killed her. The thought made him
shake with rage, as did the fact he had ever doubted her sincerity. He paused
to swallow down tears.
Get
in character, Nick. They used to say that in the Corps all the time. You had to
stay focused. Without emotion most of the time. Especially in war.
Standing
outside the cave, he wished he had a flashlight. He wondered why he’d never
thought of that. That he might have to find this cache in the dark.
Then
he remembered. Because more than likely, he’d be in the house at dark, and he
could have held off an army there. Held it off until he decided to retreat
through his tunnel. The thought of the tunnel underneath his house made him
think of Anne.
If
she had known about that -- God, she would have left him. He smiled. She was a
hell of a fighter. Shit, she had to be to partially tame him.
He
closed his eyes and remembered her gorgeous face. Her passionate kisses. Her
rage when he upset her. It took all Nick had to fight back more tears.
Alright
now, Nick, get your head in the game and get in character. Do you love Anne?
Then find out who the murderous bastards were behind her death. Find them and
help restore honor in this country.
That
is what Anne would want.
With
that thought, he got on his hands and knees and crawled into the black hole of
his cave. It was damp, and the air was thick. It reminded Nick of the smell
that always permeated around Camp Lejeune in the swamps: stagnant water and
rotting wood.
He
couldn’t see a thing. His hands groped through wet dirt, and he hit his head on
a rock outcropping along the ceiling.
He
was scared shitless, worrying he’d grab a snake or run into a bobcat waiting at
the end of the cave. His head went through a spider web, and he spit and
knocked at his face, nearly stopping and backing out.
Hatred
and training took over. He had to do this for Anne. If it was meant for a
copperhead or bobcat to be in here, then so be it.
The
fatalistic instinct he’d always relied on during combat was returning. It kept
you sane, making things easier. Play smart. Play the odds. But in the end, fate
often decided where rounds struck and which targets were hit.
Nonetheless,
you kept moving as the bullets went by you, or you died. Period. And once you
understood and believed in fate, courage came easier.
Besides,
with Anne gone, he had little to live for.
So
he pushed deeper, fear keeping his heartbeat at a dangerously high rate. After
he’d crawled for what seemed like miles, but what he knew to be twelve feet, he
found it. An opening on the right side of the cave that was about a foot higher
than the tunnel he now crawled through. This higher portal was designed to keep
his equipment dry.
He’d
spent years digging the tunnel with a Marine e-tool. It’d taken weeks to dig in
the uncomfortable small space, but now it had finally paid off. He reached up
into the side hole and immediately felt canvas.
It
was a green military issue backpack, stuffed full of things he’d once thought
he might need in a survival situation: a couple sets of civilian clothes, heavy
climbing rope, duct tape, a small flashlight, extra batteries, a green wool
blanket, an unloaded .45 pistol, three empty magazines, two boxes of .45
cartridges, and cash. Lots of cash in small denominations.
He
dragged the pack out of the cave as fast as he could and took a deep breath of
fresh air. Damn, it felt good to be out of that cave. In the darkness, he laid
the pack upright and opened it. Thankfully, the straps appeared to be fine.
He’d always worried they might dry rot, but apparently, the semi-dry cave had
worked.
Inside
the pack, a green sealed bag met him. It was rubber and tied at the top by a
wrapped and knotted string. The classic Willie-Pete bag, as Marines called
them, the “WP” standing for “water-proof.”
They
were a Godsend for infantrymen. They helped your pack float if you needed to
cross a deep river and kept your clothes dry regardless of how hard it
shake with rage, as did the fact he had ever doubted her sincerity. He paused
to swallow down tears.
Get
in character, Nick. They used to say that in the Corps all the time. You had to
stay focused. Without emotion most of the time. Especially in war.
Standing
outside the cave, he wished he had a flashlight. He wondered why he’d never
thought of that. That he might have to find this cache in the dark.
Then
he remembered. Because more than likely, he’d be in the house at dark, and he
could have held off an army there. Held it off until he decided to retreat
through his tunnel. The thought of the tunnel underneath his house made him
think of Anne.
If
she had known about that -- God, she would have left him. He smiled. She was a
hell of a fighter. Shit, she had to be to partially tame him.
He
closed his eyes and remembered her gorgeous face. Her passionate kisses. Her
rage when he upset her. It took all Nick had to fight back more tears.
Alright
now, Nick, get your head in the game and get in character. Do you love Anne?
Then find out who the murderous bastards were behind her death. Find them and
help restore honor in this country.
That
is what Anne would want.
With
that thought, he got on his hands and knees and crawled into the black hole of
his cave. It was damp, and the air was thick. It reminded Nick of the smell
that always permeated around Camp Lejeune in the swamps: stagnant water and
rotting wood.
He
couldn’t see a thing. His hands groped through wet dirt, and he hit his head on
a rock outcropping along the ceiling.
He
was scared shitless, worrying he’d grab a snake or run into a bobcat waiting at
the end of the cave. His head went through a spider web, and he spit and
knocked at his face, nearly stopping and backing out.
Hatred
and training took over. He had to do this for Anne. If it was meant for a
copperhead or bobcat to be in here, then so be it.
The
fatalistic instinct he’d always relied on during combat was returning. It kept
you sane, making things easier. Play smart. Play the odds. But in the end, fate
often decided where rounds struck and which targets were hit.
Nonetheless,
you kept moving as the bullets went by you, or you died. Period. And once you
understood and believed in fate, courage came easier.
Besides,
with Anne gone, he had little to live for.
So
he pushed deeper, fear keeping his heartbeat at a dangerously high rate. After
he’d crawled for what seemed like miles, but what he knew to be twelve feet, he
found it. An opening on the right side of the cave that was about a foot higher
than the tunnel he now crawled through. This higher portal was designed to keep
his equipment dry.
He’d
spent years digging the tunnel with a Marine e-tool. It’d taken weeks to dig in
the uncomfortable small space, but now it had finally paid off. He reached up
into the side hole and immediately felt canvas.
It
was a green military issue backpack, stuffed full of things he’d once thought
he might need in a survival situation: a couple sets of civilian clothes, heavy
climbing rope, duct tape, a small flashlight, extra batteries, a green wool
blanket, an unloaded .45 pistol, three empty magazines, two boxes of .45
cartridges, and cash. Lots of cash in small denominations.
He
dragged the pack out of the cave as fast as he could and took a deep breath of
fresh air. Damn, it felt good to be out of that cave. In the darkness, he laid
the pack upright and opened it. Thankfully, the straps appeared to be fine.
He’d always worried they might dry rot, but apparently, the semi-dry cave had
worked.
Inside
the pack, a green sealed bag met him. It was rubber and tied at the top by a
wrapped and knotted string. The classic Willie-Pete bag, as Marines called
them, the “WP” standing for “water-proof.”
They
were a Godsend for infantrymen. They helped your pack float if you needed to
cross a deep river and kept your clothes dry regardless of how hard it
Similar Books
