Unrelenting Nightmare

One

T IME seemed to slow as the sun beat down on the parched land. Nothing moved or made noise; only an eerie silence lingered beyond its welcome. A light breeze moved across the desert landscape, momentarily disrupting the stillness in the air. Leaves on the sparse plants adorning the area moved with its gentle coaxing. A small lizard darted from the shade of a scrub brush and scurried across the sun-bleached ground, taking refuge by an old, discarded truck tire. The lizard froze in place, its forelegs extended and head raised. Only its eyes and tongue moved, trying to catch the presence of any nearby predator.

A pair of steel-blue eyes followed the lizard’s movements. These eyes belonged to a predator more menacing than the lizard could ever expect to encounter.

Corporal Cameron Clark switched his attention from the lizard to the task at hand. He lowered his head and swiped sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his camouflage suit. He couldn’t afford to let stinging sweat blur his vision. His life depended on it.

Nearby, and just as well concealed, were the three other members of Clark’s strike force team—Captain Nathan Pool, Sergeant Benjamin Stokes, and Corporal Raul Diaz.

The four men lay prone in the Iranian desert as part of a covert military operation to assassinate Ahmed Nazim Bahad, one of the most dangerous terrorists in the Middle East. Each man was a trained sniper, proficient at hitting a four-inch diameter bull’s-eye dead center from two hundred yards.

The question the men had asked themselves more than once was: What would happen if the mission, code named Freelance, failed and they were captured? They wore nonmilitary clothing and carried no form of identification. They all knew the United States government wouldn’t admit to authorizing a covert assassination on foreign territory, and so the question remained: What would happen? The four men didn’t like any of the answers they’d come up with.

All four soldiers were part of the army’s elite Delta Force. Each man was selected for this mission because he possessed a specific skill. Captain Nathan Pool was senior officer and commanded the small assault team. An outstanding strategist, he could think quickly on his feet and remain calm and rational under pressure. He was a gifted leader and earmarked for promotion with a bright future in the army—if he returned.

Sergeant Benjamin Stokes, a six-foot-four-inch African American with massive biceps and legs that looked like tree trunks, carried a portable rocket launcher that would be used to destroy the encampment.

Demolition expert Corporal Raul Diaz, who could mix sand and toothpaste together and somehow make it explode, had an outgoing personality with a smile that seemed permanently etched on his face. A jokester by nature, he’d kept the mood light during mission training sessions. His explosives expertise would aid in their retreat.

The fourth man was Corporal Cameron Clark. What Clark brought to the party was superb sharpshooting skills. He was the reigning champion of the marksman competition held annually among the different branches of the armed forces. Small in stature at five foot eight, with sandy blond hair and fair complexion, Clark was physically nothing like what one might expect of a Delta Force commando. However, what he lacked in size and stature, he made up for in shooting skills. He was also very quiet and somewhat distant from his three comrades-in-arms. But his loner attitude had nothing to do with being an introvert. No, his reasoning was much more complex.

Positioned on the right flank, Clark was closest to the military encampment. He moved his left arm slowly and took a glance at his watch. It was fourteen hundred hours—two o’clock in the afternoon. It would be at least another five hours before the sun dropped behind the range of mountains in the distance and brought some relief from the sweltering heat.

Clark took a sip of water from a straw that was attached to a CamelBak strapped on his back. Lifting his sniper rifle, he peered through his high-powered scope into the compound. He could see soldiers milling about. He inched the rifle to the right until he sighted a soldier smoking a cigarette just inside the chain-link fence, his automatic assault rifle slung over his shoulder.

Moving the muzzle slightly, Clark looked past the soldier into the open door of a nearby building. Nothing. He moved the rifle to the left and tried a window. Again, he saw nothing. He looked up from the scope and sighted an upstairs window with his naked eye. As he peered back through the scope, someone moved in the dark shadows of the room. Was it the mission’s primary target? Clark couldn’t tell.

The building Clark was surveying was one of five structures positioned around the compound. But this was the only two-story building, and it was inside this structure that intelligence reports had placed the target. The disturbing part was he hadn’t been able to confirm the presence of Ahmed Nazim Bahad; nor had any of the other commandos.

