Recall (11 page)

“It's a known safe house,” Gerry said. “Israel keeps current photos of all locations considered high importance.”

“So, we don't know what's inside?”

Gerry walked to the front of the room, hands clasped behind his back. His narrow chest was thrust out, as if he'd finally found some confidence. “We know a little, just not the layout. The outside is a shell. Somewhere inside is a bunker, probably several stories underground. Political prisoners have been brought there for torture. All that makes it a logical holding area for a high-value hostage.”

Red looked up from his photos. “For
Lori
.”

Gerry's chest sunk again. “Sorry, right. For Lori. Other than that, it's storage for small arms.”

Crawler lifted a photo and waved. “Am I the only one thinks it's odd there's arms storage in a nonmilitary area? Look. It's industrial.”

Gerry smiled. “VEVAK doesn't trust the military, and it's their equipment. Our source info is thin because their main defense is secrecy. I don't anticipate much security on-site. At least not from what we've seen in the past.”

Jim stepped in front of him. “That's what we're hoping, but still prep for the worst. The warehouse is next to the Pardis River.” He pointed to another satellite photo. “Not more than a hundred feet across, less at spots. However, one mile north, upstream, it widens, like a small lake. It's a sinkhole. Deep enough for a cloaked drop.”

Crawler slammed his fists on his knees. “Shit! I
hate
cloaked drops!”

“Stick a rag in it, Sergeant.”

Red squinted. “Sir, what's a cloaked drop?”

Crawler growled, “Oh, you're gonna love what you've been missing. They cram you into a big pipe and—”

Jim pointed to his satellite photo. “Get Red up to speed on cloaked drops later. We're dropping at twenty-foot intervals. Rendezvous at this point here. We'll swim downstream one mile to the warehouse dock.”

He switched photos to a satellite image of the warehouse and surrounding yard. Marksman would set up on the corner of a flat roof of a different building fifty yards to the northeast, covering two sides of the warehouse. Crawler would be on the ground as Marksman's bodyguard. Two extraction teams would enter the building simultaneously, from the west and the south. The idea was to drive anyone trying to escape toward Marksman and Crawler. Lanyard would cut the electricity to the building and set up a CSS.

Red raised a finger. “What's ‘CSS'?”

Jim hesitated a fraction of a second, frowning. “Communication Suppression System. Almost undetectable. It counters any radio transmission within a quarter mile. Doesn't scramble, just muffles. Like a gag.”

“Do our comms work with it?”

“Of course.”

Jim and Carter were command and control on top of a pile of boulders on the northwest corner of the lot. No comms were to be used until after the extraction teams entered the warehouse, and only on the lowest setting.

“Your primary ammo is four clips of subsonic tacs,” Jim said.

He wasn't screwing around. So the four clips weren't regular subsonic ammo. Some doctor had weaponized the venom of the Inland Taipan snake over a decade ago. It was carried by a pressurized slug, like a flying syringe. Against Geneva conventions. Even a flesh wound would drop you in two seconds, kill you in six. Red smiled.

“You'll have eight clips of Det ammo,” Jim said, “but do
not
use unless you have to. Our exfil depends upon a silent op.”

He explained the exit plan and time line. Then everyone broke to review the photos and commit them to memory. Red and Lanyard went over the basics—hand signals, clearing orders, and protocols—for his own confidence as much as Lanyard's. Didn't seem to be anything new there. Then Jim broke the brief. Gerry tossed all the photos in the incinerator. With a
whooomp
they were ash.

Hot chow was waiting back in berthing. Red had something, but he couldn't say what. He only ate because he needed the energy. He sat on a bunk and rechecked weapons. Crawler waddled up, still chewing and looked down at him.

“Some of us has a wager goin', sir. Remember that drinking game we's had?”

An image of a shit-faced, shirtless Crawler sitting next to a dunk tank trying to reassemble his M4 shot through his mind. “Yeah. Guys, heavy drinking, weapons. Always a good combo.”

“The drinks'll have to come after the op. The time to beat is fifty seconds. I've got money riding on you, major.”

