Mack Maloney - Chopper Ops

“Would you believe this guy had a steak about an hour before he died?” the doctor asked. “With some baked potato? Chocolate cake? And scotch?”

Norton gagged. But for the fact that he hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours himself, he would have lost it right then and there.

“What are you trying to say?” Norton heard himself ask. “That the Gomers fed their prisoners real good before they shot them?”

Smitz just shook his head in disgust. “For Christ’s sakes, Norton, get with the program, will you?” he said angrily. “This guy wasn’t a prisoner.”

Norton protested, “Of course he was! What are you talking about?”

Smitz dragged him away from the autopsy and to the place where the unit’s video man had set up his equipment. Delaney and Chou followed close behind.

“Wake up, will you? Look at this,” Smitz said.

He pushed a button, and the small video setup started a tape rolling. The footage showed the inside of the prison building shortly after the raid.

“Look real close,” Smitz said.

Norton did. The battered insides of the building were clear of smoke when the tape was shot. And it was peculiar, because even though Norton had been there at the time the video camera was capturing these very images, he was seeing many things for the first time. Like a lot of wrecked TVs. And a wrecked Bose stereo system. And many wrecked CD players. And a bunch of busted X-rated videotapes. And several destroyed air conditioners. And many cartons of empty Budweiser cans tipped over.

Now Norton’s head began a slow spin.

At that moment, the SEAL doctor was suddenly beside him again. He was holding a plastic spoon in his hand. It was covered with a black gooey substance, which in turn was covered by a ghastly bloody coating.

“You know what that is?” he asked Norton, not waiting for an answer. “It’s caviar. Caviar! This guy had eaten about a half pound of it about one hour before getting iced.”

Norton reeled back from the horrible stuff.

What was happening here?

His stomach began to flip again. His lungs seemed to collapse. His knees turned to water.

Suddenly Delaney grabbed him.

“Hey, pards, let’s get some air,” Delaney suggested.

With Smitz in silent protest, they walked to the front of the cave, picked up two M-16’s, then passed through the fake foliage and quickly out into the hot night. It was past midnight by now, and the wind blowing across the desert below was kicking up dozens of little sandstorms. To the east, the moon was on the rise. Strange animal noises could be heard echoing nearby.

They walked to the edge of the cliff and beyond where the Marine pickets could see them. They were now facing due east. It seemed as if the entire country of Iraq was spread out before them.

Norton took in a couple of deep breaths. His head began to clear—slowly.

“Something is very, very wrong, Slick,” he was finally able to blurt out to Delaney.

“A grand understatement as usual,” Delaney replied. He was looking a bit pale himself—and worried. This was not a good sign.

“What do you think is going down?” Norton asked him directly. “Tell me.”

Delaney just shrugged. “Well, let’s review,” he began. “They gather us together from the four corners of the earth—to train for a mission none of us is qualified for. Then they give us aircraft we can’t fly. Then they bust our balls to get us over here. Then we spot the target in one recon flight instead of a dozen. We pick out the plane. We land. But it’s not the right plane— and three quarters of the guys we’re supposed to rescue have been freshly killed. With guns and ammo just like ours. And now it appears these guys haven’t exactly been eating bread and water for the last ten years.”

They went silent for a long moment. The hot wind blew in on their faces.

“Man, none of this computes,” Norton murmured.

“Ever think that you’re being set up?” a third voice asked.

Norton and Delaney whipped around, their rifles up in a flash.

They were startled to find a man standing right behind them. It was no one from the cave. This person was wearing an all-white flight suit, white boots, white gloves, and a white helmet. The helmet’s mirrored visor was pulled down and despite the darkness, Norton and Delaney could see the reflections of their own stunned expressions staring back at them.

Delaney nearly shot the guy. He’d raised his gun, aimed it at the man’s throat, and slipped off the safety, all in the span of one second. It was only Norton pushing the rifle barrel away at the last moment that prevented Delaney from pulling the trigger. There was an awkward, chilling span of several seconds. Finally the guy raised his helmet visor and showed his face. Both pilots nearly fell off the mountain with astonishment.

It was Angel. The mysterious Nordic-looking guy they’d seen several times hanging around Seven Ghosts Key.

“How the fuck did you get here?” Delaney hissed at him.

Angel just shook his head. “Can’t tell you,” he said with a relaxed smile. “If I did I’d have to kill you.”

But Delaney was in no mood for such an old joke. He put his gun back up to the man’s throat and asked him again.

Once more Norton intervened. “Hang on, Slick,” he said, moving Delaney’s gun again. “He’s one of us. Or at least I think he is.”

Another tense moment passed. Finally Delaney relaxed a bit. They both contemplated the man before them.

Obviously he had flown here—but how? And where was his aircraft? And why hadn’t the Marine pickets seen his arrival?

But most important at the moment, what was he doing here?

“I don’t want to see you guys get your asses hung out to dry,” Angel replied, reading their minds.

“Is that right? Is that something that’s going to happen?” Norton asked him.

“A distinct possibility,” Angel said.

Norton finally lowered his rifle completely. Delaney did too.

“Really? Educate us then,” Norton told him.

Angel just shrugged. “Well, look at the facts, like you were just doing,” he said. “They send you over here to rescue a bunch of Americans who they said were being held prisoner. But those guys wind up dead ten minutes before you cruise in. What does that tell you?”

“Beats me,” Delaney said. “What does it tell you?”

Angel just shrugged again. “If I had to guess, I’d say someone was making sure whatever those guys saw— or did—wouldn’t get out.”

Norton thought about this for a moment. “You mean like Iraqi atrocities, things like that?”

Angel laughed.

“Man, are you guys out of the loop!” he said. “You really still think those guys were imprisoned all this time?”

Both pilots looked back at him sternly.

“Are you saying they were… in on this?” Delaney asked him angrily.

But Angel just laughed again.

“You saw what they were eating, I assume? What they were entertaining themselves with?” he asked. “That sound like prison to you?”

“But that’s insane,” Norton said through gritted teeth. “There’s got to be another explanation. Maybe the guards were plugged in to the TVs and CD players.”

“And forcing gourmet meals down those guys’ throats?” Angel asked. He paused a moment. A wild dog cried in the wilderness. A shooting star streaked overhead.

“Look,” Angel went on. “Consider this: Suppose those nine dead guys were in on it, and the game was close to being up. What would happen? Maybe someone pulling the strings realizes there’s a problem on just how to lose these people. Because people talk. Especially ones holding secrets. So they gather y’all together and send you in. But before you arrive they shoot nine of the crew, and make sure they do it with the same kind of guns you guys are carrying. In my mind that’s setting you guys up. You wouldn’t be the first patsies in the history of special ops. Or the last.”