Angels Fallen (27 page)

“That was too damn close for me,” Jim said. “Who the hell were those cast of characters? They dropped out of nowhere and started shooting like it was
the Wild West. Any friggin ideas?”

“It wasn’t the U
.S. Special Forces or police, I can assure you of that,” Dan said.  “Not their tactics. They would have taken us out with snipers, and then assaulted the remaining forces in the plane with precision. I would place my money on the Brits. Their SAS troops utilize techniques similar to the one you just had the privilege to experience. That’s their top-notch people. They drop out of the night like owls onto their prey. They never let those boys out of their cage unless they really have a bad-ass character on their hands.”

“Do you think they got wind of what we were doing? I don’t think there cou
ld be any other excuse for it. Somebody dropped the dime.”

“Now calm down,” Dan said. “We are free and clear of that place. Nobody can find us, I assure you. What I’m worried about is Eian and his friends. If any of them get pinched and drop the ball on us, we may have some trouble.”

“Do you think Eian’s alive?” Jim said, looking to Dan rather than the road in front of him.

Dan shook his head. “I have my sincere doubts about it. If they were SAS, nobody would get free of those boys. They would have had th
at place buttoned up tighter than a virgin’s sweater.”

“I can’t believe the Brits would have the nerve to pull something like this in our country. Our government wouldn’t allow them to operate over here.”

“I can only think that I’m to blame for this one, Jimmy. They finally pinned that bombing on me. It’s the only rationale for them coming here.  They wouldn’t give a damn about the gold, or you for that matter. But first things first,” pointing to a well-lit area containing a variety of fast-food restaurants. “Pull over at that Denny’s up ahead. I want to check our cargo and the truck for any obvious damage. We took a few hits from those bullets back at the airport. I don’t think the local police would take too kindly to our driving through the area with bullet holes everywhere.  We might attract a little attention. Besides, lad, it’s time for my hourly caffeine fix. I need a little java to keep me going.” 

General Parker nervously paced up and down the aircraft’s narrow aisle, a mad scowl upon his face. The General’s staff had lost communication with the assault team 15 minutes earlier. He stopped beside the lead communication’s officer.

“Lieutenant, play it back,” the General said in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard.

“Sir?” the communication’s officer questioned, puzzled by the request.

“Go the hell over your goddamn notes and replay what had previously transpired,” he yelled loudly, surprising even himself at his tone. Realizing it wasn’t the young officer’s fault, he quickly corrects
himself. “Accept my apologies, Lieutenant. Circumstances dictate that I have a lot on my mind.” He paused, looking about, before smiling. “A word of advice, Lieutenant. In the future when you eventually assume a command position, you will realize that the human brain can only take so much before it either shuts down or snaps.” He patted him on the back. “Please read the notes you have on the action report.”

Th
e Lieutenant picked up his notepad nervously searching for the appropriate page that the ground operation started. “Yes, sir,” he said, his finger traveling down the page to locate the precise moment of the parachutists’ exit from the aircraft.

“As you a
re already aware, at 7:45 p.m. local time, we had confirmation from Commander Robinson that they were on the deck approaching just aft of the target. At 50 meters, they were spotted by the suspects and chose to press on with their attack. At that time, we picked up small arms’ fire for three minutes’ time until the Commander’s radio went dead. Sensing a bad connection, I switched over to try to raise the Sergeant Major on the same frequency, finding that too was inoperable.”

The General allowed the information to replay fresh in his mind in case he had missed something. “Could it be a total radio failure on our part or theirs?” speaking with no hint of anger or sarcasm in his voice.

“I checked and rechecked our controls, sir,” the Lieutenant replied, pointing to the built-in test controls for the Rascal communication’s set, a state-of-the-art unit that was standard issue equipment for SAS troops. “Doubtful on our end, General. I would say the radios are working fine, sir.  The failure is due to our people being incapacitated.”