“Who bet against me?”

Crawler swallowed. “Ain't sayin'. Not yet.”

This could go either way. If Red could break down and reassemble his main weapon in time, it'd be a boost of confidence to the team, and himself. Such a basic test wouldn't prove all his skills were up to par, but if he remembered how to do this, chances were better he'd remember the rest of them. But if he messed it up . . .

He sat on the floor, Indian–style. The concrete chilled his balls through the fabric of his trousers. He lifted his M4, fumbled for the clip release, and pulled back on the charging handle. He released the bolt, dry fired, and placed it in front of him. His hands shook, so he rubbed his palms on his thighs, as if trying to warm them. Crawler pulled an oily green square of parachute cloth from his pocket, twirled it into a tube, then tied it around Red's eyes. “On t'ree. One—”

“Hold up!” Dr. Ali said. “I'm timing him, too.”

Red turned his head toward the voice.
“Et tu, Brute?”

Everyone chuckled except for Crawler. “What the hell does ‘et two, brutae' mean?”

“Go back to high school,” Marksman grunted.

Crawler sneered, then finished the countdown.

Red snatched the rifle and pushed on the main retaining pins, breaking the weapon into two. Relief came as muscle memory seemed to take over. He removed the buffer assembly and spring, then went to work on the upper assembly. The bolt carrier and charging handle were on the floor in order, then the retaining pin, firing pin, cam pin, and bolt. He slapped his knees, reassembled everything in reverse order, replaced the retaining pins, charged the weapon and dry fired. He charged it again and tested the safety and bolt lock, then placed it back on the floor in front of him.
Like tying his shoes
. He rubbed his legs again, but his hands were steady now.

“Forty-four seconds!” Crawler said. “Doc's buying when we get back. And none of that piss water.”

Red pushed up the blindfold in time to see Marksman's eyes roll. Crawler's idea of a premium brew had been Bud Light, and apparently the years hadn't refined him. He wasn't wearing any insignia—probably still failing his master sergeant exams. But he'd bet for Red and not against. The man couldn't be a complete idiot.

Jim stepped into the room. “Lights out.”

Marksman took a step and swung into a top bunk. Crawler grunted as he eased himself beneath, the bedsprings
twanging
under his weight. Lanyard was silent. Unconvinced. Like the rest of the team. Everyone sacked out in uniform.

* * *

Sleep still wasn't an option for Red. Jim had said Ali couldn't give anyone pills to help them sleep in case Intel pulled the trigger early. So Red closed his eyes and tried to ignore Crawler's snoring, the wheezing broken only by an occasional gas leak.

He couldn't turn off his mind. Hell, he'd been under sedation for a day and a half. That would have to hold him. The round, white-faced clock ticked through the hours, like Gerry at the brief.

About 0200, he swung his legs down, stood, and walked out. The steroid-pumping squid barred his exit, but let him pass. “If you stay where I can see you.”

Red glanced inside the Sikorskys twice as he paced around the hangar. Their familiarity reassured him. On his third round, he slid a palm over the starboard belly of the Pave Low. He smiled when he found them: two neatly patched 35 mm holes just forward of the gun mount. This was the same helo that had extracted them after the op in Brazil. She was ancient and quivered in flight, but he was grateful to the old bird. She'd flown a few feet above the trees through the thickest cloud cover he'd ever seen. He'd sensed it then, too: She was happy. She'd brought all her boys home.

Red paced, thinking about Lori, then tried to push it all out of his mind. No luck. His thoughts circled back endlessly to waking in the hallway with a gash in his head. And her gone. Forgot to warn the kids about Tom's knives on the counter . . . but Mom was good about that.

His family had been separated, spread out. All he could do now was wait. Wait for some Iranian traitor across the water to confirm some intel to his Mossad handler.

