Extensis Vitae

Chapter 2



The farmhouse looked innocent enough, but clearly there was more to it than met the eye. At least three guards were visible patrolling the perimeter, AK-47s slung across their shoulders. The cherry of a lit cigarette was a hot white point amidst a field of varying shades of green through Reznik’s night vision goggles. The guard with the cigarette inhaled, and the bright point burned like a miniature sun.

“Hold your positions,” the voice in Reznik’s earpiece barked. “Potential High Value Target should be with the approaching vehicles. Eye in the sky shows them five clicks away. One jeep and a troop carrier truck. Infrared shows eight or nine hostiles in the vehicles. Remember, no air support due to presence of hostages. Secure the hostages, capture the HVT if possible, and eliminate the rest of the hostiles. You should have time to scrub the premises for intel as it doesn’t appear that there are any additional hostiles in the AO.”

This time, Reznik took the opportunity to slip back into the bushes and take a piss before the shit hit the fan.

“Oh yeah—one other thing, men,” another voice broke in. “There’s very high visibility on this mission, so don’t f*ck it up!” This voice belonged to Major Weiss, their ops officer.

Nash scoffed quietly. “F*ckin’ Weiss. I’d like to see him come out here and get his ass shot off by these hajis.”

Reznik grinned as he rejoined his buddy at their position. “Then the mission WOULD get f*cked up, for sure.” They both chuckled at that. “Who are these hostages, again? A SIGINT team that rolled into the wrong neighborhood while testing some new high-tech intercept gear, wasn’t it?”

Nash nodded. “What a bunch of dumb shits—get lost way out here in Anbar Province where the QRF can’t get to them.”

Reznik knew it was probably a good thing that the Quick Reaction Force wouldn’t be able to get to them in time. The survival chances of the hostages would plummet if those idiots from the 82nd Airborne came charging in. Plus, these types of situations are what the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, commonly known as Delta Force—had been created for.

“Look sharp men. ETA in approximately five mikes,” came the platoon sergeant’s voice over the radio.

As if to confirm the approach of the vehicles, one of the jihadist guards jumped as his walkie-talkie blared to life. He grunted a reply into the walkie-talkie and shouted to the other guards. Two more men came out of the farmhouse and joined them in a hurried conversation.

“Ready?” Reznik asked Nash.

“You know me—I was born ready, hoss. Let’s do this.”

The two of them eased out of the brush and crept down to the valley floor. They didn’t have to be too concerned with being seen since it was a moonless night. The main concern was making any sound. US Special Forces owned the night, as the slogan said. The possibility of booby traps was high; however, their previous recon had detected no sign of any. Although, inside the farmhouse could be a different story.

Nash murmured into the mic and then gestured Reznik forward. They were reassured knowing that snipers were up in the wood line watching their backs as they darted across the dirt road and open ground surrounding the farmhouse.

“Heads up—hostiles just finished their convo,” a spotter at the sniper position on the ridgeline relayed quietly.

Reznik and Nash dropped into prone position and waited. Reznik knew that another squad would be taking up position farther down the road to try to secure the HVT. They just had another 20 yards to cover to get to the rear of the farmhouse. Combs and Jefferson would be going in the front door while they breached the back.

“Okay, the two tangos are back in the house. The three outside are going back to their positions. Bravo team, you should be clear.”

Their eyes met and they both nodded. As one, they sprang to their feet and sprinted the last 20 yards to the back of the building. Reznik flicked the safety off his silenced MP-5 as Nash did the same. An infrared scan from the UAV overhead had shown the location of the hostages to be in the rear room of the house.

They ducked down as one of the guards walked past their position and went down the road a short distance. The cigarette burned white-hot as the guard took one last puff and flicked the butt onto the ground.

“I’ve got visual on the vehicles,” the spotter said. “Around the bend, about half a click.”

“Wait till the tangos dismount from the vehicles and fire at will,” the platoon sergeant ordered.

“Bravo in position,” Nash hissed into the mic. The other teams also acknowledged.

The next minute felt like an eternity. Finally the radio crackled quietly again. “Vehicles pulling up now.”

“Hold…hold…okay, now! Open fire!” barked the platoon sergeant. Reznik saw the nearby guard’s head explode from a .50 caliber round, courtesy of one of the snipers.

“Alpha moving,” came Combs voice through the earpiece.

“Bravo moving,” Nash replied. Reznik took a step forward and delivered a powerful kick to the door. Nash was through the opening before the door even slammed into the wall. He squeezed off a silenced burst from his MP-5 and dropped a surprised guard before the jihadist could even reach for a weapon.

Reznik was right behind Nash, his weapon’s barrel sweeping the room to the left. He noted the six hostages along the wall, trussed and blindfolded. The image from his night vision goggles washed out from the lamp light for a split-second before the light suppressor circuit kicked in. He could hear the suppressed popping sound from another silenced MP-5 from elsewhere in the farmhouse.

A sudden movement off to the left drew his attention. A jihadist had been bent over one of the hostages. He rose and aimed a pistol at Reznik, a snarl on his bearded face. Just as quickly, he went back down again as gouts of blood bloomed from his chest and forehead from Reznik’s double tap.

