Page 60 of The Art of Dying

“Yeah?”

“The commander is going to warn our guys, right? Especially now that he knows what kind of people they’re dealing with?”

We were all quiet again.

“I guess we’ll know soon,” she answered.

chapter sixteen.

Kitsch

Trex stood with his back to us, staring down a white board full of organized scribbling like it was the enemy. Martinez, Abrams, Harbinger, Sloan, and I stood on one side of a rectangular table covered in maps and photos, lists and coordinates. Gibson, Hawk, Jackson, Ganesh, Lenny, and Farber on the other. It was crowded, muggy, but we were kitted up, had a round in the chamber—any minute it’d be go time and threats would be real. As uncomfortable as it was in that room, out there was worse.

Trex crossed his arms, finally sighing in satisfaction with his plan. Captain Trexler turned to face us, and although there was confidence in his eyes, I saw a fleeting, involuntary spark of presentiment. Something was off. The air in the secure room where we’d been mapping our entry and exits was thick with unease. We all felt it. Not because we were afraid or unprepared. If anything, the lengths Trex went to, to devise our ops went far beyond the typical Marine Corps Planning Process. He was born for spec ops, the grueling off-the-reservation-type shit. He knew the rules of war and engagement better than anyone—so well, he knew how to operate perfectly outside of them. Trex was the best SOO in the battalion. Like a master of chess, he was ten steps ahead of impending variables. Any surprises the enemy could think of, Scott Trexler had already thought of multiple counteroffensives, exit strategies, and good ole’ shock and awe.

“People sleep peaceable in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf,” Trex said, looking at the men standing in a half circle around the table before him. “George Orwell wrote it. We live it. At zero-five-hundred, we got the green light to move on Bashir’s top operative Karim Kushayb. We’ll be arriving five klicks east of Juba in six hours. I don’t have to tell you South Sudan is the world’s newest country, its people volatile, its government corrupt, its landscape violent. The only safe house available to us is ten klicks out at the United Nations Mission at Juba International, and that’s slugging through condensed urban terrain where there will be thousands of civilians, limited fields of view and fire, enhanced concealment and cover for hostiles, and a high likelihood for snipers. The UNM will be our last resort, gentlemen. See your intel packet for below-ground infrastructure. Once boots are on the ground, everything human you encounter will be considered a hostile. Harbinger?”

He crossed his arms, too. “Intel has confirmed. Neither the firm nor the White House will acknowledge we were at play here. No QRF. We don’t exist. If shit goes south, we’re on our own.”

“Who’s surprised?” Kepner said with a grin.

“Lock it up,” I said.

“Captain,” Martinez began.

“Don’t say it,” Sloan warned.

“I gotta say it,” Martinez continued.

“Shut the fuck up, Othello,” Abrams said.

“The whole op smells funny,” Martinez blurted out.

Everyone groaned.

That little bell in the back of our minds signaling a bad feeling was like hearing a whistle during a hike in the Appalachian wilderness. If you heard it, no you didn’t. You definitely didn’t acknowledge it out loud.

“Jesus Christ, Martinez,” Kepner grumbled.

Trex looked to Kepner and smiled. He hadn’t made teams, but he was a good Marine, and it was always nice to have him along. “Hey. We make our own luck out there,” Trex said, looking to the other side of the table. “Harbinger?”

Harbinger looked down at the map spread across the center table. “All right, boys, getting to the entry point is gonna be a bit tricky.”

“When is it not?” someone in the back said.

Harbinger ignored it. “From the church, we’ll truck it to the riverbank here,” he said, following the route with his index finger. “I repeat, this is an African riverbank. We will likely encounter local wildlife. Warthogs, primates, alligators and their bigger brothers, crocodiles. It’ll be extra dark, boys. Moonlight will be at eighteen percent. NVG will be your best friend. At this location, there’ll be a troller waiting. We’ll use it to cross the eastern side of the eyot—”

“Eyot, sir?” Kepner asked.

Harbinger frowned. “There’s an oblong piece of land that separates the White Nile for approximately four hundred sixty meters.”

Kepner still seemed confused.

Harbinger sighed. “A river island. On the east side, the water is calmer. We’ll cross the eyot just south where the White Nile forks, carrying the troller across three hundred meters of semi-covered terrain here, to reenter the west side of the Nile here.” He pointed again. “Rough waters, but the most ground cover on each side.”

“Intersquad comms likely,” Martinez said. “Back up to pass word is relays, dropping off at the entry point and any forks along the way.”

Harbinger continued, “Access point is here. Plan B, rendezvous here. Plan C, back at the river here.”

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