Mirrored Man: The Rob Tyler Chronicles Book 1 (2 page)

Rot frowned. “Sure Sack. You can bring
Chiyoko to church.”

The big man shook his head. “Best not. That
chick ain't got no business bein' anywhere near a church.”

“Well, it's an open invitation if you change
your mind.” Rot turned his attention to the rising sun. “We better
find some cover.” There was a short pause. "Now it's my turn," he
added.

"Here we go," Sack sighed.

Ignoring him, Rot began. "Name all the
countries of South America."

"Aww, c'mon LT. I give you
football—
American
football—and you give me friggin' world
geography?"

Rot grinned. "You don't want me to make it
too easy do you? Besides, there's only twelve of 'em. Well, fifteen
if you count the major territories."

The two settled into a narrow crevice a
dozen feet long and barely three feet wide, but with walls that
stretched so high up into the peaks that only two stars were
visible in the brightening sky. Sack tried to find a comfortable
position while he asked, "What about the fifty states?"

Rot gave him a disappointing look. "I'm
tryin' to challenge you here. A third grader could name all fifty
states."

It took Sack the better part of the next
hour to name all of the countries, including the three major
territories, as they ate their MREs. The two then alternated
between rest and watch duty in two-hour shifts as the day crept
slowly by.

Sack became oddly silent for the remainder
of their journey, communicating only when necessary. At times they
were separated by the rough terrain, which gave Rot an opportunity
to pray for strength and wisdom for his upcoming task.

It was shortly before midnight the night
they reached the extraction point. The choppers were due to arrive
at zero one hundred hours, so they took up positions with a clear
view of the dusty riverbed where they silently watched the darkness
for any movement among the jagged peaks.

Rot checked his Luminox watch. With the
extraction time fast approaching, he was compelled not to wait
until they returned to base for the coming unpleasantness.
Mustering courage, he sighed heavily and spoke barely above a
whisper the words he had been dreading.

“Um, Sack?”

“Sir?”

“I'm leaving Six.”

“Copy that, Sir,” Sack said without missing
a beat.

Rot searched the darkness but couldn't see
Sack's eyes clearly. Maybe he had underestimated the big man’s
visceral skills. He thought a moment. “Did Walsh—?”

Sack stopped him with a nod.

Rot had served with Lieutenant Commander
Benny Walsh aboard the
USS West Virginia
early in his
career, before he became a SEAL. He had been more than Rot's
superior officer. He became his friend and mentor as well. Sack had
met the man when SEAL Team Six spent some time aboard
The Silent
Mountaineer
for a training exercise in the Mediterranean where
he became fast friends with Benny, the “preacher’s kid.”

“How … when—?”

Sack cut him off. “I guess he figured
somebody
ought’ a let me know that my partner of six years
was torpedoin' me.”

“Sack—”

Stabbing an angry finger at Rot to silence
him, Sack nearly shouted, “Just tell me it's 'cause of missions
like this one where …” He trailed off for a moment, then continued
with a lower, steadier voice. “… where we get called off at the
last minute with no explanation. That, at least, I could
understand.”

Rot’s fingers tapped the stock of his rifle
uncomfortably, but he said nothing.

“Not 'cause you went and got married and let
yer wife drag ya off to church.”

Rot ignored the man's disrespectful tone. “I
can't do it anymore, Sack.”

“Can't do what?” Sack demanded.

Rot knew he owed the man an explanation, but
he didn't want to say the words.

“Can't do
what
?” Sack hadn’t intended
to scream, but he was more frustrated than he thought he’d be.

Ignoring the fact that Sack could've just
given away their position, Rot simply said, “Kill.”

“What?” Sack asked incredulously. Only days
before, Rot had been poised to do just that, to kill a terrorist
leader. And Sack had absolutely no doubt that the lieutenant would
have followed the order, had it come.

All at once Rot’s guilt lifted. “I got
baptized.”

The words hit Sack squarely, literally
rocking him back where he was sitting. “You did
what
?”

Rot nearly laughed out loud. “At the base
chapel right before we left. I got baptized.”

