Baron sat his woodland camouflage-painted M4 rifle next to a tree, removed his backpack full of various explosives set it on the ground next to him and sat down, back against the same coniferous tree. He removed the canteen from his pack, unscrewed it, and took a deep gulp of warm water. Sweat beaded down his black-and-green-painted face, the salty droplets stinging his eyes. He could feel his clothes sticking to his sweat-drenched skin as he moved and adjusted positions, wiping away the perspiration from his face with his sleeve he keyed up his throat mic.
“Four, this is Three,” Baron whispered.
“Go ahead,” Jackson replied.
“What time is this jagaloon supposed to ride in?” Baron asked him, his Southern accent more noticeable now. It had a way of being thicker when he became tired, irritated, or drunk.
“Around 0500, bud,” Jackson replied. Baron looked at his watch, and the digital read out said 0430. Baron sighed and looked back to the horizon of green trees and modest mountains.
“Thirty to wait, huh? Well, I’ve always wanted to see a North Korean sunrise, ya know. It was in the top ten things to see in the recent Southern Home and Garden magazine,” Baron whispered. He could hear the low laughing all around him.
“Yeah, Three, maybe you’ll find a good girl while you’re here,” Jackson responded.
“You know me, nothing like a crazy indoctrinated North Korean girl who worships her dear leader every morning and night to get me going.” More muffled laughs in the darkness.
“Team, this is One. Lock it up, two lights over the hill direction southwest, contact imminent.” This got the team’s attention, and all joking stopped, cutting all chatter they got ready to go to work. The quiet sounds of boots scraping and stepping up on dirt, rounds being loaded into chambers and gear being donned filled the small hidden woods as the members of the team lowered their night vision into place over their face. Baron enjoyed this part. The anticipation before the trap was sprung. They had done this countless times, and every single memory plays back the same.
Baron felt like an indomitable lion hidden in the shadow about to pounce on and kill his prey. He could feel his blood pumping faster and could feel his heartbeat in his chest. The feeling of butterflies in his chest never went away, and he didn’t want it to either, it was a sign he was still alive and still had his edge. Baron felt that if he wasn’t nervous, then he wasn’t in any danger, and he was most certainly in danger.
“Two, this is One. Prepare to fire, disabling the truck.” Colman clicked over the radio as the ragged 1990s-looking truck came down the gravel road from the hill, kicking up dust and small rocks, leaving a visible plume in its wake. As the truck came closer and the popping and cracking from heavy rubber tires of gravel became clearer, Baron looked around at his team. He could see most of them from his position, and they all looked identical. None of them were fidgeting, just standing like iron statues with their eyes in their scopes, pointed down range like true professionals. The tension in the air was palpable, as the team waited for the order to attack and release a small bout of concentrated hell on these North Korean soldiers. The truck was twenty yards away when their commander clicked his mic twice and a bullet hole instantly appeared in the vehicle’s hood, penetrating to the engine block. A loud hiss and pop seeped from the engine, and the squealing old brakes brought the North Korean truck eventually to a halt. Two men leaped from the truck screaming in what Baron could only assume was Korean.
“Eotteohge doen geoyeyo?” one of the men shouted. Baron heard his headset click on; it was Gomez.
“What happened? Did we get shot? Something…about a radio. Shit, One, they are about to call it in, One,” Gomez said in a quick panic. Two quick clicks in succession mic filled the radio, and Baron heard a muffled cough. One guard’s head exploded pink mist and bloody chunks of gray matter. Bone and flesh filled the area like an overfilled balloon exploding. Another cough sounded in the distance and the second guard’s head snapped back, his uniform hat flying off, collapsing like a limp ragdoll onto a pile of dust and rocks. The team did a ten count before moving on the truck to ensure no one else was feeling like they needed to go for a walk. The area was quickly secured, and Coleman opened the back driver-side door to see a man sitting in the middle of the seat with a black bag over his head. He grabbed the man and yanked him out of the truck violently. He landed with a heavy thud on the ground, kicking up dirt dust all around him.
Baron looked at the hooded man, who had his hands zip-tied in front of him, lying on his side in the dirt. He had a ratty and torn blue denim jacket with faded brass buttons, matching pants; and under his jacket, there was a dirty white V-neck undershirt with multiple torn holes on it and what looked like to Baron as multiple dried blood stains. As the dust settled around the man, Baron looked at this team members. Some had their back to the man, keeping an eye on the horizon, pacing a little nervously back and forth. Some, like Coleman and Gomen, kept their weapons pointed at the helpless man. After lying motionless for a few moments, the man began to stir, trying to right himself. The sound perked everyone’s ears up like a hunting dog who heard the bushes rustling. The team was on high alert, absorbing every sight and sound and assessing it for danger.
The man who was bagged and in the process of standing up was violently forced to his knees by a strong kick to the back of his kneecaps by Coleman. Coleman placed his pistol to the back of his head and removed the hood. Baron knelt down in front of him to see if he was the missing doctor. In the growing morning light in the North Korean hills, Baron saw some similarity to the picture they were given during the brief but couldn’t be sure. His glasses were the same thick semisquared wooden frames, his thick bushy eyebrows matched the man in the picture by being brown with hints of gray on the edges, and he had a similar thin nose bridge, but something wasn’t quite right over all, Baron knew. So he went through some verification questions.
“Doctor, we are here to rescue you. I am sorry, but I have to ask you a couple of questions first, okay?” Baron said in a calm tone.
The man, eyes full of fear, shook his head up and down nervously. Baron thought it was strange since they just rescued him but pushed the thought from his mind and tacked it up to shock from the kidnapping.
“Doctor, when were you born?” Baron asked.
“Ten, thirteen, seventy-eight,” the man said nervously like he was trying to remember a distant fact.
“Excellent, now what is your cat’s name?”
“Claudus,” the doctor said in a whimper.
“Good, now one more. What do you prefer in your coffee? Milk or sugar?” Baron asked. He could see the man’s eyes racing back and forth like he was searching for the answer. “Sir? You okay?”
“Mi…milk,” the man said in a whisper. The whole team stopped looking around and the perimeter for enemy contacts and turned to stare at the man on his knees.
“He just say milk?” Coleman asked, confused.
“Yup,” Baron replied quickly.
“Well, that’s not ideal.” Coleman spat on the ground and looked up to the sky, rotated his neck, cracking it, then swung his custom-built black Colt 1911 at the back of the man’s head, knocking him unconscious.
“What was he supposed to say again?” Jackson asked, looking confused.
“Christ, dude, pay attention in the mission briefs,” Gomez began. “Nothing, the missing guy doesn’t drink coffee.”
“Doc, give our new friend something to stay asleep until we can exfil. Jackson, share your gear and shed some of your equipment. You are primary on prisoner transport,” Gomez call it in. The team snapped into action, and cleared the road in ten minutes, hiding all evidence they were there. The team exchanged some gear with each other, then took off in a fast hike back toward the South Korean border and