The First Protectors: A Novel Read online

  He sheathed his machete and swung his rifle back into his hand. There was no beach on the north side of the island from which to quickly board the gunboats, so the SEALs turned around and double-timed it back south.

  A figure popped out from behind a tree, the barrel of an AK-47 rising. None of the Americans carried that weapon, so anyone toting it was an enemy.

  Ben kicked Asir’s legs out, dropping him to the ground. As he dropped to one knee, three 7.62mm bullets tore over his head. Asir squirmed, trying to scramble away. Ben lunged sideways, landing on the terrorist’s back and pancaking him into the mud. Asir was stunned for a moment and Ben drew a bead on the fighter who had just ambushed him. The silenced rifle barked twice and the attacker fell dead. Ben reloaded, stood up, pulled his prisoner to his feet, and resumed their march to the beach.

  The beach was a maelstrom, like the most violent rave party ever staged. The second fire team was already loaded on SOC-R 2 and was now pouring a wall of lead into the approaching enemy ships. The pop-pop-pop of small arms fire was punctuated by the concussive boom of grenades. Smoke swirled across the scorched and cratered sand. The explosives had also set off a few small fires in the trees, and two or three enemy boats were on fire as well. It was too wet for anything here to burn for long, but for the moment, it was hell on earth. The thermal goggles were useless now, and Ben yanked his up. More flares snapped into the air. Shadows leaped like dancing devils, spawned from gunpowder and phosphorus.

  Ben dropped Asir again, knelt on his back, and from behind a tree snapped off several shots against incoming enemy boats. Almost impossible to think, to plan, in the chaos. Bullets whizzed and snapped through the trees. The flashing light from the explosions and fires was as confusing as it was illuminating. There wasn’t much time left to get out of this. He had to get control of the situation, direct his men, if they had any hope of getting out alive.

  Two other SEALs, Jimmy Bradford and Dexter Bryant, emerged from the thick tangle of vines about 20 feet to Ben’s left.

  “Jimmy, Dex, set up a position on the beach so we can exfil Caliban.”

  The two men obeyed without hesitation, sprinting to the cover of a pile of driftwood on the shore that the terrorists had been using as benches before the team had arrived. They fired as they moved, their rapid, controlled shots punching at the flurry of ships buzzing through the small bay.

  Once they were in position and SOC-R 1 was heading toward the beach, Ben stood up, hoisted Asir, and stepped from the tree line. As he did, two enemy ships zoomed in. One of the ships held half a dozen men, all carrying AK-47 rifles. The other boat looked empty.

  A flare shot up out of the full boat, and Ben was exposed in the white glare. The fighters spotted him and his hooded prisoner and immediately opened fire, trying to kill Asir rather than have him taken alive.

  Bullets flicked at the sand around their feet. One round nicked Asir’s shoulder and ripped out a chunk of blood and meat. The terrorist yelped and fell to the ground as Bradford and Bryant peppered the light skiff with lead. Ben struggled to get Asir back on his feet but his blood made him slippery and holding on to the thin, struggling man was like trying to wrestle an eel.

  Bradford turned to yell something at Ben, and just then a bullet caught him directly in the mouth. He tumbled backward in a spray of teeth, blood, and bone. He was close enough that Ben could hear him still trying to gurgle whatever he had intended to shout, his mangled jaw seeming to move in multiple directions at once. Bryant was distracted for a moment, and three bullets slammed into his torso in a neat diagonal line. His body armor stopped the bullets, but the force spun him around and he went down on one knee.

  Ben, still struggling with Asir, fired off three quick shots that he knew went wide. It took all his training not to abandon his prisoner and bolt out to the aid of his injured comrade. Another SEAL, Terry Smith, a bulldozer with biceps, had arrived back on the beach as SOC-R 1 was cutting apart the boat with the fighters who had shot Bradford and Bryant.

  “Terry, get Jimmy and Dex on SOC-R 1,” Ben yelled. “We’re leaving now.”

  The big man moved without a sound toward his fallen comrades.

  Ben glanced out at the seemingly empty enemy boat just in time to see a figure pop up from where it had been lying flat, out of sight. The man hoisted a long slender tube to his shoulder—a rocket-propelled grenade—and fired.