The silence lasted a full minute before Sack
spoke again. “I thought you wuz Catholic.”

“I am. At least I was. I don't know what I
am.” Rot paused before concluding, “I'm a Christian.”

Sack frowned. “Well, what's up with the
…” The words trailed off as he touched his head, chest and
shoulders as Catholics do when they bless themselves.

Rot smiled, “Catholics
are
Christian,
Sack.”

The big man's face screwed up into another
question, but the familiar sound of beating air interrupted his
thoughts. He and Rot turned in unison and watched as a pair of
MH-60K Black Hawks pirouetted around a rocky outcropping in the
riverbed to the north. Flown by crews of the 160th Special
Operations Aviation Regiment based at Fort Campbell, the Night
Stalkers were a team of Army aviators who trained specifically for
high-speed, low-altitude operations at night.

Sack reached into his ammo pouch and
produced a three-by-three-inch square packet of chemical hand
warmer. Activating it with a squeeze, he threw it in the middle of
the riverbed. Although it was small, it was more than enough for
the infrared equipment on board the choppers to use as a guide.

One of the helos started down as the other
climbed to provide high cover for the SEALs. Rot and Sack moved
toward the descending bird.

They were almost there when the unmistakable
sound of AK-47 assault rifles rang out from every direction.

Ambush!
“God help us!” Rot called out
as he felt Sack back up against him. The big man began firing into
the shadows of the rocks with his MP5. Rot, still carrying his
sniper rifle, cursed himself for having let his guard down.

“On yer nine!” Sack screamed over the din of
battle.

Rot looked left and saw several silhouettes
in the moonlight charging them from behind a rocky outcropping,
rapidly closing what few yards were between them. Without thinking,
he turned the barrel of his weapon toward the closest attacker and
fired from the hip. He watched as the fifty-caliber round struck
the man in the chest, dropping him to the dust, dead. But the
round, traveling at 2850 feet per second, passed through his
target's flesh, somehow missing bone. It struck the next man in
line just below his throat, activating the explosive within. The
assailant’s loosely fitting clothes seemed to balloon out as his
head simply disintegrated. What was left dropped heavily to the
sand. The next man stopped in his tracks, blinded. He began to wipe
the gore from the second man's exploded body from his eyes with the
sleeve of his tunic. Rot fired again, forever eliminating his third
opponent’s need to clear his vision.

“Cover!” Sack screamed as he began to sprint
toward the rocks their enemy had been using as a shield.

Rot spun 360 degrees, searching for targets
in the clamor. Finding the closest two, one behind the other and
only yards away, he fired again with incredibly similar results as
those of his first two victims. “Ya should a paid better
attention!” He screamed at the men as what was left of them
crumpled to the riverbed. He saw a flash from behind the boulders
on the opposite side of the chopper. The entire area exploded as
the helo's weapons went to work. Above him, he heard the telltale
buzz of the twin M134 mini-guns and the
thud-thud-thud
of
the two M2 fifty-caliber machine guns as they opened up, their
muzzles flaring, lighting up the night.

Danger! Move! Run!

He searched for another target as an
explosion rang out above him. The aircraft he was standing under
shuddered violently. Rot's ears were filled with the unfamiliar
sounds of a dying helicopter as it plummeted straight down, a
shower of sparks, smoke, and bits of broken bird following closely
behind. Scrambling, he back-peddled away from the crippled Black
Hawk and tripped, landing on his back. The sickening sound of metal
screeching in protest was deafening as the helicopter’s belly
smacked the rocky riverbed. The force of the crash caused the
starboard mini-gun operator to lose control of his weapon. It tore
up a swath of ground to Rot's immediate left.

Go! Now!

The battered crewmen were shouting and
jumping from the chopper as it bounced violently up and down,
turbines still working hard to lift the crippled bird. Its landing
gear had collapsed and the hulk was beginning to roll toward Rot,
rotors leading the way. The ground exploded into a blinding cloud
as he tried to find some footing. Somehow, he avoided the spray of
the rotor blades as they shattered into a thousand, thousand
pieces.

