Tunnel Rat

By John Ward

When former US Army captain Eric Tucker decided to visit Old City in Jerusalem with his daughter and granddaughter, he thought it would be a chance to get some family time with his girls and enjoy his retirement. But when a terrorist organization threatens his family’s safety, Captain Tucker must reach into his past in order to survive. Can he do so without becoming the cold-blooded killer he once was?

Emir Farouk is falling on hard times, and the loyalty that once came so easily to him is dwindling. When an old man and a teenage girl from America appear in his sights, he believes it is a sign and orders his men to kidnap them. But things don’t go as planned...

What follows is an intense cat-and-mouse game between a powerful terrorist cell and one man who’s determined to protect his family, the woman he loves, and his ship. Captain Tucker can’t—and won’t—give in, even if it means returning to the man who led an elite unit of soldiers into claustrophobic tunnels after their enemies with nothing but flashlights, knives, and pistols: the infamous Tunnel Rats.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Ward
• Release date: Jul 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546942382

Book preview

Tunnel Rat

John M. Ward

Copyright John M. Ward

May 2017

All rights reserved

ISBN: 1546942386

ISBN 13: 9781546942382

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017908768

Publicity by Bobbie Crawford at Nurture Your Books

Cover Design by Emma Rider at AWT Cover Design

Table of Contents

Glossary of Terms Used

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

From the Author

About the Author

Non gratum anus rodentum: Not worth a rat’s anus

To the men who served their country in the tunnels of Vietnam

Glossary of Terms Used

Abeam–A direction directly off the side of a boat

Astern–A direction behind a boat

Aft –A position toward the rear of a boat

Apparent wind–The wind experienced on a boat in motion

Beam–The side of a boat

Bow–The front end of a boat

Bridle–A connector between a boat and ground tackle

Beam reach–Sailing with the wind abeam

Broad reach–Sailing with the wind aft of abeam

Catamaran–A boat with two hulls

Chart plotter–A marine GPS showing the boat on a chart

Cleat–A connector between the boat and a line

Cockpit–A protected area for a boat’s crew

Drogue–A device towed astern to slow a boat

Evolution–A specific series of steps to achieve a result

Forward–A position toward the front of a boat

GRIB–A file containing weather information

Halyard–A line that hoists a sail

Heave to–A technique that parks the boat on the water

Helm–The steering position on a boat

Hull–The bottom of a boat

Jack line–A long safety line that a tether can slide along

Keel–A structure protruding under a hull

Line–A rope used on a boat

Port–The left side of a boat, facing forward

Port tack–Sailing with the wind on the port side

Quarter–A direction about forty-five degrees aft

Rhumb line–A plotted course to a destination or waypoint

Rounding up–Turning a boat into the wind

Sheet–A line that controls a sail

Starboard–The right side of a boat, facing forward

Starboard tack–Sailing with the wind on the starboard side

Stern–The back end of a boat

Tether–A line that ties a crew harness to a strong point

True wind–The actual wind direction

Waypoint–A point along a course leading to a destination

Chapter One

The lights of Tel Aviv glimmered in the darkness. They appeared to dance and bob this way and that, disappearing and then appearing again. Eric Tucker smiled as he watched the familiar illusion, for he knew it was not the lights that moved, but he and the platform on which he rode upon the black void of the sea. The lights had begun as a faint glow and gradually intensified at the site of the coastal Israeli city. Points of light appeared and danced, marking the highest towers. They winked at first due to the interruption of ocean swells and then steadied as the boat traversed farther along the curvature of the earth. Eventually, the glow of lights from other towns joined those of Tel Aviv, drawing a line that rendered the eastern horizon visible where the stars ended.

On this crystal-clear night, the sky was a glorious riot of stars extending across the dome of the sky in a dense panoply of twinkling beauty. When the moon set an hour ago, they had become even more distinct and beautiful, with the surprisingly colorful Milky Way airbrushed among them in a slash that ended abruptly at the southern horizon to starboard. It was one of the many perks of sailing the open ocean, and Eric never tired of it. The sky on a clear night at sea was truly a sight to behold.

With the setting of the moon, the sea became nearly invisible, felt rather than seen. Pelican easily rode minor swells that gently and slowly lifted her up and then down, up and down. The gentle motion by an invisible force made the sea seem alive–a living thing–and Pelican rode upon its breast in the inky blackness, moved by the slow rise and fall of its breathing.