The sound of gunfire rang out from somewhere outside the farmhouse. Shouts and curses tore through the quiet of the night, and then an explosion nearby.

“Clear,” Combs said over the radio.

Reznik surveyed the hostages briefly. They were dirty and looked like they had been beaten, but were now alert after the sudden commotion. He heard a grunt and a crash behind him.

“Nash?” Reznik asked. Spinning around, he barely held his fire as he saw Nash wrestling with a jihadist up against the wall.

The attacker had a large hunting knife almost at Nash’s throat and clearly had him off-balance. Reznik had started toward them when they staggered sideways onto a flimsy table, which collapsed beneath their weight. The jihadist’s knife came up and Reznik saw the blood on the blade.

“No!” he shouted as he leaped toward them. Before the jihadist could stab again, Reznik caught his wrist in an iron grip. He let the MP-5 drop on its sling as his other hand pulled out his KA-BAR. He drove the wickedly sharp blade into the base of the man’s skull and up into the brain stem. The life instantly left the attacker, and he dropped like a rag doll.

“Everyone okay?” Combs and Jefferson came through the doorway from the front room.

Reznik leaned over to check on Nash. He could see pain on his friend’s face, but his mouth was a hard line of determination.

“It’s nothing. F*cker got me in the shoulder. Son of a bitch! I’ll be laid up for a month from this shit!” Reznik offered Nash a hand and pulled him to his feet. Nash kicked his dead attacker in anger and muttered some more curses. “Thanks, buddy,” he said to Reznik.

“No problem. Although it looks like you’ll be buying the first round this time!” Reznik slapped him on the back, making Nash wince. “How many did you two get?” he asked Combs.

“Just the one in the front room. Looks like there’s some intel for DOCEX to pick up. Laptop and a couple cell phones. Bunch of papers, too.”

“Nice.” Reznik looked around. “Awfully quiet outside. Guess the show must be over, huh?”

“All clear in here,” Nash called into the mic. “What’s your status, Sarge?”

“All clear. HVT secured and tangos down. What’s the status on the hostages?”

“They have a little wear and tear, but all six should be good to go.”

“Roger that. Everyone fall in on the farmhouse except over-watch.”

After that, it was just clean up. The hostages were untied and tended to, the house was cleared of any possible intel, and the Black Hawk was called in for extraction.

As they were waiting for the chopper, the squad sat on the porch of the farmhouse. Nash took a big pinch of dip and stuffed it in his lip. The medic had bandaged his shoulder despite his complaints.

The captive High Value Target sat against the wall nearby, his wrists zip-tied behind his back and a black hood over his head. An operator stood facing him in case he tried anything. As soon as they made it back to base, the CIA would probably whisk him away and make him disappear into their black prison system. Either that, or the bastard would be stacked naked in a terrorist pyramid by some corn-fed reservists out of West Virginia, Reznik thought. Either way, he wouldn’t feel badly about it.

“Went pretty smoothly, I’d say,” Combs said.

“Yeah, except for dipshit here getting his ass jumped by that raghead in there,” Jefferson taunted.

“Screw you,” came Nash’s reply.

Reznik was more interested in the hostages than the banter. Although they all wore uniforms, two of them were clearly civilians from their looks and mannerisms. The four soldiers sat silently in a circle while the two civilians talked in hushed tones. The older man was clearly in charge, the younger civilian nodding and occasionally offering a reply. The older man got to his feet as the platoon sergeant called out, “Chopper will be here in ten mikes.”

The man made his way over to where the four of them sat. “Gentlemen, I’m Gerald Black, DARPA Special Projects.” He was probably in his late fifties, with a beard and bent glasses that hung crookedly on his nose. “I’d just like to thank you all for saving our lives.” His face was bruised and dried blood was on his chin from a split lip, but his blue eyes burned with sharp intelligence. He extended his hand.

Reznik and the others shook it and muttered their replies.

“If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just say it.”

“We appreciate that, sir,” Reznik replied and the others agreed.

“Actually, sir, there is one little thing,” Nash began. “This is sorta on the DL, but we had a bottle of Jack that finds itself empty. If you ever come across anything like that around base camp, we’d be very appreciative if you didn’t forget us.” He grinned.

Black smiled in return. “Well, I suppose that’s the least I could do, my friends. Although, George Austin would chew my ass if he found out. That’s all right, though—he and I go way back. He can’t really do anything to me, anyway, other than give me a hard time. Well, thank you again, gentlemen, and hopefully I can repay you with more than a bottle of whiskey someday.”

Reznik watched him walk away, wondering who this man was if he was on a first name basis with the commanding general of Joint Special Operations Command. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency was the Pentagon’s secret gadget shop that came up with a lot of the hot new tech and crazy gadgets that the Special Ops world was so fond of. The man definitely had some connections, Reznik knew.

Mr. Black was true to his word. A couple days later, after they returned to the hut from the mess hall, a whole case of Jack Daniels sat on top of one of the footlockers.



***



A buzzer woke Reznik. He sprang to his feet, neck stiff from the uncomfortable sofa he’d fallen asleep on while waiting for Swanson’s summons.

