Blaze of Glory
Authors: Jeff Struecker,Alton Gansky
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, #Suspense Fiction, #Political Science, #War & Military, #Men's Adventure, #Terrorism, #Political Freedom & Security
Copyright © 2010 by Jeff Struecker
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
978-0-8054-4854-2
Published by B&H Publishing Group,
Nashville, Tennessee
Dewey Decimal Classification: F
Subject Heading: ADVENTURE FICTION \ TERRORISM—FICTION \ POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER—FICTION
Jeff Struecker is represented by Wheelhouse Literary Group, 1007 Loxley Drive, Nashville, TN 37211.
www.WheelhouseLiteraryGroup.com
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
“DOD Disclaimer”—The views presented are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of the Department of Defense or its components.
To Jacob,
I hope you will live your life in a blaze for His glory.
Table of Contents
THE TEAM
Sergeant Major Eric “Boss” Moyer, team leader.
Master Sergeant Rich “Shaq” Harbison, assistant team leader.
Staff Sergeant Pete “Junior” Rasor, communications.
Sergeant First Class J. J. “Colt” Bartley, weapons and explosives.
Sergeant First Class Jose “Doc” Medina, team medic.
Sergeant First Class Jerry “Data” Zinsser, surveillance and communications.
PROLOGUE
Spring, present day, near Fort Jackson, South Carolina
IT FELT HOT IN his hand.
Not possible.
Bronze should not feel warm, not after it had been sitting on a bathroom sink for the last two weeks, untouched, away from sunlight.
Still . . .
Jerry Zinsser closed his hand on the metal and ribbon. He knew everything about the object he held: bronze, cross-shaped, two inches high, one-and-thirteen-sixteenths inches wide.
His hand shook. He tightened his grip. The points of the cross and tips of the eagle’s wings bored into his sweaty palm. A forty-watt bulb in the bathroom’s ceiling fixture struggled to push back the predawn darkness.
Distant sounds entered his ears.
Pop . . . pop . . . tat . . . tat . . . tat.
A thousand tiny explosions pounded his eardrums. Familiar sounds. Terrifying noises. Sounds of 5.56 mm rounds blazing from the barrel of an M4A1 weapon.
“No . . .”
He raised his hands to his ears.
The gunfire disappeared.
He lowered his arms and opened his hand. The pointed bronze medal left four bleeding punctures in his palm. Gently he returned it to the cold tile of the sink and smoothed the red, white, and blue ribbon.
Something exploded behind him. Zinsser spun with raised hands to deflect any shrapnel coming his way. No shrapnel came. He saw no smoke, no damage to his wall. He saw only the empty, dry shower.
The sound of gunfire returned: staccato blasts pierced the air. AK47s have their own haunting sound.
Zinsser pressed his eyes closed and tried to protect his ears from the noise: an impossible task. The sounds were coming from inside his head.
“No . . . no more.”
He knew what was coming. Knew it was more frightening than the sound of automatic gunfire.
“Data, it’s Echo. I’m down. Repeat . . . I’m hit.”
Zinsser pressed a finger in each ear, deeper and deeper, hoping the pain would drive the voices away.
“We need support. Data, where is our support?” A scream of pain. “Oh dear, God. Don’t let me die in this dump.”
Zinsser dropped to his knees, the hard tile offering only a cold, unforgiving surface.
“Chief is gone! Data, get us that support!”
Something hammered his sternum from the inside, like a prisoner using a mallet to break down the wall that kept him confined.
“Data, do you read me?”
“I read you, Boss . . . I’m . . .” Zinsser rolled onto his naked back and began to weep.
Winter, four months earlier, Kismayo, Somalia
JERRY “DATA” ZINSSER SPRINTED from behind the stucco building and hunkered behind an old car. Three Somali militia moved to the entrance of a rug factory. The hand-applied plaster bore pockmarks of bullets fired over the years. Zinsser hid behind a car in one of the world’s most dangerous cities: Kismayo. Slowly he peered over the vehicle’s hood. The three militia men split up, moving to the windows that framed the door.
A glance up and down the street revealed a dozen or more men moving in on the position. They shouted in Somali and Arabic. He turned his attention to the three men again: two stood by one window; one by the other. He knew what they were about to do—and what they’d leave behind when they finished.
Inside the old building were fifteen crewmen of the
Burltown,
a South African cargo ship that floated less than a mile off the coast. The Navy was responsible to take the
Burltown
and rescue what crew remained. His team was to secure the safe extraction of the crew sequestered here by Somali pirates.
He had done all he could. He remained hidden to keep radio contact with Ops while his team went in. Clockwork. It had all gone like clockwork. Boss, Chief, and Echo made entry and dispatched the guards in short order. Then . . . the clock broke.
The best Zinsser could tell, the pirates had hidden guards among the crew. After the initial assault, more gunfire erupted. Ten seconds later it stopped.
“Data, it’s Echo. I’m down. Repeat . . . I’m hit. Chief is gone. Boss is dead.”
Zinsser did his job and reported the situation. The approaching horde of men from the north and the south would arrive in two minutes or less. There was nothing Zinsser could do. His training told him to retreat and wait for air cover, to hide and report until he could be extracted. Echo would have to wait for reinforcements.
Zinsser started to move back when he saw one of the men at the window raise his AK47 and aim. He could only be aiming at Echo. Zinsser hesitated. He had his orders—
Zinsser rose, shouldered his M4, and then ticked the trigger and sent two copper-clad rounds into a spot just behind the man’s right ear. He fingered the weapon to automatic and pressed the trigger to the stops. A long burst of bullets cut the other two men down.
“I’m coming in, Echo. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shoot me.”
Echo didn’t reply.
Zinsser rounded the car, jogged across the road, kicked open the door, and waited to be gunned down. Nothing struck his body armor. With weapon raised, he entered the large room.
Echo lay against the south wall. Boss, the team leader, stared around the hole between his eyes at a ceiling of peeling plaster. Chief, second in command, lay face down in a growing pool of thick blood.
A sound to his right made Zinsser spin, his weapon leading his eyes. Three men with AK47s by their side lay dead on the concrete floor. Six other men knelt or stood next to the north wall, their legs shackled to metal cleats in the floor.
“We . . . we got them all,” Echo said. “I think.”
Zinsser studied the men, waiting for one to draw a weapon. The six raised their hands. “Sailors,” one said. “Don’t shoot us.”