The lights marked the end of Eric’s leisurely southeasterly voyage across the Mediterranean Sea. Though slow, it had been an easy passage from Kaş. The normally crowded ocean traffic in the Med had given him a break. He’d even managed to sleep a little. Herzliya, a town just north of Tel Aviv, was his destination. Its lights were now appearing. He could already see the marker for the outer buoy on his chart-plotter display. The rhumb line of his course led directly for it. It was his next, and last, waypoint. If that waypoint was correct of course. He had frequently found inconsistencies that did not agree with his calculations. As an engineer, those skewed data puzzled and annoyed him. He liked things to be accurate.

Once he arrived in Herzliya, he would clear Israeli immigration and find welcome comforts after a long voyage. Eric tapped his tablet and checked the time of sunrise for this date and latitude, comparing it against the estimated time of arrival shown on his display. It would be light before he arrived. It would not be necessary to heave to and wait for dawn at sea before entering the unfamiliar harbor.

Today would be a day of immigration paperwork and boat chores. Tonight he would undoubtedly sleep like the dead. Then Krissie and Dottie would arrive the following day, and the fun would begin. They would explore the historic city of Jerusalem together, he and his daughter and granddaughter. Eric couldn’t wait.

Poppa, let’s go! We’re gonna miss the bus! Dottie cried.

Good grief, Eric thought, smiling, the girl is wound up a little too tight. Dottie was a beautiful sixteen-year-old bundle of energy, and he loved her to pieces. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail that was perpetually in motion. Her periwinkle-blue shirt perfectly matched eyes that sparkled with excitement above her permanent smile.

Just a sec, hon; gotta check on your mom, Eric said as he ducked into the port companionway. Krissie was getting better—a local bug, probably—but was still not quite up to another tour in the Old City. So it would be just he and Dottie today.

You sure you’re OK? Eric asked Krissie.

Of course I am, Dad. You guys enjoy your tour. It’ll be good for Dottie to have a little granddaddy time, she said, giving him a sweet smile.

That’s Krissie, Eric thought. Always thinking of somebody else. What a great mom he’d raised.

Did you talk to your mom? Eric asked. Helen was a great mother also; Krissie came by it naturally. She was a talented doctor, strong, intelligent, and kind. And much better off without Eric. They had met in college and married on impulse as he was being drafted. Their children, Krissie and Kevin, were conceived on his rare visits home. They never had time to build a relationship strong enough to survive the changed man who returned to her from Vietnam.

Yeah I did, Dad. She’s worried. But she always worries!

Eric said, She should travel more…

Dottie shouted from the dock, Poppa!

Coming! Eric shouted back.

OK, well, bye, sweet lady! Take care of yourself, and don’t forget to check the batteries. If they go over fourteen point two, unplug the shore cord awhile. I’m still not sure about Israeli power, and the solar panels are putting out almost ten amps.

I know, Dad! How many times have you said that? Krissie said, laughing.

I mentioned that before? he asked innocently.

She gave him that look.

Truth was, he honestly didn’t remember. It’s hell growing old and forgetful. He was fit for his age, but he did have his senior moments.

OK, kiddo, we’re off! Krissie, if you leave the boat, leave a note, OK?

OK, have fun! She followed him out to the cockpit to say good-bye.

We should be back by seven. He pointed north of the marina as he stepped on the dock. There’s a great little deli at the Herzliya town center up there. We can walk there for a late supper. They make a great corned beef on rye.

Ugh, Dad, shut up! Krissie said, holding her stomach and grimacing. Spicy corned beef obviously did not sound so good; she wasn’t quite that well yet. Bye! She waved and blew them a kiss.

Which way, Poppa? Dottie asked.

They were in the narrow streets of the Old City. So-called streets—they wouldn’t make decent alleys back home. Vendors’ booths lined both sides. The place was bustling with humanity of every stripe hurrying here and there, and the air was pungent with the smell of spices, food, and human sweat.

Eric peered at his GPS. It should be up there, he said, pointing up a street that branched off to the left, into the Armenian Quarter. Thankfully, it also looked to be less crowded. Dottie bounded up the cobbled street. Eric followed as quickly as he could. The cathedral was supposed to be magnificent. It wasn’t on the tour they’d just finished, but they had a free hour before the bus left for Tel Aviv. So off they went as the crowds thinned and the street twisted and turned. This place just oozed character and age and history! Layers and layers of ancient history. Eric, a history buff, loved it. He ran his hands along stones laid by King Herod. Amazing! You could spend months here and still not see everything. Everywhere you looked, there was an ancient building, interesting people, exotic spices and trinkets, and—on rare occasions—danger.