  Even as the rocket was cutting through the air, the gunners on SOC-R 1 demolished the ship. Ben opened his mouth to scream a warning at Smith and tensed to jump away, but the hooded Asir stumbled into Ben, his legs wrapping around the American’s ankles, knocking him toward the grenade.

  The RPG smashed and detonated in the middle of the three men. Sand, shrapnel, and blood sprayed across the beach, and the concussive force knocked Ben’s breath from his lungs. SOC-R 1 opened fire again, its miniguns spinning a hellish whirlwind. Tens of thousands of rounds spun off into the night, chewing up the enemy fleet.

  Ben’s right eye had gone red and then blind with blood, and a dull ring was the only sound he heard, despite the ongoing fury around him. His entire face was slick with blood. How much belonged to him, Asir, or the other SEALs, he had no idea. Spilled milk, Ben thought blankly. No use crying over it. He tried to stand and fell back, his leg shredded and wet.

  Through his one good eye he gazed at his useless rifle, flecked with metal shards, and wondered how much worse the damage to his leg would have been if he hadn’t been holding the rifle along his side. There was surprisingly little pain but his muscles felt slow, almost drugged. The sand was red. Then black, as the light from the flares faded. Then red again. It was hypnotic. Black and red and back again. More boats were coming in, too many for the small SEAL craft.

  But he hadn’t let go of Asir, who seemed unharmed. Bradford, Bryant, and Smith were crumpled in a pile, twisted at inhuman angles and half buried in sand. Bone jutted from skin, and Ben wasn’t sure whose it was. The three men had been in that spot on orders. On his orders. They’d done what they were told, and now they were jammed into this alien dirt in a sort of grotesque and instant funeral. The terrorist squirmed, nicked but still alive.

  Bomber’s luck. Bomber’s luck.

  There was too much blood seeping from his body to stay conscious much longer. Perhaps they’d all be buried on this black beach together. He blinked, weakening. Bullets flicked sand. A pair of enemy boats whirred toward the island.

  The OLED touchscreen on his wrist was still intact. Maybe he still had enough strength for that. He tapped it with his finger, feeling the shrapnel in his right arm shred the muscle into ground beef. The RQ-170 Sentinel drone’s surveillance screen switched to the attack screen of a pair of armed MQ-8B Fire Scout drones.

  The bulbous, unmanned helicopters each sported a pair of Advanced Precision Kill Weapon System guided missiles. With blood now oozing across his face into his one good eye, Ben watched the thermal images of the approaching boats on his screen, then tapped each outline once. The last of his strength gone, he slumped back in the sand, waiting for whatever end would come. He’d hold down Asir as long as he could.

  Searchlights stabbed outward from the boats toward the contingent of SEALs now firing in almost every direction. Ben heard the heavy machine guns on the enemy boats begin to rattle, kicking up sand in a furious march up the beach toward the Americans. Then the Fire Scouts were there, buzzing in over the trees and unleashing their missiles. They screamed through the air, each pair plowing into one of the boats, dismantling them in a staccato series of bone-rattling detonations that left temporary craters in the water.

  His teammates appeared from the red haze, roughly grabbing Asir and Ben, lifting both into SOC-R 1. He watched dimly as Bradford, Bryant, and Smith were also dragged into the boat.

  They left behind weapons, fragments of their gear, and dark streaks in the sand. Pieces of themselves. Leave no man behind—at least, not all of him. I’m sorry. Ben was embarrassed at the emptiness of the emotion even as it f
illed his mind.

  I’m sorry.

  The ships roared into the night, dodging and cutting and unloading their firepower, shattered fragments of enemy boats tossed in their wake. Machine guns chattering like rain.

  Ben slumped down, staring at the hooded terrorist. On the other side of the boat, three dead soldiers, three dead friends. They’d trusted him and now their open but sightless eyes stared at him, seeming to ask what else they could do . . . as if they hadn’t done enough. He couldn’t stand to return their gaze, but was too weak to break it. Their bodies bounced with every wave, their heads nodding. What else? What else? The .50 cals pounded away, covering their escape with thunder and lightning. The ships finally emerged from the dense cluster of islands and sprinted for the open Arabian Sea and the amphibious assault ship USS Wasp.

  The sun was coming up.

