Page 2 of Love Me Knot

Patch ponders out loud. “We could be headed toward the border.”

Rodeo rolls his eyes at the retired Marine. “Pfft. Which one?”

Benson shuts them both up. “We’re not crossing any border. It would attract too much attention. Besides, if we were looking at a target in any country within forty miles, the detachment could have landed at any installations there. This convoy is headed toward Tower 22. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

The chief keys up his radio to update the rest of his men, adjusting the recon assignments to focus on the course for the small outpost. Each group will study a forty-mile stretch between Azrak and the Tower.

The designated man from each truck reports within ten minutes. The news isn’t good. Hundreds of unmapped roads lead to unmapped towns. Numerous tree-lined creek beds create blind spots, and dry gulches with questionable soil conditions dot the landscape along the route.

In short, there are too damned many places a group of extremists could attack from. Our convoy is big and loud enough that, despite the late hour, all it would take is one person sighting and reporting us to their brethren. We could be in an all-out assault at any given moment during the four-hour trek to the tower.

Benson switches his radio frequency to that of the Army unit to share his concerns with whomever will listen. He keys in, but no one answers. Benson swears and tries again, hearing only silence. “What the fuck?!”

Rodeo drops all traces of sarcasm, answering in the quiet cabin. “They didn’t trust us. We’ve been shut out.”

Benson agrees and is ready to bug out on the mission, but his gut and a big-ass contract say he can’t. “Maybe they did, but I want one radio in each truck on the Army channel at all times. The rest of you, keep your eyes open.”

The fleet maintains a northeasterly course, traveling through the uncharted desert landscape. The night is thick as sludge, with no moon to cut through the darkness. Only the lights from the convoy trucks pierce through the veil of black.

Benson orders two men in his truck, Rodeo and Patch, to don vision optics and watch for invisible threats. One surveys the world through a haze of green, the other in shades of gray.

Fifty miles pass with no report of movement and no heat signatures, but the fleet is still ninety-five miles from the tower. They still have twenty-four miles of supposedly empty desert before they reach the closest mapped landmark.

The eerie trip continues, with Chief Benson finding it harder and harder to keep his men calm. Part of him wants to check in with Iron Strike HQ concerning the faulty arrangement, but doing so would give away just how nervous he is.

At least he has body cam footage of all his interactions with Army brass for his boss to evaluate later. That was a request straight from the CEO, and it wouldn’t be appreciated if any of the officers in this mission were aware of it. Given the current culture, the big boss felt a little CYA couldn’t hurt.

The former Ranger narrows his focus to the problem at hand, scanning the dark horizon for threats. Satellite maps indicate the existence of a nearby olive farm. A site shown to be a mosque twenty miles back was nothing but a circle of dirt. Beyond the farm, the map shows another landmark labeled as an ancient burial ground. Neither of those seem like legitimate targets, which pretty much confirms Tower 22 as the convoy’s destination. “Unless…” Benson mutters but stops when the Army trucks ahead in the line kill their lights.

The Colonel doesn’t issue orders for the PMCs to do the same. “Shit. I don’t like this, Chief,” Brizzle, the driver, complains. “If someone is out here, we’re now sitting ducks.”

Benson keys his radio to reach everyone on his team. “Kill your lights. Focus all scopes forward. You watchers are now the drivers’ eyes.”

With his team now scanning the landscape ahead, Benson picks up his radio and tries to raise the Army team again. “Ghost Rider to Mephistopheles. What’s the current situation? Over.”

There’s still no answer. “This is Ghost Rider. Sit Rep.”

No one from the Army is answering, and there’s no radio chatter. “Shit.”

Benson scans through the radio channels, convinced this is another power play by the colonel to cut the PMCs out. He reconsiders when none of the channels produce a sound.

“What do we do, Chief?” Rodeo asks from the back seat.

Benson turns around, studying the man’s face in the soft glow of the dash lights. “Switch optics with Patch. I want NV on the right as we pass this olive farm.”

He pulls out his own NV optics and says, “Scratch that. Keep your eyes on the road. Here’s what we’re doing. Briz, speed up and pull left alongside the convoy. We’ll pass them and fan out, so they’ll have to stop.”

“You sure we ought to do that, Chief? The colonel may have sniffed out something he didn’t like over there.”

“Well, if he did, he ain’t telling us shit,” Patch points out.

Benson once again opens his team mic. “All teams, pull alongside the Army trucks. It’s time we get some answers.”

The other trucks acknowledge the order, and Brizzle floors the accelerator. Right as Benson’s truck pulls level with the lead Army vehicle, the handheld unit Taft gave him crackles to life. “What the fuck are you doing, Benson?”

The PMC chief smiles at hearing the colonel’s voice.

“Guess the radio’s working after all,” Brizzle says.

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