The four-member strike team had been airlifted into the scorching hot, desolate area the prior day. Once on the ground, they’d set out across the rugged terrain, finally arriving within a quarter mile of their destination around two in the morning. From there, they’d methodically inched their way to their present positions under the cover of darkness. When the first hints of daylight had broken on the eastern horizon, they’d stopped all forward progress and fanned out behind the protection of a small berm. They’d covered themselves with camouflaged tarpaulins and then taken turns sleeping in pairs, each man getting about four hours of rest.

Clark knew his companions were all awake now, each man monitoring the activity within the compound, trying to locate the target. After eight hours of watching, they had turned up nothing, and that worried Clark. The presence of fifty Iranian soldiers, which had not been mentioned in the intelligence report, also concerned him. The report had indicated an armed terrorist presence but had said nothing about heavy Iranian support.

Guard patrol around the encampment was surprisingly light, which suggested to Clark that the terrorists and Iranian military were not expecting trouble. A number of armored vehicles were parked around the grounds, some with machine gun turrets. A military helicopter was also parked next to one of the buildings. Two Iranian soldiers were performing maintenance on the aircraft. Everyone in the compound seemed at ease, certainly not aware of the danger lurking on the other side of the chain-link fence that surrounded the encampment.

Slowly, Clark moved his rifle back down and to the right. He sighted once again through the open door. The bright sunlight made visibility inside the building almost impossible.

Suddenly, the barely audible whisper of Captain Pool came through the communication earbud that each commando wore. Demon, you see anything yet?

Clark flashed a brief smile, knowing the nickname referred to him. He had gotten the nickname right after kicking ass in a marksmanship contest. One of the vanquished competitors had said Clark shot like a fucking demon.

No, nothing, Clark whispered back, his throat microphone picking up the hushed tone of his voice. You sure he’s here, Cap?

All I know is the intelligence reports say this is where he’s supposed to be.

Yeah, Diaz piped in, and we all know how intelligent those intelligence reports are.

I hear ya, man, came the deep voice of Ben Stokes.

Clark closed his eyes for a second. Diaz was right. This whole mission might turn out to be a bust. Their orders were to take out Ahmed Nazim Bahad and his merry band of terrorists. However, if for some reason they couldn’t positively confirm Bahad’s presence at the encampment, they were to call off the mission and hightail it back to the pickup point. Corporal Cameron Clark definitely didn’t want that to happen; it would ruin his master plan.

Clark blinked his eyes from the glare of the sum. Problem is, Cap, I can’t see anything inside the building. It’s too dark inside. Until the sun goes down and they turn on the lights, or he just happens to walk outside, there’s nothing we can do but wait.

I’m afraid you’re right, Demon, Pool agreed. Any of you think you could get some more sleep?

Are you kidding? No way, Diaz responded. It’s so fucking hot out here, I—

Quiet, came Clark’s sudden terse command.

Clark had seen a terrorist walking toward his position. The man was dressed in brown baggy pants and a drab green tunic. His head was bound in a turban, and he had a full beard. He was carrying an assault rifle with two ammunition belts crisscrossing his chest.

Clark instinctively held his breath as the terrorist approached, his boots crushing the parched ground as he drew nearer. Clark peered through the straggly camouflaged leaves that covered his face and watched the man closely. He slowly moved the barrel of his rifle back under the cover of his camouflaged tarpaulin.

The terrorist stopped twenty feet from where Clark lay hidden and scanned the horizon. Then he nonchalantly unbuttoned the front of his pants and relieved himself. Once finished, he buttoned up, took another look around, and then strode away.

Clark let out the breath he had been holding in a sigh of relief.

THE next five hours passed without incident. Contrary to Diaz’s complaint about the heat, each man had been able to grab an additional hour or so of uneasy slumber. As the eastern sky started to turn dark, Clark, who happened to be on watch, saw the first light inside the two-story building come on. For the first time since arriving, he could see activity through the open door.