If you mean dead, Lieutenant, then say dead,” the General snapped back in a fit of rage, taking off his jacket, throwing it against the communic
ations panel located above the Lieutenant’s head.

The L
ieutenant picked up the crumpled leather jacket, brushing off the jacket before carefully handing it back to the general. “They are most likely dead, sir,” retreating to his communications console.

The General flopped down in his chair. He picked up a piece of paper and a pen from the metal table in front of him. He started scribbling some words, speaking softly to himself in the same instant. “Damn, this was a royal screw-up,” rolling up the sheet of paper
into a ball, throwing it toward the open cockpit door at no one in general.

“General, I am picking up a live feed from CNN concerning Millville Airport,” said another flight off
icer from his seat next to the lieutenant.

The General once again seemed his vibrant self, perking up.  “Damn it, man, put it on the main screen. Quiet everyone.”

The crew huddled around the 13-inch screen, all jostling for a decent view of the picture. Only the pilot stayed at his post, monitoring communications with the airport control tower.

“CNN has just received updated information on an aircraft explosion from one of our sister stations located out of
Philadelphia,” the portly anchorman said. “We now go live to WPVI.”

The location changed from CNN’s
Atlanta studio to show a live feed of a middle-aged, yet attractive female, reporter standing a half-mile from a fire. The only way to realize it was an aircraft was the tail section protruding through the flames.

“This is Monica Torri of WPVI News reporting live from
Millville Airport in Southern New Jersey where a mid-sized jet aircraft has exploded on the ramp.” She now referred to her hastily prepared notes, hoping she could read her own chicken scratch. “Our sources say they heard an aircraft flying low over the area five minutes before the explosion. They also saw four parachutists descend to the aircraft tarmac before the parachutists charged to the aircraft located behind me. Shortly after, an intense gun battle erupted, then within a minute of the gunfight a loud explosion ripped through the aircraft, destroying it in the process. We are only speculating about possible motives, but this could be drug-dealers with an FBI capture gone astray. Again, we are only speculating. We really don’t have anything concrete at this time. WPVI will keep you updated as we receive additional information.”

Upon hearing the news report, General Parker collapsed into his seat, his hands covering his face in disgrace. 

In the cockpit, the pilot was busy stalling the Newark Control Tower, time was of the essence until they heard from their SAS ground troops. “Sir,” the pilot began, “the Americans would like confirmation of our planned departure or if we are requesting transient ramp space for the night.”

Gener
al Parker allowed a full 30 seconds to elapse before responding, staring at the floor in disgust. “Inform them of our intention to depart after we refuel, Captain.”

The pilot and SAS commander were friends, havi
ng served together in the Gulf War. He couldn’t just abandon his friend. Gathering enough bravado to confront his commanding officer he said. “But sir, what about our troops on the ground? Should we at least give them a few hours to communicate with us? We can’t leave them for the wolves, sir.”

The General slowly looked up at the pilot, staring intently at him as if he were going to rip his head off, his face changing from peach to the color of a deep crimson. “I said now. Those boys are dead. D.E.A.D. Dead,” he barked. “You just saw it for yourself on their television network. If Commander Robinson were alive, he would have communicated with us by
now. Captain, you will notify the control tower that we are departing.”

The General quickly rose from his chair, marching solemnly off to the plane’s lavatory. Upon closing the lavatory door, he extract
ed his service revolver, staring at the aged image in the mirror.
Is this how my career is to end?
He saluted the image as the aircraft’s number one engine was starting.

“Dan, I think our bullet holes are going to get us a little unwanted attention in the daylight hours, so what’s your big plan to handle this type of situation,” Jim said, fingering one of several well-placed holes in the windshield.

Dan placed the plastic lid back onto his coffee cup, sliding it in the holder he had pulled out from the dashboard. “We can go to a shopping mall just a little north of here and find a new vehicle in the parking lot,” he said, pausing to see if Jim was catching on to where the conversation was heading.