He stood next to a tan Humvee. His reflection was dim in the flat window, but clear enough to mirror watery, puffy eyes. It had been six years since he'd been active. Was it realistic to think he could jump back in like nothing had changed? He'd kept reasonably fit, but skills degrade. No wonder the team had doubts. And Lanyard . . . hell, it wasn't a good decision to partner a rookie with Red on his first op back. Jim's confidence was reassuring, but unwarranted.

Red rubbed fingers over the sleeve of his fatigues. He hadn't worn them for years, but their texture on his skin was as familiar as if he'd never taken them off. His boots echoed as he walked by the Pave Low once again. She'd been retired once. Patched up, like himself. He'd told Penny he'd get Lori back. How that was going to happen seemed a thick fog, but he'd bring her home.

He slunk back into his rack, then remembered Father Ingram's advice and said a prayer.

His eyes were closing when Jim stuck his head in. “Wake time! Wheels up in thirty!”

A glance to the white-faced clock. It was 0556.

B
reakfast was cold eggs and grits, prepped and refrigerated hours earlier. It could've been ice cubes for all Red cared. Jim insisted he eat something, so he grabbed a banana. Mossad had called with confirmation and the op was a go—nothing warmer than that. His fingers shook like he was on amphetamines.

He paced, pretending to check his gear while the rest of the team finished up. His palms tingled as he worked the action on his sidearm. He removed the slide and held the two pieces. He was looking down the fat barrel, trying to understand why it felt lighter than his old sidearm, when Jim called them to muster in the hangar. He slid the gun back together and they ran through their final check and inventory.

When a shrill whining came from outside, everyone lifted their gaze to the hangar doors. The sound swelled, deafening even inside, then wound down.

Jim pointed toward an
EXIT
sign. “Our ride's here. Strap it up and get on board,”

The pitch of the engines was different than anything Red could remember. Marksman beamed. The man always seemed most upbeat before an op. Jim led the column out the hanger door. Outside, Crawler flipped open a silver Zippo and lit his cigar. Tobacco smoke mingled with the scent of jet fuel. Not an acceptable combination, but Jim had always allowed the man a few pre-op puffs to satisfy Crawler's superstition. On the tarmac was a long, slender, white aircraft with canards and deeply swept delta wings. It looked like pictures of a Concorde Red had once seen.

Captain Richards pointed toward the plane. “What's that, the Aurora?”

Jim laughed. “Who the hell you think I am? Even I couldn't swing that.”

Marksman turned to face him, walking backwards. The early morning sun reflected off his shiny dark bald head. “You weren't even born when this was built. It's a Tupolev, a 144 I think. Russian built, back in the early seventies, their competition to the Concorde. Economics are a bitch.”

Richards frowned. “What you mean?”

“Costs too much to fly, like the Concorde. It was better, but still lost. Kinda like how Beta was better than VHS, but VHS won out.”

“What the hell's VHS?”

Marksman turned back around. Jim shot a grin his direction.

“How'd we end up with it?” Richards asked.

Marksman rubbed fingers together as if counting money. “NASA bought one back in the nineties from the Russians. For tests, they claim. They gave it new avionics and slipped in new engines. Supposed to be out of duty.”

“How you know so much?”

Marksman kept walking.

Crawler snuffed his cigar stub on the aluminum stair handrail. Two fuel trucks flanked the plane as they walked up thirty feet to the door. Its fuselage was slender, narrow, like a huge fighter but with four engines slung under its belly. For Red, it held the same emotion as racehorses in the starting gates. Tom had taken him to the tracks when he was only twelve, despite his mother's scolding. Even as a newbie he'd seen the excitement in their eyes, in the veins bulging on their necks. Those horses were made to run, bred to explode down the track, impatient in the gates as they anticipated the bell. Red put his hand on the plane's skin as he ducked into the doorway. It quivered. This contender was in the starting gate. A corner of his mouth drew up when he thought how Lori always teased when he told her how machines felt.

He couldn't see the pilots, hidden behind a bulkhead of instruments. One was talking with the tower. “. . . I told you
hold
runway 08. I only need four minutes. . . . We don't even get our nose up till two hundred twenty knots,
no
air wash. I don't care who the hell's trying to land, tell them to go 'round!” He clicked off and mumbled something.

