Fallen Angel (5 page)

"Is there a difference?"

"Not in your world, Mac. Not in your world."

"YOUR SOURCE IS GOOD?"
The thickly padded leather chair made no noise as the man seated in it leaned back and formed a steeple with his fingers.

"It's good." The man who spoke wore a suit and a yellow power tie.

"What's being done?"

"A team is being sent. They should arrive before the satellite makes earth-fall."

"That's unfortunate."

"For us?"

The man leaned over the desk. "For them."

CHAPTER 5

THE TEAM HAD HABITS.
All Spec Ops teams did. One such practice was to sleep as much as possible before a mission. If they weren't planning, they were snoozing. It only took a couple of missions to know sleep was as rare as emeralds. Moyer learned to sleep anywhere and at anytime. The rumor was he could sleep through a flash flood. This evening, despite his best efforts, he proved the rumors wrong. The phone call with his wife unsettled him more than usual. He had no idea why. He had such conversations before, and while they left him sad, he was always able to focus on the upcoming mission. Now all he could do was think of his family.

He rose from his seat in the C-20 Gulfstream IV and walked the narrow aisle, doing his best not to disturb his sleeping men. He had been seated at the front of the aircraft. It was the second time he and the unit were transported in the customized corporate jet. This plane, like a handful of others, was SAAM designated: Special Assignment Airlift Missions. The Navy, Coast Guard, and Air Force used them for special transport. Usually the passengers included people with stars on their shoulders.

"Can't sleep?"

Moyer looked at Rich, his large body pressed into one of the rear seats. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"Who said you woke me? An active mind like mine runs all the time."

"Hmm, that explains why your mouth runs all the time."

"Hey now, Boss. That was unkind. Accurate, but unkind. If you're not careful, you'll hurt my little feelings."

Moyer smiled. He was not a man who gave his trust away easily. Those new to the unit knew his trust and admiration had to be earned, repeatedly. Not only did Moyer trust Rich with his life, but that of every member of the team, his family, and the key to his liquor cabinet.

Rich pushed himself up in the seat. "Care to join me? I'm not doing anything and I'm planning on doing more of it."

"Thanks." Moyer sat in a port-side leather seat and faced his friend across the aisle.

Rich stretched. "You know, I could get used to traveling like this. It beats sitting in the back end of a cargo plane."

"Last year we rode on TP-01 and Air Force One. I think you're getting spoiled." While on mission the previous year, the team traveled on the Mexican equivalent of Air Force One.

"Some folk just deserve to be spoiled. I'm one of them."

"Probably."

"Uh-oh."

"What?"

Rich leaned forward. "When you start letting me get away with quips like that, I know something is buggin' you. What is it?"

"You don't know me as well as you think."

"Of course I do. Your wife tells me everything."

"Does she now? I'll have to talk to her about that."

"Come on, Boss. Spill it."

Moyer looked away. "I can't put my finger on it. I feel out of sorts. I don't know why. It's not like this is my first mission."

"When did it begin?"

Moyer shrugged. "Can't be sure."

"I bet you can. I'll bet the new guy's paycheck it started when you called your wife."

"Something I've done many times before."

"Uh-huh."

"What? You made the same kinda call."

Rich nodded his big head. "Do you see me sleeping?"

Moyer sighed. "So why is this time different?"

"I don't know. That's something for the shrinks to figure out, but I got a guess."

Moyer raised an eyebrow. "Which is what?"

"Age and odds, Boss. Age and odds."

"How do you mean?"

Rich leaned forward. "I know I'm preaching to the choir here, but you and I are the old guys in the unit. That means we have more training and experience. It's why you're boss and I'm your better-looking backup."

He pressed his lips together for a moment, as if waiting for the words to ride down a slow-moving escalator from his brain. "Every time we go out, we increase the risk we won't be coming back in a vertical position. I'm sure some statistician could punch holes in my theory, but I don't care. We both know we have the riskiest job on the planet. We do it because it matters and because we're unusually good at it. But . . ." Rich looked at his feet. "But we know every new mission stacks the deck against us."

"We can't think like that, Shaq."

"But we do, Boss. I'd never say this to anyone but you, but with every new mission I wonder if I'll make it back the same stunningly handsome guy I am." His tone softened. "I wonder if I'll have kids. I wonder if I'll make Robyn a widow."

"Are you looking for a transfer?" Moyer already knew the answer. Rich's face hardened to stone.

"No, and with all due respect, Boss, I hope to never hear that question again. I haven't lost a step. Not physically; not mentally."

Moyer raised a hand. "Easy, pal. I had to ask. You know that. I have no doubts about your abilities."

Rich leaned even closer and whispered. "Look, we almost lost J. J. He should be a cripple, hobbling around his apartment on one leg. Call it a miracle, call it whatever you like, but the kid almost checked out on us in Mexico. So did Data."

Jerry Zinsser, "Data," replaced a team member killed in Venezuela. He was a problem from the get-go but came through when it counted. It nearly killed him. Jose, the team medic, had to do an emergency blood transfusion using Rich's blood.

"I get what you're saying." Moyer also leaned forward. "Okay, I'll admit that I can't get my family off my mind. I keep thinking of the kids. They're at important transitions in their lives and I wonder how they will deal with life without me there to ride them about what's right and wrong."

"That's my point, Eric. We're getting older, the missions are getting more dangerous, and because of our success rate, we're pulling the impossible duty. We're the best so we get the worst."

Eric?
Rich seldom called Moyer by his first name. "We've beat the odds before and we're not that old yet."