“Mr. Reznik, it’s Myrna,” came the familiar voice through the intercom. “Administrator Swanson will see you now.”

Reznik straightened his utility uniform and went to the door. This time, it slid open on his approach. Myrna stood outside, the two security guards looming behind her.

“Good morning,” he greeted her.

“Afternoon, actually. If you aren’t used to this place, it can be hard to tell the time in here,” she replied. He fell into step beside her as they headed down the corridor that led out of the living quarters. She wasn’t wearing the lab coat any longer, and he noticed that her snug uniform accented her curves nicely.

“So what did I do to deserve a personal escort? I figured Swanson would just send the guards to get me.”

“Not like I had anything better to do,” she replied with a small grin. “Do you remember your first name, or do I have to keep calling you Mr. Reznik? That’s awfully formal, don’t you think?”

My first name… Good question, he thought. But a moment later, it came to him. “Michael,” he replied.

“That’s good to know, Michael,” she said with another smile.

They turned down the main corridor, and Reznik could hear the sound of children’s laughter ahead. From a door on the left, a red ball rolled out into the hallway. A small boy about the age of five ran after it. The boy froze, wide-eyed, as soon as he saw them approaching. Reznik stopped the ball with his foot, and nimbly flipped it up into the air with his toe and caught it. He handed it back to the boy.

“It’s okay, Joshua. You can take it,” Myrna told him gently. The boy stared at Reznik for a few more seconds, then snatched the ball and beat a hasty retreat back into the room. Several adults and children in the room were all staring at him.

As they proceeded down the hall, he looked at his guide quizzically. She met his eyes and shrugged. “We don’t get many strangers here. Well, none, actually.”

They climbed a flight of stairs and came out on a more spacious level. It had less of a bunker feel, with painted walls and floors furnished in a tasteful tile.

Reznik suddenly remembered what he needed to ask. “What happened to me? Why do I look different? Did someone do some kind of plastic surgery or something on me?”

There was a long pause before she said anything. “You really don’t remember anything about what happened to you before, do you?” When he shook his head, she sighed. “I promise you, if Swanson doesn’t explain everything to you, then I will. Please, wait just a little longer, and you’ll get the answers you need.”

Reznik saw genuine sympathy in her eyes. He just nodded and made no reply.

They passed a large room marked “DINING HALL.” It was currently empty of people, but a quick glance told Reznik that the room could hold a couple hundred people or so at maximum capacity.

They went by the expansive common area, as well. Reznik paused for a moment to look around. The room resembled a lounge area, with a number of sofas, tables, and chairs. Bookshelves lined the walls and there were a few people socializing and reading. Reznik had yet to see anyone not wearing the common uniform.

His attention was drawn to a huge banner covering one of the walls. It had the golden Extensis Vitae phoenix logo at the top, along with the scripture passage, “And He shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.” The rest of the banner looked like a scene taken from an old Soviet propaganda poster. It featured a group of smiling workers toiling in a field against the background of a ruined city.

They continued on their way, following the signs pointing to “SECURITY DESK” and “ADMINISTRATION.” Reznik noticed more cameras throughout the facility positioned to watch all the main rooms and corridors.

“Where are all the residents?” Reznik asked.

“Most of them are going about their duties,” she replied. “The school-age children attend class at this time of day. Those who don’t have assigned duties or are infirm generally remain in their quarters or the common area or fitness center.”

“What does ‘Extensis Vitae’ mean?”

Myrna didn’t answer at first. After a moment, she said, “I will let the administrator explain that to you.”

They walked in silence for a couple minutes. “Any tips on what to expect from my meeting with Swanson?”

She looked over at him. “His word is law and he holds all the power here. He also isn’t a man who likes to hear ‘no’ for an answer, so keep that in mind.”

“Oh, and try to stay out of trouble,” she added as they came up on a reinforced metal door marked in bold red letters “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.” The doors slid open smoothly at their approach.

They entered a spacious room with a large security desk in the center. Two guards sat at the desk watching them. Myrna strode past the desk without a word and Reznik followed. The monitors at the desk displayed the feeds from what looked like dozens of security cameras. The guards seated there watched, stony faced, as he passed. The duo accompanying Reznik and Myrna greeted their comrades briefly, but continued to follow.

Myrna led him down another corridor, passing what looked like some offices on one side and a room with a holding cell on the other. Behind a large window, Reznik could see a darkened room that looked to be filled with computer mainframes; the glow of blinking LEDs extended off into the darkness. They turned a corner toward the administration section. The ever-present hum of machinery was much louder in this part of the facility.

Another sliding metal door opened, revealing a carpeted room. A middle-aged woman sat behind the desk of a nicely furnished lobby. Reznik noticed the stark difference with the rest of the facility. There were several potted plants around the room and plush looking chairs lined the wall. A few paintings hung on the walls and the lighting was warm, not like the cool LEDs found throughout the rest of the facility. There was a door behind the receptionist’s desk and another off to the right. Myrna exchanged pleasantries with the receptionist.

“Mr. Reznik?” the woman called out. Reznik looked over and she smiled. “Administrator Swanson will see you now.”