The passenger area was empty, void, like a cargo plane. Except for a bank of old dials and scopes forward, the top liner was gone and panels only covered the bottom few feet of the sides, exposing the ribs of the fuselage. Red didn't know what he was expecting, but it was more than this. Narrow tubes and wires ran neatly along the centerline of the ceiling. In some places even the insulation between the ribs was removed, exposing the outer skin. The space was cold, naked, fragile.

About halfway down the aisle Jim turned around and their eyes met. “Been stripped of everything to make it lighter.” He walked backwards and pointed to green webbed jump seats hanging from either side. “Red, Lanyard, Crawler, and Marksman, on the port. The rest on the starboard. Stow your gear and strap in.”

A pilot marched down the aisle and stood, legs spread, hands on hips. His white hair was cut in a high and tight. Skin hung under his eyes, but they were alert. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, tall, and in charge. A dark blue patch over his heart displayed dark gold wings. Air Force. Subdued silver eagles perched on his shoulders.

“Okay, ladies. I'm your pilot for this gig. You're guests on my aircraft. Treat her with respect, understood?”

“Yes sir!” came from all.

He glanced at Sergeant Crawler. “You're sitting on thirty thousand gallons of JP-8, so get rid of all smokes, lit or otherwise.”

Crawler yanked out his cigar butt and glanced around his seat, then threw it in his mouth and swallowed.

The pilot pointed toward the cockpit. “No getting up till we reach cruising altitude, at which time that light up there will turn green. Any Marines in here?”

Red sounded a “Hooah!” having cross-commissioned into the Corps directly out of college, one of the few allowed each year from the Air Force Academy. Lanyard echoed the same. He'd have to remember to ask the rookie what he did before he got assigned to the Det.

“At least Jim put the jarheads together.” He slapped a finger on the crystal of a thick, black aviator's watch. “I realize we don't have Mickey to point things out, but don't move till that light turns green. Got it? Need me to repeat?” Marksman tensed, but a snort slipped through.

“Now, for your safety brief. If anything major goes wrong while in flight that light will turn red. At that point strap back in, put your head between your knees, and kiss your ass good-bye because at Mach two we're all dead. She's got the glide scope of a brick, so at least it'll be quick and painless. Welcome aboard and Godspeed.”

He turned and jogged to the cockpit. Engines were winding up. Jim passed a bag of earplugs, throwing it across to Red. Through the few uncovered windows Red saw the fuel trucks backing away. The plane moved forward, pivoting on the landing gear as it pointed itself toward the east end of the runway. They taxied, turned west into the wind, and didn't stop as they hit the afterburners. The fuselage all around rattled and shook. Even with earplugs, the roar of the engines was loud.

“It'll be better at altitude,” Marksman shouted. Red had to read his lips. They gained speed, then more, then kept going where they should have lifted off. The plane continued at full gallop, eating up runway until it finally nosed up. As soon as the rear wheels left the ground, the runway gave way to grassy field. They maintained a steep angle for several minutes and ran through turbulence that ended abruptly. He read Marksman's lips:
Sound barrier!

Red gazed down the long, slender, naked tube in which they rode. It twisted in response to the air buffeting its skin like a boxer taking blows to his ribs. He put his hand on the undressed aluminum floor. The pilot had made the aircraft sound like a coffin, but it was happy now, sucking air and blowing it out white hot, finally out of the gate, hitting its stride.

The light turned green. Jim hopped up and pulled out his earplugs. “We only have two and a half hours to Ramstein and twenty minutes of it are gone. Let's get started.”

Captain Richards glanced quizzically at Marksman. The old salt pointed back and said, “That's right, rookie! While you were sucking your mamma's titty my generation was stepping on the moon and flying across the world at twice the speed of sound. What's yours done? Internet, iPads, and terrorism!” The growl of the engines was the only remaining sound as the team stared back at him. Even the pilot peered over his shoulder.

“Feel better?” Jim asked.

