Page 1 of Love Me Knot

Somewhere in Jordan

“This son of a bitch is gonna get us killed.”

Chief Benson, former infantry sergeant, turns toward his second in command, noting the man’s tight jaw. Keeping similar thoughts to himself, he places a hand on the former SEAL’s shoulder. “No, he won’t.”

The words were meant to calm the team of private military contractors, but Benson doubts they were successful. This deployment has been a four-star fuck up from the moment the task force landed in Jordan. Saying so won’t help anybody, especially since they know it already.

Benson and his men work for Iron Strike Security, a private military firm contracted to provide security for the US Army. Not an uncommon occurrence. What is unusual is the secretive nature of the mission. It seems someone from the Pentagon or higher up is doing their damnedest to make an already dangerous job more difficult.

Iron Strike wasn’t told who or what the Army would be moving or retrieving, whether it was a pickup or drop off, or even where the target was located.

Normally, Iron Strike would hesitate to accept a contract with so little detail. Larger companies wouldn’t have done it at all. These days, with so much bad press about private military, government contracts are hard to come by. Small firms like Iron Strike can’t afford to turn down paying jobs_even shitty ones.

The contract directive sent Chief Benson and his men to Andrews Air Force Base to travel with an Army unit to God knows where. GPS devices issued by Iron Strike allowed the PMCs to track the plane’s movement toward the Middle East, specifically, Muwaffaq Salti Air Base in Jordan.

Before now, Benson would have bet a year’s salary that he and his team would be part of a rescue operation for the three Americans kidnapped from a mall in Jerash. If that were the case, the plane would have landed in neighboring Israel. Stepping off the plane in Jordan blew away all his working theories.

Chief Benson has been on high alert since then. Equipment is offloaded, the team geared up, but still, no locations or objectives are communicated to the PMCs. Only when both units are ready to roll does anyone speak to the Iron Strike team.

The task force commander, who’s already demonstrated a deep disdain for the private military, sends a captain to deliver orders for Benson and his men. This could explain why the captain looks uncomfortable with the information he’s come to deliver. “We’re moving out in five minutes. Have your vehicles follow ours.”

That’s it. The captain doesn’t say anything about objectives, targets, or destinations. Benson is too much in shock and doesn’t react at first. Those orders go against every standard practice that dictates that security contractors complete a risk assessment before anyone moves, especially when protection was their sole reason for being brought along.

Contractors organize only after analyzing infrared satellite images and any other available intel. Standard formation puts protection detail in front of and behind the convoy, with spotters assigned flanking positions. That’s what should happen. Fucking idiots. What is happening is that Benson and his team are being benched without so much as a general direction of travel. They are not allowed to recon the route, either.

Everyone is loading up, but Chief Benson walks away from his transport to approach the officer who delivered their orders. So far, he’s the only reasonable leader assigned to the mission, which includes more brass than the entire Iron Strike armory. “Captain.”

The second-most senior officer sighs but pauses. “What is it, Benson?”

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but this setup is bullshit, and you know it. You wouldn’t put your own security forces in the back, so why are we the tail?”

Captain Taft pulls Benson away from the Humvee and the listening ears inside. “I know what you’re asking, and I don’t have a problem with your team. I’ve only delivered orders handed down to me by the colonel,” he says, gesturing to the front vehicle. “I know these orders aren’t SOP and are borderline dangerous.”

Benson nearly chokes. “Borderline? Marching into battle with your armor on backward isn’t borderline anything. It’s suicidal. Add to that, no one’s told me what the fuck we’re walking into.”

Taft scrubs his day-old beard scruff. “You’re in good company then because I don’t know either.”

Taft’s confession leaves Benson speechless, so the captain fills in the silence. “I wouldn’t worry about your men, Chief. With the way the colonel is running things, if anyone is in danger of not walking away, it’ll be my unit. I don’t like this any more than you do, but we both have our orders. Now, move out.”

Chief Benson stares wide-eyed at the captain’s back as he walks away. Does anyone know what the fuck we’re doing here? Turning to glare at the colonel’s transport, Benson shakes his head. “Stupid bastard colonels.”

If the captain agrees, he’s doing a good job keeping his mouth shut about it.

A loud whistle sounds from the group of armored Iron Strike trucks, calling Benson back to his men. Without explanation, he gestures for the group to load up and climbs into the first truck. The convoy rolls out in the dead of night, headed toward God knows what.

The Iron Strike team is silent on the radio, unsettled by the unorthodox procedure. Field security is inherently dangerous, which these guys knew when they signed up. Benson’s men aren’t cowards. Being in the rear is less risky for security, but not when you’re denied basic information on objective, destination, or available intelligence.

Once the last truck clears the gate, Benson takes a haggard breath and keys up his mic. He relays his confrontation with Captain Taft and delegates recon assignments to those not driving. Four trucks carrying four men, with each group focusing on a different heading.

The pilot truck heads south, leading the fleet through the desert city of Azrak. Colonel Jackass keeps off the roads for the most part, giving the Iron Strike team no clue about his destination. After skirting the wetlands reserve along the southern shore, the convoy turns sharply northeast. “What the hell?” Benson murmurs under his breath.

“Where the hell are we going, Chief?” Rodeo asks from the back seat. “There’s only fucking farmland and a mosque this way. Beyond that is nothing but a hundred and fifty miles of desert and the border with Syria and Iraq.”

Benson looks up and through the windshield. He had thought the same thing as the former field artillery specialist, but a striking realization hits him suddenly. “Not true. Tower 22 is up there.”

Tower 22. Small US military outpost half a mile from the Syrian border and six miles from Iraq. And we’re currently thirty miles from Saudi Arabia.

Rodeo disagrees with Benson’s line of thinking. “If that’s the target, why the hell would we be driving there instead of taking helos?”

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