A light inside a second-story window also came on, causing Clark to glance in that direction. The interior of the upstairs room was completely illuminated. He caught sight of a man sitting behind a desk. Clark slowly raised his rifle, peered through the scope, and studied the man intently. Bingo! There he was, Ahmed Nazim Bahad, in the flesh.

Clark decided it was time to rouse his compatriots, in case they happened to be asleep. Cap, you awake? Clark whispered into his microphone.

Yeah.

What about you, Diaz. You with us? Clark asked his Hispanic comrade.

I’m here.

Me too, Stokes added.

Cap, look in the second-story window, Clark instructed.

I see him.

Who? Diaz inquired.

Our man, Pool replied.

No shit! Diaz said as he lifted his rifle and sighted through the second-story window. Bueno for the intel geeks. They finally got one right.

A minute passed as each man sized up the situation through his high-powered scope.

Finally, Captain Pool broke the silence. Okay. We need to work our way in closer. But let’s wait another thirty minutes until it’s completely dark. It looks like the weather boys were right, too. We’ve got that partial cloud cover they promised us obscuring the moon.

Will wonders never cease, Diaz quipped.

After we work our way into position, Pool continued, we’ll wait for you to call your shot, Demon.

Clark knew it was his responsibility to take out Ahmed Nazim Bahad. Once he called his shot, which meant a confirmed hit and the target was dead, that was the signal for all hell to break loose. The salvo was to continue until Pool called off the assault, at which point they were to retreat to the predetermined pickup point, which was over five miles to the west.

Cap? came the concerned voice of Corporal Diaz. What do we do about the Iranian soldiers? They weren’t supposed to be here. You want us to take them down, too?

Unless you’re going to take the time to distinguish terrorists from Iranians, I’d suggest you shoot anything that moves on the other side of that fence. Remember, guys, we’re not supposed to be here, so it doesn’t matter who we kill. Good ole Uncle Sam is never going to admit authorizing this mission.

An hour later, the four commandos were in position. Using night vision goggles, they’d crossed the flat, open ground with little trouble. What made their advancement relatively easy was that they accomplished it while the terrorists and soldiers gathered for sunset prayer, followed shortly thereafter by the evening meal. And even though the majority of them were now outside in order to take advantage of the cooling temperature, they seemed more engrossed in their food and conversation than in monitoring the perimeter of the compound.

Clark pivoted his night vision goggles away from his eyes, now that he would be looking into the lighted interior of the building. As he did, a thought suddenly crossed his mind. This would be his first human target, not just an animal or a bull’s-eye cutout. It was the real thing—the first of many, he hoped. This excited him beyond belief and caused the corners of his mouth to turn up into a slight smile.

Another ten minutes passed to allow everyone time to situate themselves. Captain Pool then queried the readiness of his men. Diaz, you ready?

Yeah, Cap. Let’s smoke this place.

Stokes, you set?

I’m pumped, Cap.

Demon, you got him?

Yep, came the simple reply, Clark’s concentration fully focused on the figure of Ahmed Nazim Bahad centered in the crosshairs of his scope.

Okay, then. Demon, you’ve got the ball.

The baton had been passed. From now on, the success of the mission was in Clark’s hands. Until he announced he was ready to take the shot, no further communication was to take place, unless an emergency arose.

Ahmed Nazim Bahad was still sitting at the desk facing the window. But now three men were in the room with him. Two Iranian soldiers were seated in front of the desk, their backs to Clark, while a third man stood immediately to Bahad’s left. They all appeared to be looking at something spread out on the desk with great interest, but Clark was unable to determine what it was.

He had used his range finder to read the distance to his target, which was less than four hundred feet. He adjusted his scope to take into account the direction and velocity of what little wind there was and its effect on the flight path of the bullet. The center of the crosshairs was now fixed directly and firmly between the eyes of Ahmed Nazim Bahad, right at the bridge of his nose.

I’m taking the shot, Clark said in a soft voice, his excitement about his first human kill rising to a point he had never felt before.