Three men stepped out in front of them. Dottie halted with a yelp. The big guy, the one right in front of Eric, was older and clearly the leader. He held a menacing club. Two skinny younger guys both held knives and sneered hungrily at Dottie.

Eric yelled, Dottie, run!

Dottie was a soccer star back home. One thing the kid could do was run. And run she did. Downhill. Back the way they’d come. Like a deer. The big guy turned his head slightly and gave an order. When his head turned, Eric kicked him. He didn’t decide to kick. He just kicked. Hard. In the balls. The guy screamed and fell to the cobblestones. Eric was surprised at how hard the kick landed. He hadn’t fought a guy in years without lawyers. But this one crunched. Like old times. The guy was wearing baggy pajama-looking pants—not real good protection against a kick like that one, a kind of kick he thought he’d forgotten how to execute. Muscle memory was a wonderful thing.

The order, apparently, was to catch Dottie. As the older guy fell, one of the younger guys took off after the girl. Eric took off after him. Hearing the third guy’s footsteps behind him, Eric expected to feel a knife in his back any second. But his full attention was forward, toward the guy chasing Dottie. He was fast, but somehow—adrenaline, he guessed—Eric managed to grab him by the left shoulder and spin him around before he caught Dottie. The guy raised his knife. Eric grabbed the wrist of his knife hand. Now, with a shoulder and a wrist in his grasp, Eric whirled him around and used him like a shield against the third guy. He stole a quick look down the street. Dottie had stopped! She was coming back!

No! He bellowed. Keep running, Dottie! Go get help! She danced a little, undecided, and then disappeared around the corner. Good girl! Eric muttered.

The second guy flexed his wrist and managed to slice Eric’s forearm with his razor-sharp knife. Blood began to stream down Eric’s arm, off his elbow, and onto the cobblestone street. He knew the damage was soft tissue. It hurt like hell, but his hand was still usable. Eric held on. The other guy was doing his best to stab him over his buddy’s shoulder. Both of them were wild-eyed and screaming. Probably hopped up on some drug, Eric thought.

Dottie’s screams were getting fainter. She’s safe, Eric thought with relief. But this is where I die. Strange. After surviving those tunnels in ’Nam, I’m gonna die here at the hands of a couple of teenaged wing nuts? I won though; they didn’t get Dottie. The third guy kept leaping up to get a clear shot as Eric fended him off with his buddy, who, in turn, was smacking Eric as hard as he could with his free left fist and trying hard to work his knife blade deeper into Eric’s forearm. Eric saw his opening. The third guy tried dodging to Eric’s right and jumping for a clear shot with his knife. It was an obvious move. Eric let him. Then, he reacted. Just as he’d been taught, he snapped a kick to the kidney—or as close as he could get with the flexibility of a man his age. But Eric was also slower these days; his kick missed. It hit hard but not on the soft tissue around the kidney. The guy had started to descend from his jump before the kick landed. It hit higher. Even through his Nikes, Eric felt the hard place on top of his foot hit something hard. Probably the lowest rib. He knew the answer in an instant, when he heard a pop. The guy screamed and went down in agony. Eric had broken a rib in ’Nam, so he knew how badly a broken rib hurt, especially if the broken end punctured a lung. It was a very lucky shot, and Eric started feeling a little cocky. With one guy down, he could grapple this guy. He might be old. He might not look like much of a threat. But he was still in OK shape. Live on a boat, eat mainly fish, sail all over, and you tend to stay fit. The guy was still carving Eric’s forearm, trying to beat the crap out of him with his free hand, and screaming. Eric let go of the shoulder, reached over the guy’s knife hand, and rotated it clockwise. The pressure on his wrist forced him down at the waist. Two quick kicks to the face busted his lips and nose. His blood joined Eric’s on the cobblestone pavement. Another kick to his right leg put the guy down on the street with his arm backward in the air and still in Eric’s two-handed grasp. The guy was still screaming and jabbering something in his language, only more shrilly than before.

