Covert Kill: A David Rivers Thriller

As I exposed myself outside our hide site, the thought of endangering my life for that latter cause seemed all the more ludicrous. I’d accepted the sacrifice of being away from my family to find and kill enemies of the United States, had, in fact, been willing to die for that cause. But the potential of getting smoked right now seemed an asinine way to go, and I had a hard time suppressing a deep sense of dread spreading by way of a tightness in my chest.

It only took a moment, however, for me to mentally curse myself for the emotion. Three of my guys were on the frontlines of that camp, a stone’s throw from four enemy fighters, and here I was a thousand meters away, fearing for my own safety. As if the fact that I had a wife and kid back home should make my life in any way more valuable than the lives of my teammates. Besides, I thought, the temporary exposure was absolutely necessary: sending a data shot over satellite communications, as I was about to do, took both time and a clear signal.

I pulled myself forward with my weapon in one hand, extending the other back to the hide site entrance. Ian reached forward and handed me the fully assembled satellite antenna, which I set up on its tripod and angled upward at the preordained azimuth. Next Ian passed me the ruggedized laptop, connected to the antenna via a coil of wire that I hastily arranged on the ground.

Flipping the computer screen open at a 45-degree angle to keep it from reflecting light, I initiated the transmission and watched the status bar fill from zero to three percent. Then I took one last look at the screen display with a sense of astonishment that we’d accomplished as much as we had. Particularly, I thought, on a shoestring shopping trip and given the fact that most of our preparations had occurred from a moving van as we headed toward the Sambisa Forest.

Cancer’s first visual report from the camp had seemed miraculous at the time; that alone was enough to plan a hasty raid. But as soon as Worthy and Reilly established their surveillance site, it opened up a whole new world of information.

With two perspectives, we’d been able to plot the grids and use azimuths of visibility to triangulate the camp, and in Ian’s capable hands that resulted in the digital graphic that I observed now—a bird’s-eye depiction with every tent numbered, distances and directions annotated, and the surrounding terrain marked with impassable thorns and areas of loose vegetation that would allow an assault force to approach. The two surveillance positions had even weighed in on recommended sniper positions based on lines of sight to the objective, and Ian had plotted them on the graphic along a fan of shooting angles and ranges to each tent.

As an appendix to the presentation, we’d prepared a consolidated timeline of every detail from our ground infiltration to the present moment, detailing the enemy numbers, their equipment, and every action observed by the surveillance positions. Most notably was what occurred in the camp after the motorcycle departed an hour and a half earlier. The remaining fighters had hastily cleaned up the camp, hidden a pillowcase-sized sack in the bushes—presumably narcotics or alcohol—and then assumed a security posture at the perimeter.

Ian seemed to think that indicated the imminent arrival of some Boko Haram VIPs and, if we were lucky, the hostages. As I watched the status bar of my data shot to Duchess, I wondered when and if additional fighters would arrive at the camp. Even the guards probably hadn’t been informed; as foot soldiers, they were probably told to clean up their shit and stand by. We could easily be on target for another 24 to 48 hours, and if we pushed past that point, we’d be running perilously low on water.

The status bar finally filled to completion, ending the satellite transmission. I quickly handed the antenna back to Ian, followed by the laptop. At that moment I became aware that the birds to my right had suddenly gone silent, an eerie quiet falling over the forest. Instinctively glancing that direction, I saw someone slipping through the trees twenty meters away.

My blood turned to ice as I registered a second man behind him, both appearing as little more than shadows through the foliage. They were headed straight for our MSS, the kind of direct trajectory that assured me we’d been detected much earlier and were now about to face the wrath of a dedicated force sent to finish us off.

There were only two choices: either tuck my rifle under my chest and put my face to the dirt, hoping that my ghillie suit would serve its intended purpose, or ease back into the hide site and hope they didn’t spot me.

I opted for the latter, sliding backward on my belly. My boot caught Ian’s shoulder and he pushed it aside, causing me to angle in that direction until I passed back underneath the overhead cover with the desperate hope that I didn’t disturb the ground outside.

As soon as I was concealed, I faced Ian with a finger to my lips. He looked confused, and I pointed to my eyes, then to the right, in an indication that I’d spotted enemy fighters.

Our next actions were performed with a synchronized fluidity: we assumed prone firing positions, aiming out the low entrance to our hide site.

Standard procedure at a time like this would be to zero out our radios along with the laptop data, using purpose-built mechanisms to leave the enemy no information to exploit. But there was no time, and if I was in the final moments of my life, I was going down fighting, not tinkering with electronics.

I braced my rifle buttstock against my shoulder, holding my aim steady as I waited for the inevitable: the first enemy combatant to crouch down and look inside, an easy headshot that would kick off a supremely short gunfight.

My earpieces crackled to life with Duchess’s voice, which seemed deafening at this particular juncture.

“Suicide Actual, this is Raptor Nine One.”

I keyed my radio three times, transmitting bursts of static to indicate that I could hear but not give a verbal response. Duchess must have taken the hint, because there was no follow-up to her attempt at radio contact.

Then I heard the men approaching, the snap of a branch outside indicating that we were seconds from being discovered.

They were moving quickly, quietly, a seasoned force who knew the terrain far better than we did. I heard no talking or clanking of unsecured equipment, merely the crunching of footsteps on dry leaf litter growing in volume until a set of combat boots passed five meters ahead of the entrance, moving from right to left as the man negotiated the depression and climbed to the opposite side.

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