Nashville SEAL: Jameson: Nashville SEALs (20 page)

“You like it when I talk dirty, Jameson.”

“Don’t do it, Lizzie.” He leaned closer to her image and whispered, “But I have a pretty good imagination, honey. But don’t say a word.”

“How about a long lonely moan.”

Whispering again, “Not too loud or someone’s gonna think we lost another goat.”

“So now you’re saying I sound like a goat in heat?”

“No, baby. You sound like the woman I’m coming home to. God I wish it was tomorrow.”

“So you getting lots of sun? Enjoying the sights?”

“Nah. It’s pretty much a shithole over here. Hot as hell. But I got those nice scented moist towelettes, you know, the lavender ones you use for removing makeup?”

“Uh huh.”

“I stole your last package. Not sure if you noticed. Sorry honey.”

“Nope didn’t notice. Haven’t been wearing much makeup lately.”

“Me neither,” he said. After a pause, he felt the need to fill the space with something, some words. “Just wanted to let you know I might be out of communication for a few.”

“Oh, so you’re dating that brunette again? The one in the tub with all the candles? Tell her I’ll whop her ass when I see her next.”

“Oh baby, you know I wouldn’t do that. But she does have a red-haired sister. At least she looks like a red-head. We’re taking bets…”

It was a slice of normal, having the few minutes to joke with Lizzie. She told him about the work at the winery, the meeting with Zapparelli and the committee she was working on.

“You be careful, Lizzie. No walking around to bars at night in Healdsburg, even though you’re trying to find donors for the event. Things are never as safe as they seem.”

“I know. But I love listening to you nagging me.”

“We got an extra advisory about telling our families not to mention where we are. No specifics, no addresses or towns. I’m sticking to that.”

“Well, shoot, you’re the one who said Healdsburg.”

“That I did. Sorry, darlin’.”

The lull came just before they had to sign off. He was going to try to call during the early morning next time so he could speak to “Ms. Capital,” which was the nickname they made up for Charlotte.

Jameson stared at the black screen when the call was ended prematurely. He’d warned her about this, and not to try to call him back, that it would be impossible. They’d said everything they needed to say anyway. It was just too short.

The Cape St. George came in a day late. The twelve of them were sharing guest officer’s quarters, except with three to a room it wasn’t deluxe. But it did stay as cold as an iceberg, and Jameson knew he’d get some sleep as long as he didn’t wake up in a puddle of his own sweat. Bundling up was an easy problem to fix.

They were transported to the mainland at midnight, everyone having a good clean repel with no mishaps. The rendezvous was located, and they split up into three teams of four. Although this would make their footprint wider, it was considered preferable for hiding from hostile eyes. And, it would be easier to lay cover for each other in case they hit a hornet’s nest.

Fredo was in communication with the ship’s Com, since she was staying off shore nearly twenty miles to avoid local contact. Earlier in the year, the St. George had been the victim of a plan by pirates to raid the ship, until the unfortunate pirates figured out in the light of day that they’d picked a fight with the wrong dog. They were able to capture a dozen or so and deliver them to an interrogation facility run by the African Union south of Mogadishu.

“Here I thought our elections were fucked up,” T.J. Talbot was telling Coop. “I sure as hell hope we’re outa here in December. Hundreds of people die, they risk their lives to go vote in Somalia.”

“Makes a little protest now and then not seem so bad,” added Armando.

Jameson agreed. “We’re never satisfied, are we?”

Fredo leaned forward to look at him eye-to-eye. “What was the biggest crowd you ever played for, Jameson?”

“I think around five thousand. Maybe more.”

“No football stadiums?” Coop asked.

“Nope. Didn’t get there.”

“That was a pretty big one in Nashville, right? Was that your five thousand?” asked Kyle.

“I believe so. And it might have been bigger too. Crazy. Big venues like that, there are people all over the place, back stage too.”

“I hear you knocked them dead, Jameson,” Rory said.

Before Jameson could answer, Jones inserted, “You wear your Elvis costume?”

Several guys chuckled.

“Don’t knock Elvis. I still love listening to his music,” said Kyle. “I wouldn’t wear the shirts, but I love his voice.”

“You wear rhinestones for that concert, Jameson?” Fredo wanted to know.

“Nope, that’s not for me. I’d be just as happy in a tee shirt. But I wore my lucky shirt—that’s the one I met Lizzie in some years back—kinda fits snug with these shoulders that grew on me.” Jameson flexed his biceps.

“Not much chance you’ll get smaller. You’d best get yourself another shirt,” said Kyle.

“Then I’ll go shirtless. That’s my lucky shirt.”

“I got my lucky boxers,” shouted T.J. He stood up and showed the waistband of his red, white and blue American flag shorts. Several others followed suit. Everyone showed theirs. Jameson had a navy blue with yellow stars boxers on today. Fredo remained seated.

“Come on Fredo,” Coop needled him. “You gotta show yours.”

“No.”

Jameson soon found out this was a serious violation of the group trust. As if on cue, three guys grabbed him, unzipped his sand camo pants as Coop pulled them down just below Fredo’s butt.

His boxers were pink.

Jameson knew he would never outlive this day.

The mission the
next day was successful. Coop said Hassan reminded him of the camel spider they’d found on their last mission sorting through trash in Syria—skinny and sickly looking, with a pot belly, of all things.

The squad was returned to Djibouti, where they awaited their next mission. In the meantime, they conducted demonstrations and training for some of the Joint Spec Ops guys, as well as checking on missions from returning men who had been flown all over the middle east and east Africa.

