Another thirty minutes passed before they heard what sounded like a truck coming toward them from Kukesh. As it drew near, Jazz could make out what appeared to be a Russian-made quarter-ton truck with a canvas covered flatbed.
Perfect.
The vehicle sputtered and stopped right in front of them. Jazz watched incredulously as the driver, an Albanian soldier, got out and walked around to the back of the truck. He saw Denke moving down toward the road. Had he missed the signal?
Jazz looked at Ash who gave him the “hold” sign.
The driver emerged from the flatbed with a jerry can.
Holy cow, he ran out of gas.
On any other day Jazz would have been shocked what he saw next. Denke emerged from the forest with a knife in hand. He ran up behind the driver, grabbed his jaw and lifted it up and to his left. Then with his right hand he plunged the knife into the soldier’s neck.
Denke got blood on himself as he dragged the solider to the road’s edge and rolled him into a ditch.
As the rest of the Hurricane 224 survivors stepped onto the road, one of the aircrew exclaimed, “Holy shit!” Everyone else was silent.
Denke snapped them out of it.
“Dee, gas ‘er up. Everyone else get in back. Lay our shipmate in the bag on the deck. I want two Techs on the tailgate ready to shoot anyone who causes us a problem. LT, you are riding shotgun with me. Let’s move!”
After Dee poured the contents of the jerry can into the gas tank. He hopped in back. Someone banged on the cab. Denke turned a switch on the dash, put the vehicle in gear, and started driving.
“Don’t know where we’re going, LT, so I am going to follow standard liberty procedure for the Med.”
“What’s that?”
“Head downhill.”
“Ha!”
“Seriously, get the GPS outta may bag. I did a ‘mark mark’ in Tirane. We can at least make sure that we are closing distance with it.”
“Senior Chief.”
“Yeah.”
“I want you to teach me how to do that.”
Denke looked at his lieutenant. “No you don’t.”
“Yeah, I do.”
After six hours of no word on Hurricane 224, Solarsky decided that he needed to at least call the next of kin for everyone in Det Four. He thought it necessary to at least inform them that an incident had occurred. Using a satellite phone on the Inchon, he called Melanie first.
“Melanie?”
“Yes.”
“This is Commander Solarsky, the commanding officer of EOD Mobile Unit Six.”
“Uh, yes, sir?”
“I’m calling to inform you that there has been an incident.”
“Another one! Oh, oh my God… Is Jazz alright?”
“Well, we don’t know. The helicopter that he was in departed this morning for Kukesh, Albania. The aircraft has not returned. Most of the other detachment members are with him.”
“So, do you think they crashed?”
“Well we are not sure. They may have set down for mechanical trouble and are unable to contact us,” Solarsky lied.
He already decided to give the families one piece of news at a time. In fact, while they knew from the return of Hurricane 218 that the flight was shot at, they may in fact have landed somewhere due to mechanical failure.
“What are you doing to solve this?”
An astute question, he thought.
“We are sending out search and rescue teams to find them right now.”
This was another lie. The weather precluded anyone from taking off from Inchon or departing from Tirane.
“The executive officer is still in Charleston. He and the ombudsman will do anything you need to get through this. Please stay in contact with them, and they will be in contact with you. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank you, sir.”
“I’m going to call the other wives next. Uh, can you give me some time before you speak to them? I think this information needs to come from me.”
“I understand.”
“Okay, thank you.”
Melanie hung up the phone. Just then Abigail began to cry. Melanie extracted her from the crib took her to her own bed and lay down, crying with her.
Nine and a half hours later the co-pilot, Denke, and Jazz were standing in the briefing tent. Though it was now early morning, they were rested. The drive was long but uneventful. Jazz even slept in between attempting to reach someone on the radio.
Henderson came into the tent with an Air Force captain in tow. The captain had a sidearm slung under his armpit in a shiny black patent leather holster as if he were a police officer.
“Where the fuck have you guys been?” said Henderson. “And what the fuck happened up there?”
“I dunno. You tell me,” said the co-pilot.
“You guys landed in a damn Albanian military compound for chrissakes!”
“Well, now I realize that it was a mistake. They were obviously not happy about it.”
“You’re damn right they weren’t…”
“Hey!” shouted Jazz. “Hold on a second…”
“Fuck you, Lieutenant. You’re the clown who said it was safe to land there in the first place.”
“Yeah, and you are the clown that sent us up there with fucked up intel. Why didn’t you tell us there was a military base? Why did you not tell the military we were coming? Why did you not have someone there waiting for us to get the stuff? It was safe to land… and if it is not safe to land in the host nation’s military base, you, sir are the one who should be telling us.”
“Now calm down, LT….”
“‘LT!’ It’s ‘LT’ now! Bullshit! I am an officer in the United States Navy. You will address me as ‘Lieutenant,’ Mr. Henderson! All of the men on that flight got shot at, got shot down, and had a shipmate killed because of your shoddy preparation. You didn’t know there was a military base there did you, you dumb motherfucker? How many times have you been up there?”
Henderson was silent.
“How many!”
“None.”
“None! Any of your men?” Jazz already knew the answer. “I guess not. So you walk around here with your spec ops weapons and your leather shoulder holster like you’re the shit. Then you send us up there to get shot at. Don’t get indignant with us, you are damn lucky I don’t put you in a fucking body bag with Samuel Marton!”
“Who?”
“Samuel Marton! That’s who you killed today! Don’t you ever forget his name!”
Silence again filled the tent briefly.
“Well, here’s the deal. I am writing a report that will say that on your recommendation, you guys flew into a hostile environment…”
“No you’re not,” said a man in civilian clothes at the entrance to the tent.
“Excuse me?” said Henderson.
“You are not going to write anything of the sort.”
“And who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Tracy.”
Henderson got white.
“Here’s what you are going to write.”
Tracy threw some bound papers at Henderson.
“It says that these guys went to the facility at Kukesh with poor intel. When they arrived, the local militia, which by the way is really a black market operation with ties to a local terrorist organization, opened fire because they thought the Americans were coming to clean them out and take their territory. As a result, these men crashed, commandeered an unattended vehicle, and drove their asses back here, period. Got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Additionally you will note that there is no mention of one Senior Chief Grover Denke in that report. Senior Chief was never here. Were you, Grover?”
“No, sir, I’ve never been to the Balkans.”
Denke and Tracy had a chuckle at that comment.