Cameron Clark slowly squeezed the trigger. Less than half a second later, the time it took the bullet to traverse the distance, the free world was liberated from a known terrorist leader who was responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent men, women, and children. The bullet shattered the glass in the window; crossed the width of the room, passing between the two seated soldiers; and entered Ahmed Nazim Bahad’s head slightly off target. Instead of hitting the bridge of his nose, the bullet entered through his right eye.

Clark witnessed the results of his shot and immediately called out, Target’s down, at the same instant his excitement level spiked at maximum.

Now it was time for Corporal Raul Diaz to unleash his arsenal of destruction. Diaz launched four fragment grenades in succession, each one exploding before it ever hit the ground. Shrapnel rained out in all directions, affecting a three-to-one kill ratio—three terrorists or Iranian soldiers killed for every grenade launched. The ratio went up when you took the wounded into account.

Four more grenades were launched, and as confusion and pandemonium swept through the enemy ranks, Stokes fired the first of his handheld rockets. The rocket screeched across the open space and entered the two-story building through the open door. It exploded on impact in a tremendous fireball that engulfed the first floor and part of the second. An even larger explosion soon followed, caused when an ammunition stockpile was ignited, completely destroying the entire building and everything inside.

As Diaz continued raining fragment grenades down on the compound, Stokes reloaded and fired another rocket, this time at the helicopter. The rocket streaked across the open space, a yellow-orange vapor trail following its path before it slammed into the helicopter’s fuselage. It exploded in a violent reaction caused when fire is introduced to jet fuel.

All the while, Pool and Clark systematically picked off terrorists and Iranian soldiers who were frantically trying to escape the horrendous barrage, blindly firing their own weapons out into the darkness at an unknown and unseen enemy. After less than two minutes of a one-sided shelling that left over sixty terrorists or Iranian soldiers dead or wounded, Captain Nathan Pool called off the assault.

Stokes, Diaz, pull back now. Go! Go! Go! Pool ordered.

While Pool and Clark laid down cover fire, Diaz and Stokes executed a hasty retreat.

Demon, now you.

Clark took one last shot, and after seeing his target fall to the ground, he rose from his prone position and darted away. Bent at the waist, he zigzagged his way across the open area. Clark could hear the bullets Diaz and Stokes were firing zing past him as he ran. Once he reached his comrades, he spun around and dropped to the ground, his rifle already seeking out a new target beyond the remnants of the tattered chain-link fence.

Cap, we’re all clear, Stokes reported. We’re laying down cover. Go!

As Diaz and Stokes began a barrage of gunfire, Clark methodically made an adjustment to his scope. He then peered through it and watched the silhouetted figure of Captain Nathan Pool rise from the ground and start running in their direction.

Clark followed the erratic path Pool was taking, the crosshairs of his scope positioned directly on Pool’s head. He calculated the timing of Pool’s abrupt turns. When the captain was about forty yards from his men, Clark squeezed the trigger.

Diaz’s head jerked up when Captain Pool fell to the ground. Cap! he yelled, the throat microphone picking up his frantic cry.

Oh, shit! Stokes screamed.

Cap! Cap! Are you all right? Diaz implored.

Forget him, Clark commanded. He’s dead. You two move out. I’ll cover.

Diaz and Stokes remained riveted in place.

We can’t just leave him here, Stokes roared at Clark.

If you want to go out and get his body, then go ahead, Clark shouted back. But I think we should get the hell out of here while we can, before they mount a counterattack. He’s dead; otherwise, he’d have responded.

Diaz and Stokes looked at each other for a second.

Go, Diaz, Sergeant Stokes ordered. Cover us, Demon, until we get to the berm.

Ah, Jesus, Diaz said as he got to his feet and quickly crossed himself. May God bless his soul.

Amen, Stokes added as he too scrambled to his feet.

Clark started firing toward the compound as Diaz and Stokes quickly headed off. He took out two more soldiers who were climbing into one of the armored vehicles before spinning around and fixing the crosshairs at the base of Diaz’s neck.

God has nothing to do with this, Clark said as he squeezed the trigger.