Over the next two months, he and Lizzie developed a routine, and on one occasion, Charlotte was put on the phone, dressed in a green witches mask with her new watermelon hat on top. Having the girls to talk to was a lifeline, and helped him feel normal.

Yet he knew things were not normal at all. Small terrorist and lone gunman attacks on US soil worried them all, since they were so far from home. The guys tried not to talk about it, but it was always brought up by someone during the conversations about home. They were to return stateside in a week, having retrieved all the warlords and troublemakers they’d been tasked to get, without having a single casualty among the squad, and no major injuries. Best of all, there had been no civilian collateral damage. That was sometimes the hardest part and the bad guys knew it, so kept their women and children around them as much as possible.

One more week, Lizzie. Coming home to you in a week.

Jameson said a prayer every night to protect his girls until he could be there in person to do the job himself.

‡

V
ictor Qabanni waited
by the van for the others to show up. Two large tour busses arrived as a crowd of elderly exited and headed for the elevators at the parking lot level to take them to the tasting room.

Good to know.

Somehow, in the report he was given, that detail had been omitted. Above the elevator was the swimming pool deck and veranda, band stand and outdoor picnic area. Since it was late fall, there still could be some warm days and people might be using that area, but the pool was closed so this would not make a good target. But it might be a great way to transport some equipment.

He was irritated Adnan was always late. Some days Victor felt more like a babysitter than the team leader. Most of the young boys who came over were part of the stepped-up refugee program. He had to weed out the ones who were loyal enough to die. Most of them hated the United States or any Western country who brought so many of their countrymen overseas. If the public knew there was actually a bounty paid to get into the States, they’d be shocked. Sometimes people hesitated coming here because security was so much better than in Europe.

But with this new demonstration, all that would change. Meanwhile the boys just kept pouring into the mosque in Sacramento and other places on the West Coast. Promising pupils were sent his way. Now he had ten, and that number was the “tipping point” as his business professor used to tell him.

What bullshit all that was. He reduced it down to the number it would take to kill at least a couple hundred children who would be protected by women. Even women could sacrifice themselves for the children, he’d learned. Some knew how to shoot. But in California, guns were more difficult to get and very unpopular except for the extremists. It was a much safer haven to operate in.

And that was good news for their little cell.

He thought about what his Russian father and Syrian mother would say if they were still alive. Would his father be proud of the mission he’d taken on? The man’s blue eyes stared back at him every time he looked in the mirror. It was useful that some people mistook him for Italian. His light skin helped him blend in as well.

But as light as his skin and as blue as his western-looking eyes were, his heart was pure black. He lived a singleness of focus, peppered with occasional gifts from God given out of opportunity. He was given money, and most of it he spent on cigarettes and prostitutes. He liked the light-haired girls who spoke with Russian accents, or tried to when he paid them more. Made him feel closer to his dead father that way.

Adnan’s old Chevy Malibu came roaring into the parking lot, trailed by a long grey band of smoke. The windows were down, and they had been playing some rock and roll, drawing too much attention to themselves. Adnan was a cocky sonofabitch. More than likely, if he wasn’t killed during the attack, Victor would have to put a bullet in his brain himself. And then he wouldn’t have to put up with his incessant questions and complaints.

His second-in-command rolled up his window and locked the door as everyone else piled out. Victor counted seven. Now that was a red flag. On the highway with four people in the back seat, and three in front, they were Highway Patrol bait, which was stupid.

Adnan was about to say something to him, but Victor cut him off. “Shut up. Not a word.”

“Victor, I wanted to—”

“Yea, I wanted to fuck your wife one more time too before we die, but I resisted.” He loved teasing Adnan about his pretty new bride back home he wasn’t likely to ever see again, though he told the man otherwise. Adnan was a true believer until it hurt. He wondered how he’d feel when he lost a body part in a shootout, or what he’d think as he saw his guts fly out of him from a stomach wound.

The recruit was furious. His dark eyes smoldered. Victor decided to take his mind off the incident.

“I notice you locked the doors, but that will do no good with the windows open.” He pointed to the dirty American car with the Give Peace A Chance sticker on the back bumper. The back window on the driver’s side and the passenger front seat window were both still rolled partially down.

Adnan cursed and would have hit someone, directing them to fix it, but he was the only one with the keys. Victor looked at him like the piece of shit he was. It was hard enough designing the plan, but having to think for his second-in-command, who should be the one who caught his mistakes and played backup, was not a good sign.

We make do with what God provides.

It meant everything had to go like clockwork the first time, because there wasn’t likely to be a second chance.

When Adnan returned, Victor began his little lecture, noticing the group had dressed better than they usually did. A quick trip to the Salvation Army gave them acceptable American clothes that looked like old trusted uniforms so they wouldn’t stand out from a crowd.

“You’re tourists today. You walk around and study everything. I know some of you cannot read or understand many words in Americanish.” He liked to call it this because English to him meant double decker busses and red phone booths and Big Ben, which would soon be another casualty of the war against the West. “But just pretend you are on a cultural exchange. You smile and point and nod. Americans love that. They like people who like their things.”

The group was stoic.

“You getting what I’m saying?” he asked them, and got some nods. He wondered how many of them had taken the uppers he’d given them two days ago. Or perhaps they had taken them over those two days and burned themselves out. They looked about as alive as his dead cat, God rest her soul.

“So I want you to notice the old pickup in the showroom. It was used in the drive-in movie scene in the Zombie Apocalypse movie—” Searching their faces, he realized they didn’t have an idea what a drive-in movie was, although they sure as hell knew about Zombies because they’d been playing that game ever since they’d gotten their cell phones.