  From far away, he heard Nick Parson, another teammate and longtime friend, calling his name, yelling at him to stay awake.

  The three dead men finally flopped to the side, seeming to look back the way they’d come . . . at the black, churning water and distant fires still burning. At least they were in the boat. Not left behind. Not lost in the water, sinking beneath the waves. Not like long ago.

  Ben closed his eyes.

  2

  The cold desert starlight was just enough to make out the black stain seeping through Ben’s pant leg.

  He was now sure it was blood leaking down his calf, soaking his jeans and squishing in his sock. Whatever. No stopping now. Just 30 feet to the summit. The voice had piped down. Apparently even his demons were exhausted.

  The plan had been to just go halfway up the hill tonight, a small cigar to celebrate, and then back down. Build gradually, the docs had said. In fact, they’d recommended he stay at the rehab facility for another month. Let the nurses and physical therapists do their jobs. Screw that. The truth was, he couldn’t stand to be around people anymore, much less someone trying to serve or help him. He hadn’t done anything to deserve that. So he’d put in his retirement papers and checked himself out. A few weeks later, he was here in the desert, grinding. Tonight, he was going all the way to the top of this godforsaken hill. Or maybe it was morning now. Whatever. He’d smoke his stubby cigar at the top either way.

  Progress was measured in inches. His strength was depleted, but his reservoir of patience was still dark and deep. With each step, his weak leg struggled more. Soon, it was step, drag, step, drag.

  His right foot caught in a hidden crack in the dirt. It twisted and Ben bellowed. He crashed down, his foot popped loose, his leg ripped open, and a supernova of white agony filled his brain and pushed aside everything else.

  A small avalanche of loose gravel, dirt, and rocks big enough to break bones carried his heavy frame in a wave down the way he had come over the last hour. It was like being in a storm at sea. At high enough speed, dirt and rock behaved like water, sloshing and rolling like whitewater rapids. He tumbled to a stop, instinctively feeling for the pistol and knife strapped to his hips even as he hovered on the brink of passing out.

  After several minutes, the wildfire of pain in his leg faded to a smolder. Ben propped himself up on his left elbow. Sweat cooled, then chilled. He shivered and sat up. The dark, wet line of blood coating his right leg was cooling, turning clammy, and he let out a trembling sigh and brushed his hands. They were also scratched and bloody from his tumble down the slope. Ben leaned back on the palms of both hands, winced, and inhaled deeply, preparing to stand and bracing for the pain. He was going up that hill tonight if he had to pull himself by his teeth.

  This had always been rough country but, in a way, it was also home.

  The Comanche had once called this stretch of the southwest not just their land, but their empire. The most savage warriors of all the Native American tribes, the Comanche had, for a brief while before the American flood westward, controlled hundreds of thousands of square miles across Texas, Oklahoma, and New Mexico. For most of Native American history, the Comanche had been a small, primitive band, hunters and wanderers, rootless and powerless. Then the Spanish had come from the south. They brought horses. Originally bred for the arid deserts and steppes of Asia, these creatures were ideally suited to western edge of the New World. The Comanche, by some quirk of fate, were suited to the horses.

  In raids and trades, the Comanche had acquired hundreds, then thousands of the beasts, adapting to this new technology at a lightning pace. By the late seventeenth century, a once modest tribe had transformed itself into the most effective light cavalry in the world. They rode to battle and, unlike their contemporaries, rode in battle, firing arrows and throwing spears from horseback.

  It was a revolution in warfare, and they were as vicious as they were competent. They mercilessly slaughtered every man, while women and children were killed or abducted and forcibly assimilated into Comanche tribes. One of these captives, hauled across New Mexico on horseback in the dead of night on a September in 1841, had been Ben’s great-great-great-grandmother.

  A detachment of Texas Rangers had eventually rescued her, but not before she gave birth to a son from her Comanche captor. That son eventually moved to New York, far from the blood-soaked plains and canyons of his birth. But the blood in his veins could not be escaped. Indeed, that blood was now dripping out from Ben’s hands and leg, back into his ancestral soil.