Rot found himself standing near the cockpit
of the downed chopper, which was now resting on its side. His M82
gone, he watched through stinging eyes as Sack, silhouetted by an
explosion, was down on one knee firing in his general direction,
covering his six. Grabbing his MP5, Rot spun just as he felt the
sting in his lower back. Ignoring the pain, he found an enemy
closing fast. Having no time to line up his weapon for a shot, he
used his momentum to swing the machine gun as hard as he could,
catching his opponent across the jaw. Blood and teeth exploded from
the man’s mouth as he went down in a heap.

“Sack!” he screamed.

And then there was pain. Nearly blind, he
fell to his knees, trying to focus. The noises of battle engulfed
him, coupled with images he was struggling to understand. Angry
faces surrounded him. Voices screamed unintelligibly.

Danger! Defend! Fight!

He was … where? Doing … what? He felt his
body moving. Twisting and contorting. Familiar movements disjointed
from any rational thought. Senses overwhelmed. He continued to
move, not knowing why. With the next explosion, he found Sack again
in the flash of light, but why was he falling? Sack, landing face
down in the dirt. Sack, not moving.

A dream?
Sounds, smells, images
assailed him. Time had no meaning. His brain received
incomprehensible signals as the pain in his head intensified. He
felt the involuntary motion of his limbs. He was moving, but he
didn't know why. There were sharp pains in his right side. Then his
back.

What's happening to me?

* * * * *

SACK WAS BARELY
conscious as he heard
the battle raging around him. He couldn't move his legs for the
pain. He had difficulty even lifting his head. When he finally did,
he heard the familiar sound of an MP5 ringing out and he caught
sight of … he couldn't be sure who it was above him. Then he saw
the ghillie suit.

“LT?” he managed, too weakly to be heard
over the melee. Sack continued to watch in amazement as Rot turned
and methodically engaged each enemy as they came at him. Using his
MP5 with deadly accuracy, Rot dropped several of his attackers
until his weapon’s magazine was finally exhausted. Dropping it, he
drew his nine-millimeter Beretta from its holster and quickly
emptied the clip. When the pistol was spent, Rot began fighting
hand-to-hand.

With each passing moment, Sack expected to
watch his friend die as assailant after assailant came at him. But
Rot had become a machine, sometimes taking them on two at a time.
Every fight had a similar outcome as the bodies piled up around
him.

And then there was silence.

* * * * *

ROT WAS ON HIS FEET
again but still
couldn't see. The involuntary, automatic movements had stopped. A
light blinded him and then an image coalesced. It was strange at
first. Not faces, but colors. Olive green and black. Stripes and
stars. There were voices he didn't understand. Familiar words, but
they made no sense.

Then he was on the ground, unable to move.
One word he discerned.
Safe
.

And then there was darkness.

* * * * *

ROT AWOKE AT
Landstuhl Regional
Medical Center in Germany three weeks later. During the skirmish in
Afghanistan, he suffered a gunshot wound just inches from his
spine, one that narrowly missed his right kidney, and several deep
lacerations from edged weapons. But most seriously, he had a head
wound the doctors concluded was probably caused by shrapnel from an
exploding grenade. They insisted on countless tests before allowing
him any visitors, annoying Rot to no end. He had no memory of the
incident, and he
needed
to know what had happened. The staff
had assured him, albeit prematurely, that he would make a complete
recovery and return to full duty. But they had also emphasized that
it would take time.

Sack was at his side as soon as he was
allowed. He was anchored to a wheelchair, both of his legs riddled
with gunshot wounds. One of them had shattered his left tibia,
requiring a titanium rod to be inserted to replace the bone. Two
screws protruded from his shin six inches apart, which were
periodically adjusted to ensure proper healing.

Despite his injuries, Sack insisted on being
Rot's errand boy for the duration of their stay in the hospital.
Rot tried pumping his friend for information, but Sack would only
smile and say, “I ain’t supposed to tell ya.”

When the doctors were finally satisfied that
the head wound would have no permanent effects, they, along with
the SEAL’s commanding officer, gave Sack the go-ahead to tell Rot
what had happened.