Stokes heard Clark’s strange comment through his earphones and then stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Diaz crumble to the ground. Confused, he turned back in Clark’s direction. Through his night vision goggles, he could see Clark kneeling, his rifle pointed directly at him. Incomprehension filled his thoughts. What was going on? He saw the muzzle flash. Then he saw and felt nothing.

*    *    *    *    *

GENERAL Bertram Forester sat in his office buried deep inside the tangled maze of the Pentagon. He held the top-secret message his aide had handed him only moments before and read it again for the third time.

Z0851J23June

Fr: Lion

To: Prime PG

Top Secret

Eagle confirms freelance a success. Primary target eliminated. Personnel did not report to pickup zone. Further eagle intelligence confirms three bodies recovered by Iranian army. No word on any captives. All personnel presumed dead.

General Forester dropped the message on his desk as he removed his reading glasses and began rubbing his eyes. While he was delighted with the results of Freelance, the final outcome left him with a great deal of remorse. Three fine Delta Force soldiers confirmed dead and a fourth unaccounted for and presumed dead.

The general stood and began pacing. Missions like this quite often ended that way, he reminded himself—success on the one hand, tragedy on the other.

He eventually returned to his desk and opened the top-secret file for this mission and placed the memo inside. He then picked up a rubber stamp and pressed it down firmly on the file cover. The inked word Classified appeared in bold red letters relating to a covert operation, code named Freelance, which the United States government supposedly had nothing to do with.

Two

O VER four years had passed since the Muslim world had reeled at the news of Ahmed Nazim Bahad’s assassination. An accusing eye had immediately turned toward Washington, DC, but the United States government staunchly denied any involvement.

However, at the same time, there was a little matter of four unaccounted for Delta Force men that had to be resolved. Finally, two months following the raid on the encampment, General Bertram Forester of the United States Army issued an announcement pertaining to an unfortunate accident that had occurred during a training exercise on a remote island in the Pacific. The official records reflected that Captain Nathan Pool, Sergeant Benjamin Stokes, and Corporals Cameron Clark and Raul Diaz had been killed during the exercise.

Phase I of Cameron Clark’s master plan had worked to absolute perfection—he was officially dead.

Freed from the restraints of his military commitment, Clark was then able to peddle his wares to the highest bidder. When he returned to the United States after affecting a well-planned exit scheme following his episode in Iran, he initiated Phase II of his plan. Supported by his well-honed sharpshooting skills, learned at the expense of the American taxpaying public, he was able to carve out a niche in the dark side of society that paid him handsomely for his unique service—as a contract assassin. In addition to the financial rewards, which were much better than his monthly take-home pay from the United States Army, he didn’t have to get up early each morning to revelry.

Cameron Clark’s career flourished over the next four years. Known only as Nomed to his clientele, he became a sought-after commodity for those in need of an assassin. His professional approach to assignments and 100 percent success rate were attributes that kept him in high demand.

His most recent service contract required that he take out the New York Yankees’ all-star centerfielder—Randy North.

*    *    *    *    *

RANDY North looked out the window of the Bell helicopter and smiled a sigh of relief. He was on a ski vacation in Whistler, Canada, with five of his best buddies. It was a celebration of sorts, arranged and paid for by Randy, soon after he’d heard that the murder charges filed against him had been dropped due to lack of evidence. And celebrate he and his buddies had, with nightly parties that ran well into the wee hours of the morning before the booze and drugs would take their toll and they would pass out in the loving arms of high-priced hookers.

Randy North certainly believed he deserved a vacation after what he had gone through. He had been accused of murdering his girlfriend, Sheila Warner. Her naked body had been found brutally beaten and dumped into a ravine in a wooded area in upstate New York, just three weeks before the Yankees were to make their final drive for the American League pennant. Unfortunately, the team faltered miserably and was unceremoniously swept by the Boston Red Sox in the AL Eastern Division playoffs. Many of the fans, as well as the media, blamed the Yankee’s unexpected decline on the murder charges pending against the beloved all-star centerfielder.

When Randy North was informed that all charges against him had been dropped, it was as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. In a moment of self-reflection, he got down on his knees and thanked God. He also prayed for forgiveness.