Jim grinned in acknowledgement.

Dan continued. “The parking lot will have lots of available SUV’s. We will drive our new
truck behind the mall and exchange plates with this one and reload our product. We then torch the old truck to get rid of the evidence. After that festive bonfire, we head south on Interstate 95 to Florida, home free.”

Sir Robert
shuffled through the last remnants of the day’s paperwork when Rufus Sneed interrupted him.

“Sir Robert, I have a secure phone transmission from one of our special mission aircraft. It’s concerning your American operation.”

“Put it through,” Sir Robert said, quickly picking up the receiver on his Marconi scramble phone, a remnant of the cold war days, but still handy for operations such as this. “With whom am I speaking?”

With the mes
sage being scrambled from phone to phone, it was still possible to intercept the signal and achieve some partial translation. Due to this, the operators were ordered to speak in a collection of “reference phrases.” This would provide anyone who did have the capability to intercept certain words a jumble that would be impossible to break.

“This is the lead
truck driver, sir. I have updated information on our Irish package. We are reporting four of our packages lost, and the postmaster has resigned.”

Sir Robert referred to his notes he had fastened under his calendar blotter on his desk for the quick translation. “What
happened to the Irish package? Did it get shipped?”

“We suspect that since the vehicle was lost, all packages were also lost.”

“Until we get a positive address on our package, we will keep the slot open. And as far as the postmaster is concerned, he experienced a heart attack during a mission and died in the line of duty.  Upon your return, we will have a crew meet you to take care of the situation.”

”Yes sir
; over and out.”

The early morning streets of the North Queen’s business district were nearly deserted on this, the first Sunday of July, with one notable exception.  A group of young children played hopscotch on the trash-laden sidewalk in front of a dilapidated brick building.  The building appeared out of place in the center of a city block dominated by merchandisers of dollar store products, cheap liquor, and check-cashing outlets.

The building was referred to as the “last stand” by most of the
cities social workers.  The New York Archdiocesan Home for Abused Children being the only difference between the children and the city’s mean streets.  Unfortunately for the Archdiocesan Home, its interior matched its aged exterior in the areas of plumbing, air conditioning, and electrical wiring.  The building lay on the verge of being condemned by the city’s license and inspection bureau, literally taking away shelter for its 24 children in residence. For the poor children to once again face a sense of uncertainty, having already been abandoned and abused once in their young lifetimes, they were now on the verge of abandonment for a second harrowing time.

Thomas Ja
nkowski was the home’s group leader or “head dude” as the children would endearingly refer to him, having worked in the home in one capacity or another since graduating from NYU ten years before. At 6’4” and 250 pounds, he could command the children’s attention through sheer intimidation, if he so chose.  But to them, he was a gentle giant, a teddy bear, always ready to lend a hand or listen to someone’s problems.

His college friends shook their heads at his
choice of careers. “You could be making the big bucks” the most frequent comment he would hear from his Wall Street friends.

What they couldn’t understand
is that he actually enjoyed his work in the home
. He could see progress and results each and every day.  How many of them could say that? Most of his friends already had ulcers, downing containers of anti-acids just to make it through their workdays. The worst scenario he faced was the occasional fight or shoplifting charge. No big deal to him. Just an average day dealing with the constant tug-of-war the streets provided. 

He sat f
inishing his traditional breakfast of four pieces of bran toast and a bowl of Wheaties as he eyed the New York Times box scores for the previous night’s Mets game. After seeing the Mets dropped another close one to the Phillies in 10 innings, he tossed the sports page to the floor in disgust. “When are the Mets going to get some decent pitching,” he said aloud, only to be interrupted by his older assistant, Mrs. Klein.  She held a rather large envelope for him.

“Tom, Federal Express just left this package
for,” she said.