"I know. I don't want you to think I'm whining here. I'm just trying to explain what's bugging you and me." He sat back. "If you think it's bad now, wait until the next mission. I have a theory; worry is like mercury poisoning: it builds up over time."

Moyer considered Rich's comments. He couldn't deny the truth in them no matter how much he wanted to. "So what's the answer, Shaq?"

"We do what we do, we do it better than anybody else, and then we keep doing it until we become anchors to the team."

"Then what?"

"Then we go fishing and spend our evenings at the barbecue."

Moyer smiled. The image of standing in his backyard burning pork chops drove away the emotional shadows. "Man, that sounds good."

"Don't it though?"

THE GULFSTREAM LANDED AT
Elmendorf Air Force Base just outside Anchorage, Alaska, and taxied from the concrete runway onto the tarmac. Through the small window by his seat, Moyer saw a canvas-topped truck—an old Army "Deuce and a Half."

"So much for the first-class treatment," Rich said.

"You were letting the good life go to your head anyway." Moyer released his safety belt before the corporate-style jet came to a full stop.

"That's an unsafe thing to do, you know?" Rich had a cheesy grin pasted to his face.

"You didn't even fasten yours." Moyer stood.

"You know me. I like to live on the edge. Besides, I'm pretty sure it won't be an unlatched seat belt that gets me."

J. J. stepped to Moyer but faced Rich. "It's all that pizza you eat. Now that'll kill you sooner or later."

Rich's grin faded. "Listen, little man, I've seen you down a few pounds of pizza."

J. J. shrugged. "Danger is my middle name." He turned to Moyer. "Speaking of pizza . . ."

"Sorry, kid, they didn't give us enough time to follow tradition."

Whenever possible, the team met for pizza the night before deploying on mission. It had become a custom. Pizza before; pizza after.

"Doesn't seem right." J. J. leaned and peered through a window. "Are they kidding us? Black Jack Pershing rode in that, didn't he?"

"You were expecting a limo?" Shaq took to his feet. "Man up, Colt."

"What? Didn't I just hear you complaining about the same thing?"

Rich gave the weapons expert a punch in the shoulder. "The extra stripes on my uniform give me the right to be capricious."

"You're not wearing your uniform—capricious? Did you just use the word
capricious?"

"Leave it alone, J. J., Rich has a right to be inconstant if he wants."

"Inconstant? Who are you guys and what did you do with my team leaders?" J. J. turned and started forward. "Heads up, guys, we have crossed over into the twilight zone."

The Gulf Stream came to a gentle stop and a few moments later the second officer emerged from the cockpit and opened the door. Although it was May and summer was just a few weeks away, cold air rushed into the cabin. A man in an Air Force ABU jogged up the stairs. Moyer guessed he was only a couple of years out of high school. The moment he entered the confined space of the aircraft, he removed his blue garrison cap.

"I'm looking for Sergeant Major Moyer." His voice had a nasal twang.

"Clear the aisle." Moyer pushed past the men of his unit. "I'm Moyer."

The young man held out his hand. "It's good to meet you, Sergeant Major. I'm Airman First Class Quentin Allison."

"Quentin? You take much of a ribbing for that name?"

"You have no idea, sir." He had an innocent smile. "I'm your driver, although it won't be much of a drive. You'll be airborne again in a few minutes. If you'll follow me, please."

Airman Quentin didn't wait for a response. He donned his cap and headed down the retractable stairs.

"Let's not keep the man waiting." Moyer stepped into the cold Alaskan breeze.

Quentin stood at the back of the vintage truck and opened the fold-down rear gate.

"I gotta ask," Rich said. "I know times are hard all over, but is the Air Force so strapped it can't afford something a little newer?"

"What, you don't like Betty?"

"You named the truck?"

"Of course. She's a beauty, isn't she? A group of us got her from a military surplus store. The guy who sold it to us said she was used on one of the Pacific islands during the war."

"And you believed him," Shaq said.

"No, sir. Not for a minute. We've been restoring her for the last two years. Parts are a tad hard to come by."

"I imagine so." Moyer took in the box lines of the old truck. "You've done a good job with her."

"Thank you, sir. You'll be happy to know she's Army." The airman motioned to the back. "If you wouldn't mind. Your kit arrived about an hour ago. I'm told someone named Colonel Mac had them prepared in Yakima and flown here. I'm supposed to tell you to check your gear before liftoff. I imagine you already planned to do that."

Shaq nodded. "You got that straight." He turned to his team. "Mount up."

As promised, the field kit rested in front of the wood benches lining the inside of the personnel carrier's bed. Name tags attached by hook-and-loop strips identified each kit. Six small duffle bags sat next to the rucksacks. Strapped to the kits were fresh weapons.

Crispin was the last in the truck before Quentin slammed the truck gate closed and inserted metal pins into the lock brackets.

The diesel engine coughed to life and Moyer could smell the oily exhaust. He didn't want to admit it aloud, but he was enjoying the experience. How many soldiers had ridden in this old beast? Most outdated military equipment was sold to third-world countries, scrapped, or sold through surplus stores. He admired those who gave their free time to keep representatives of former technology running.

A UH-1N Twin Huey rested on a helipad at the end of the tarmac, its rotors already slicing the air as the pilot warmed the engine.

The truck pulled to a stop. Quentin appeared five seconds later and released the gate so Moyer and the team could exit. "There's your ride, Sergeant Major. First Lieutenant Dan Blain is your pilot. There are three other crewmen, but I'll let him make those introductions if he wants."