The fact was Randy North had indeed murdered Sheila Warner. He had returned to his elegant mansion after a day game against the Cleveland Indians, where he had gone zero for four at the plate, struck out twice, and committed an error in the late innings that ended up costing the Yankees the game. Needless to say, MVP Randy North was not a happy camper.

Before leaving the stadium, Randy had grabbed a six-pack of beer from the Yankee’s locker room refrigerator and was swigging down the last can when he entered the front door. He instantly sensed that Sheila was angry that he was drunk, but he didn’t care. He was pissed off and didn’t want anything to do with Sheila Warner and her silly expectations of a romantic evening, something he had promised her when he left for the ballpark early that morning.

After a few more beers, Randy got up to use the bathroom. Sheila cornered him in the hall when he came out.

I thought we were going to have a quiet evening together, she said sternly.

Back off!

No, Randy. You promised.

Fuck the promise. I’m not in the mood to sit around and talk to you tonight.

Randy turned to leave, but Sheila grabbed the sleeve of his shirt. No! she yelled. You promised!

Randy whirled and struck her viciously across the face with the back of his right hand, which still held a bottle of beer. Beer and foam flew everywhere as she was sent reeling to the floor. Randy was immediately on her, screaming and swearing. He grabbed her around the throat and squeezed as he continued to shout obscenities. With his tremendous hand and arm strength, he crushed her larynx within seconds.

Panic set in, and his inebriated mind frantically tried to concoct a rational reason why he was forced to kill his girlfriend. He spent the next three hours drinking more beer and trying to come up with the next best thing—make it appear that someone else had killed her.

At 4:07 a.m., he dumped her naked body over the side of a ravine but not before he wiped his prints from her neck and beat her body with a baseball bat to make it appear as if a crazed maniac had committed the murder, which wasn’t far from the truth.

That evening, Randy North returned to Yankee Stadium and didn’t get a hit in five at bats. During the last three weeks of the regular season, Randy North’s batting average inexplicably dropped over forty points. He was only two for seventeen in the playoff series against the Red Sox.

Poor Randy North.

And now, after three long months of agonizing torture, Randy North was celebrating with his friends and fellow teammates in the pristine, snow-covered mountains of Canada. For Randy North had won the biggest game of his young life—he had gotten away with murder!

Fellas, this is going to be great. Do you see all that snow down there? asked Bret, Randy North’s best friend.

Randy and Bret had been teammates at the University of Oklahoma, but Bret’s athletic skills were not equal to Randy’s, so he’d reluctantly decided to enter his father’s cattle business when he wasn’t drafted out of college.

Yeah. The girl at the lodge said they got over two feet of new snow last night, Marty commented. Marty was the second baseman with the Yankees.

I’m stoked, man. This is going to be so much fun, I can’t believe it, said Trevor, another longtime friend, who played for the Los Angeles Dodgers.

The pilot skillfully set the helicopter down on top of an eleven thousand-foot peak that dropped majestically into a picturesque powder bowl, the kind one normally only sees on postcards.

Okay, said Dean, the group’s ski guide from High Adventures Skiing, I’ll exit first, and as each of you exits, come huddle by me. After we’re all out, I’ll get the skis off the racks. You guys just stay huddled together, okay?

All six men nodded in anxious unison.

Dean then slid open the door of the helicopter and jumped out. Snow kicked up from the downwash off the rotor blades, swirled around outside, and swept in through the open door. One by one, the six vacationers left the warm confines of the aircraft and stepped into the cold, swirling snow. Once all seven men were outside, Dean removed the skis from the exterior rack and gave the pilot the all-clear sign. The pilot lifted off, dipped the helicopter’s nose to the right, and flew away.

Dean turned to the group. Okay, let’s put our skis on, and then I’ll show you some of the most fantastic powder skiing in the world.

After everyone clicked into their skis, Dean led the party off toward the powder bowl. When they reached the bowl’s crest, Dean warned the six jocks, who were all intermediate skiers at best, of the dangers of remote powder skiing.

