Mason and replaced the petroleum essence of war.
“He says his name is Mason Guillot.” A medic called out.
A soldier ran out of the gloom. “We found the other two,” and shook his head.
Hart dropped his gaze and spit out a bit of tobacco. As he turned to leave, the medic called again.
“He’s trying to tell us something.”
Mason lay on his back and brushed the medics away. He managed to call Hart over with a hand gesture. The Captain’s expression showed he was impressed that the soldier still had the ability to ask for his presence.
Hart expelled a cloud of Dominican pride and knelt by the injured warrior. “What is it, son?”
“They know . . . mission . . . Khan Bani Sad . . .”
“Save your strength, solider. There is no mission into Khan Bani Sad. Never was.” Hart took another puff off the cigar.
Mason’s eyes widened, struck by the fiercest blow yet. He lifted his arm and placed his hand on Hart’s forearm. “W-what?”
“The Army knew there were Iraqi soldiers working with us on the base that were in cahoots with this terrorist. We just didn’t know which ones. Your team was given false information where our next strike in Iraq would be. Not only that, but we leaked your last mission. The informant got the news to the insurgents. They were waiting for you even before you entered the hotel. They also knew you were members of the invading team and would have the strike location.” Hart looked away. “What we didn’t figure on, was that they would kill any of you before the rescue. We expected you to break and give up the location. The insurgents normally keep prisoners alive for weeks, even months to use as bargaining chips.”
Mason lifted his brow. “You used us for bait?”
“No, son. War is a chess match. You were pawns sent to protect your king. The plan didn’t go as anticipated. Happens sometimes.”
Mason dug his fingers into Hart’s forearm. “You sent us here to die?”
“No, I told you we sent you here to give a false location. The insurgents at the base were captured right after they set the IEDs along the roadside. We let them return to the base before we arrested them, gave them time to report to their leader over here that their mission was a success. We got your location out of them in no time. You’re a hero, son.”
“I’m not a hero. I’m a sacrifice.” Mason’s fingers dug deeper into Hart’s flesh.
“The Army had a problem that needed taken care of. Orders are orders. You have no right to question orders.” Hart tried to pull his arm away, but couldn’t. “Let go, son. You are in a lot of pain. Damn rag-heads fucked you up good. Once you get all fixed up, you’ll see we did the right thing.”
With renewed vigor, Mason squeezed Hart’s arm with the last of his strength.
Hart yelped and tore his arm away in a sudden jerk.
Mason felt bits of wet skin underneath his nails just before a blanket of darkness covered his mind. He quickly succumbed to unconsciousness, and was granted the peace he had been desperately craving.
Insurgent Z is available from Amazon
here