  Whatever ancient connection he had to this place, it had no memory of him. In a way, the places you lived and toiled eventually became part of you. The house you grew up in, even the barracks and apartments where you lived for a few months or years, the events that occurred within those spaces gave those places meaning—for good or bad. You defined yourself, remembered yourself, as much for where you were as for what you’d done. And all the old familiar places had memories Ben wanted no part of. Out here, where he’d never been, there were no ghosts waiting for him. There were only the ones he brought with him.

  He paused, staring at the stars, noticing them for the first time that night. Here in New Mexico, far from any city lights, far from everything, the panorama was overwhelming.

  Every star in the galaxy seemed to be dumped overhead, a vast horde of glittering diamonds scattered across a royal cloak of purple and black. They twinkled and winked as their light bent through the atmosphere. It had been years since he’d been out at night with no job to do, no mission to accomplish. The night was like a black ocean, deep overhead, impenetrable and implacable.

  For nearly his entire adult life, the night had been a cloak, a camouflage. Special Operations worked almost exclusively in the dark, relying on technology and training to hunt while their enemies slept; to be the thing that goes bump in the night.

  He was comfortable when miserable. Most of his transitory girlfriends had noticed, too, and eventually left, even the ones Ben had hoped would stay. Crawling through sand and mud and leeches and snakes was the only time he felt, if not happy, at least fulfilling his purpose, doing what he thought he was meant to do. He’d camped immobile for 36 hours, sprawled over a sniper rifle, waiting for his target to make an inevitable split-second mistake. You could deal with physical discomfort and pain. This, here, now, in the desert, was worse. Helplessness. That was the word. Crippled and diminished. A lifetime spent sharpening body and mind, a blade on a whetstone. He felt chipped and dull now—physically and spiritually beyond repair.

  So be it. The physical pain he could deal with. It meant he’d survived, if not won. What he regretted was the pain others had suffered on his behalf. That ache would always linger. He couldn’t ask for that sacrifice, couldn’t inflict that sacrifice, any longer. Time for someone else to lead the fight.

  Still, the training embedded in his body wouldn’t let him stop fighting. He punished himself in this oblivious expanse because he knew nothing else. There was no quit. There was also no desire to go back. There was just here. Even if the leg someday healed, became more than a useless stump, Ben couldn’t stomach the thought of riding int
o war again with his countrymen, his brothers, beside him. No one else would ever die for him, because of him.

  Ben picked up a small stone and flung it at the sky.

  As it arced back down to the ground, he noticed a blue star that seemed to be blinking faster than its companions. Almost immediately, the blinking light grew in size as a steadier yellow pinpoint accompanied it.

  These couldn’t be stars. Satellites traveling overheard, maybe, or airplanes with collision-warning lights. In seconds, though, the lights had grown so fierce that Ben knew they had to be crashing. Maybe it was a meteor shower?

  Idle curiosity turned sharper as the lights expanded, sinking toward Ben and now accompanied by what sounded like rolling thunder. What’s more, each large light seemed to be ejecting separate trails of light, spraying beads of illumination. When the strings intersected, a boom shook the sky.

  The two objects now plummeted toward Ben and his hill, a tangle of light and sound more wrenching than anything Ben had ever seen or heard over the skies of Iraq or Afghanistan. The lead object, the blue thing, was smoking and burning. It was being chased by the yellow thing. Is that a . . . ship? Ben had time to wonder as he tried to scoot backward from the looming crash.

  At the last moment, the two lights screamed overheard, a cascade of fire and fury as the ground itself felt like it was about to split open. The shockwave threw Ben onto his back. He rolled over to watch the twin streaks as they crested the hill down which he had rolled just a few minutes before. One last explosion shook the night and then the light show was extinguished. Echoes rolled back and forth across the peaks for a few seconds, and then faded as well. In the silence and calm, the afterimages floating in his vision were Ben’s only evidence of what had just happened.

  He struggled to his feet, almost completely oblivious to his tortured leg. Hobbling the few feet to his battered blue Chevy, Ben wrenched the door open and hopped in. The key turned, the engine fired, and he stomped the gas, fishtailing briefly and then accelerating around the hill. A crown of fresh sweat had formed on his forehead. Before he had completely rounded the mound, he could already see a new glow, something burning. The crash site, where the two meteors had hit the ground. But as he made the last twist around a giant jutting rock, Ben saw there had been only one crash and slammed the brakes.