I’m going to go down first so I can test the snow conditions. I’ll stop about there, he said, pointing to a spot with the end of his ski pole. After I get there, I’ll wave the all-clear sign like this. Dean held up his ski pole and swung it side to side. The next skier, I don’t care who, will then ski down. We’ll go one at a time. The snow is fresh and susceptible to avalanches. And remember, when it’s your turn to ski, don’t venture too far outside the tracks I lay down. Stay within twenty feet on each side. Don’t want anyone falling into a snow-covered crevasse. I know the area, and they’re out there, believe me. So please, stay close to my tracks, and we’ll all have a great time. Okay?

Once again, all six men nodded—not as anxiously this time, however, since a little apprehension had set in.

Dean was an excellent skier and gracefully dropped over the edge to begin his descent. He effortlessly carved perfect S turns through the soft, white crystals, his tracks never deviating in width. It was as if his legs were tied together, the shape of the tracks were so uniform. It appeared to the six baseball jocks as if he was gliding in slow motion; his movements were so graceful. They stood there awestruck, each man wondering how he would fare on his descent.

When Dean stopped, he looked back up the mountain and gave the all-clear signal. The men just stood there looking down at him. No one moved. Dean gave the signal again.

Mike, a seldom-used relief pitcher for the Yankees, cleared his throat and then asked, Which one of you wants to follow that?

Not me, Pete answered, shaking his head in amazement. Pete, like Bret, was another longtime friend of Randy’s and also an Oklahoma Sooner teammate who had only made it as far as Triple-A ball. He’d finally given up on his dream of playing the big show and now owned a successful construction company in Scottsdale, Arizona.

Bret turned to Randy. This vacation bash is for you, good buddy; you go.

No way, Randy shot back. I learned a long time ago; never follow the star player in the batting order. You can only look foolish.

But … you are the star, Pete reminded him.

Not at this sport I’m not.

Once again, they all looked down the slope to where Dean was waiting. He had one gloved hand bridged over his eyes, the other waving his ski pole.

Well, one of us had better go, or poor ole Dean is going to have to hike back up here to get us, Trevor commented.

That, or leave us up here and ski down by himself, Bret added. Tell the folks back at the lodge that he left a bunch of wimps up on the mountain because they couldn’t decide who should go first.

With that, Marty shouted, It’s you, Pete, and shoved Pete, who was standing nearest the edge, over the side. Pete didn’t make it ten feet before he tumbled headfirst, in what is known as a face-plant, and buried himself in the fresh powder.

His five friends burst into laughter.

With great difficulty, Pete extricated himself from the snow. Exhausted from his excavation efforts, he looked up with disdain at the men laughing at him.

The laughter slowly subsided as each man realized that he might be the next unwilling victim to be unceremoniously pushed over the side. They all suspiciously eyed one another. Then, without any further hesitation, all five simultaneously screamed out, Yahoo, and, Geronimo, and dropped over the edge, not wanting to end up like their good buddy Pete.

Not one of them made it to where Dean was waiting without falling at least twice—some three times. When they finally regrouped, a very upset ski guide reemphasized the importance of following his instructions.

You need to follow my instructions exactly as I give them, he scolded. I told you to ski down one at a time for a reason—a safety reason! If something unfortunate happens, then only one person is in danger, not the whole lot of you. Either you follow my instructions, or I will be forced to cancel this outing and call for the helicopter to take us all back right now. Understand?

The men sheepishly nodded.

Sorry, Dean, Randy apologized for the group. We got a little carried away, that’s all. I promise it won’t happen again. Right, guys?

They all acknowledged Randy’s assurance.

Good, Dean said. Now I know you guys are used to calling your own shots, but out here, I call them. It can get really dangerous, very fast, if you’re not careful. You need to listen to me for your own safety and the safety of others. Okay?

A chorus of, Sure, Dean, Sorry, and, You’re the coach, followed.

All right then, Dean said, a big smile returning to his face. Let’s go powder skiing.

Twenty minutes later, after the men had worked their way down to the bottom of the bowl in an orderly, staggered manner without any further incident, the helicopter picked them up to shuttle the vacationers off to