Up the street, the big guy was holding his bruised balls in one hand and pushing himself up with the other. He had dropped the club. Only a few seconds had elapsed since the fight started. Eric was thinking he just might live through this. But he had to get rid of this young guy first—and quickly. Eric wrapped his leg around the guy’s arm and broke it over his thigh. He hadn’t learned that anywhere. He just did it. It didn’t take much force. It must have hurt. Judging by the primal scream the guy let out, it did. Eric threw the knife off to the side.

Two down, and I’m still standing? he thought. Amazing. But there it was. He never doubted that he could hold his own against one guy—not since he’d learned to fight as a teenager. He’d loved martial arts back then. In the army, he’d learned to fight for real—and a whole lot more up close and personal than he would’ve liked. There was only one guy left. He hated that guy. That guy led the team to kidnap Dottie. If he had anything to say about it, the big guy was gonna hurt.

The big guy was barely on his feet when Eric rushed him. That set him back on his heels, his eyes wide. He was looking down at Eric’s feet.

In a flash, Eric knew what to do. The guy was wary of Eric's feet. He’d seen Eric use them. He didn’t want to get kicked again. The thought had barely entered Eric’s mind when he reacted. He faked a kick. The guy went for it completely. But Eric did not kick. He punched him. Right on the chin. The guy’s eyes were on his feet. He never saw it coming. The punch snapped his head around in the kind of motion that can knock you out.

He stumbled backward but kept his feet. Inwardly, Eric respected that a little bit. The man had taken a powerful shot. Eric’s arms were strong from sailing, he knew how to punch, and that was a good one. The big guy tried to face Eric. His eyeballs were swimming. Gamely, he tried to swing anyway. It was clumsy and slow. Eric went under it. Then he closed quickly, chest-bumped the guy off balance, reached up, and pulled the guy’s collar backward as he rotated his hip under him. He was big and tall, with a high center of gravity. He went over easily. Eric upended him backward over his hip, lifted his feet, and drove the guy’s head—the very top of his head—into the cobblestones with all the force he could manage. Cobblestones are not a pleasant place to land on, especially the uneven cobblestone streets in the Old City of Jerusalem—and especially if you’re a big heavy guy with all that weight on you. The man could not cushion his fall. Like a juicy melon thrown on the street, his skull made a sickening wet thump as it smacked the cobblestones. His scalp split open, and blood poured out.

Yeah! Eric shouted with satisfaction. The army also taught me a little judo. Tough luck for you, butthole.

The guy still tried to get up. Eric dropped to a knee and ground-pounded him until he quit moving. Eric quickly backed away a step, watching the man, ready to pounce if he had any fight left in him. The man was breathing but not moving. He had decided not to get up. Good idea. The other guys were trying to crawl away. The third guy was spitting up bright frothy blood on the white blouse of a woman who was screaming and crying and trying to help him get away. Definitely a punctured lung, Eric thought. The second guy was on his knees crying and trying to straighten his broken arm. It was bent at a sickly angle. White bone was visible at the point of fracture. Eric ran down to them and shooed away the woman. He dragged them back up the street to the big guy and threw them on top of him. They didn’t resist. They did scream a lot.

Eric realized for the first time a small crowd had gathered. No surprise there. Having no one notice a fight like this in Old Jerusalem would be the surprise. The onlookers were mostly women and mostly Muslim, it appeared. They were yelling something. The same phrase. A helpful young woman translated for him.

They want you to let them go, she said.

Let them go? he asked, incredulous.

Yes. The officers will come and arrest them.

Good, Eric said. These guys tried to kidnap my granddaughter. They’re not going anywhere but to jail—and to hell.

The young woman translated his words to the crowd. They promptly started screaming and wailing even more hysterically.

This is ridiculous. They attacked me, he thought. You’d think they’re the victims.

But what seems to stand to reason in the West does not necessarily stand to reason in the Middle East. The women were growing more and more hysterical, and they began to motion to a young man in the crowd. They pushed him forward. He was maybe twenty at the most. To his credit, he stepped out bravely, trying to look confident. He yelled something at Eric, extended his arm, and shook a finger at him. Probably some insult. The women yelled something else, nodding approval. The young man smiled and nodded back at them, gaining confidence.

But Eric was still feeling cocky. It was an attitude he’d been full of in his youth. He was looking pretty ghastly. His left arm was covered in blood and dripping on the pavement. His face and shirt front were splattered with blood from pounding the big guy’s bloody head. The right side of his face was