“Fed Ex delivers on a Sunday morning at
7:30 a.m.?” Tom asked, looking at his watch in amazement. “And I thought we were the only ones with horrible hours. Thank you, Mrs. Klein. You can leave it on the table. I’ll get to it as soon as I find out if the New York Times offers any hundred-dollar vacation deals, because that’s about all I can afford right now.”

“You don’t have the time, Tom,” she said with a mysterious grin. “You also have a phone call in your office. The man says it’s important. He wouldn’t tell me a thing. Sh
ould I tell him you’re still sleeping?”

“No, no
it’s okay. I’ll get it.  But just once I want to be able to sit and eat my breakfast in peace and quiet,” he said directing a smile at Mrs. Klein. 

JIM WAITED PATIENTLY IN
his car across the street from the children’s home, watching the children play on the sidewalk, ready to uncover another piece of his father’s past.

“HELLO,” TOM SAID
, “What can I do for you on this lovely morning?” The sarcasm clearly evident in his voice, wondering what one of his kids did this time to piss somebody off.

“Sir, this is going to sound a little crazy to you
, but please bear with me,” Jim said, taking a deep breath to try and calm his nerves. “You don’t know me, and we have never met but I am hoping to fulfill a last request from my recently departed father.”

Jim looked at the building
’s crumbling facade; a smile now creasing his face before continuing.  “Let me provide you with a little background information so you know I’m not pulling your leg. Before my father died he informed me about the rather large donations he had been providing to your institution. Usually once per year, he would send a check in the amount of $60,000 to cover your expenses. Now as far as I know, only six people are even aware of this information.  Counting the two of us, that sure narrows the list down even further, doesn’t it?”

Tom stared at the phone for several seconds before responding, wondering where the man was heading. “I guess that would be a correct assumption.”

“Good. If you would kindly open the Federal Express package that was recently delivered to you, I will proceed.”

“You’re not joking with a man whose job is on the line
, are you?” Tom said, having already received his layoff notice due to the home’s expected closure. “My life is already in turmoil over what’s going to happen to my kids.  I can’t even sleep at night.”

“Tom, this is n
o joke. Please open the package. I think you will enjoy what you find,” Jim said. He looked once more at the children playing across the street, thinking back to his father’s ordeal in leading orphaned children from Berlin in its dying days, rescuing them from certain death.  Sixty plus years latter his father was once more reaching out to administer aid, only now from his grave. A tear ran down his cheek wishing his father could be standing there beside him.
Then again, who said he wasn’t?

“Al
l right, all right. I’m opening it now,” Tom said, ripping open the red, orange, and blue envelope, extracting a single sheet of paper with a check attached via a paper clip. Tom stood staring at the check and its seven zero’s, still wondering if he were on the receiving end of a practical joke. But it couldn’t be. Who else knew of the $60,000 donations? Surely none of his friends were aware of the generosity from the anonymous stranger. Gathering his thoughts he finally responded. “Oh, come on now. Who is this? Tell me the truth because you can’t be serious—a certified check for twenty million dollars? You can’t,” he said, pausing for a moment. “It can’t be real. No one can write a check for this amount unless he’s Bill Gates, and you don’t sound like Bill Gates.”

“I assure you Tom, it’s real,” Jim replied, amused at his beneficiary role. “I want you to call the phone number attached to the
check. It’s the number for the First Bank of New York. You will ask for the manager, a Mr. Pete Simmons, he will confirm its authenticity.  I have made special arrangements for him to be at his desk this Sunday morning awaiting your call. This was the last wish of my father. He wanted his, I’m using his words not mine, ‘
Angels Fallen’
to have perpetual care. Tom, please allocate these funds to your children who really deserve it. Don’t allow the funds to become lost in some internal political shuffle. Until we talk again, please take care.”

Tom was performing a little dance with the check in his hand as Mrs. Klein came back into the room to review the staff’s new work schedule. “Mrs. Klein, we are finally going to get a new house for the kids. Telephone everyone on our staff personally,” thrusting the check into her face for her to view. “Someone has just saved our
kids.”