Marksman leaned back and crossed his arms. “Sorry. It's all yours.” The sun streamed through a window and Marksman closed one eye.

Jim ran them through the op plan again. They'd gotten their confirmation early that morning and the extraction had to be done under cover of night. That's why he called in a favor for the Tupolev. A prepositioned B-2 at Ramstein had been arranged at the same time. The schedule was imprinted at this point. Wheels up at Ramstein at 1500 zulu, drop at 2100, leave the rendezvous at 2115, showtime at 2145, exit no later than at 2215.

Jim released them, and Red leaned back in his seat, listing toward Lanyard. His head throbbed and he had to blink hard to water his eyes. “How long you been at the Det?”

“About two months now.” Lanyard's voice betrayed edginess.

“Where'd you come from?”

“Same as you. Recon. Spec ops. Little this. Little that.”

Red looked down at Lanyard's boots. The toes were gouged deeply. His fingers were rugged, too, calluses near the tips. “Do a lot of climbing on your last assignment?”

“Last four months in Afghanistan, mainly search and destroy. If I wasn't climbing, I was under the ground rootin' 'em out.” His eyes looked toward the ceiling and followed the wires down the spine of the aircraft. “Never been to Vietnam, but the Taliban caves have got to be just as bad.”

“You like doing that?”

Sergeant Lanyard scowled. “Hell no! My platoon was good, but no one
liked
it. Not even the hardcore ones.”

Red covered his smile by scratching his beard. He had no patience for anyone that claimed to enjoy shitty duty. Some did, but those guys ended up in psych wards.

Lanyard rubbed his forehead with the palms of both hands. “You okay on this? I mean, your wife and all. What if—”

“What if we find her in pieces?” Red asked. “Then I'd want to be the one that did. Either way, I'm going to enjoy gutting the rag-heads that did it.” It was Red's turn to look at the ceiling now. How ironic that if someone cut the right wire it would bring down the entire team, the entire op.

“You heard the colonel. Grab the ones we can. Kill if we have to. Part of our deal with the Israelis. Something about VEVAK and the Iranian nuclear program.”

Like hell. What could they do? Kick him out for killing the terrorists who'd kidnapped his wife? He'd already been out for six years and didn't like the idea of coming back full-time. A lesson from his past tugged at him. What was it? He couldn't remember.

His hand felt is if it was wrapped in Father Ingram's firm grip, shaking hands as he left his office. He couldn't face the priest if he ignored orders. But wasn't God in this? He was on a plane with seven other trained men for the purpose of reclaiming Lori. Surely that wasn't an accident. Not even Father Ingram could deny it. Allowing them to live wouldn't be right, would it?

Now I'm the religious fanatic
.

He rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes. The image of Tom wielding his cane like a saber cut into his mind, his father plugging his fingers into Red's sternum. Yeah. Tom was right. The kidnappers had made it personal. It was on their own heads. What's that saying his father had taught him as a kid?
Kill 'em all. Let God sort 'em out.

* * *

The webbed-nylon jump seats cut off Lanyard's circulation like the ones in the C-130s, in the Chinooks, and just about anything else in which he'd been carried. Seven miles a day kept his blood pressure low, so it didn't take much. He lifted one leg to let the blood run, then leaned back and stared at the major sitting there rubbing his neck. This guy was whacked.
I'd rather have some army puke leading me than this pussy. He's been gone six years. Why the hell did they stick me with him on my first op here? They think I'm expendable?

Nothing like the colonel. Now,
he
was high speed. The only thing he'd seen a full bird do before was rest his fat ass behind a desk, only bothering to stand to chew someone out when things went south. This one, his hands got dirty. Even so, he didn't know how to put together a team. His A team leader's a psycho ex-operator who would probably pass out during the swim. Three officers on the same op? What the hell?

“So, you know everyone here yet?” the major asked.

Whatever. “First time I've seen Marksman. What the hell kind of name is that?”

“It's a nickname that stuck. He's got others. Never told us his real one. I know less now about the guy than on my first op.” He looked off as if counting, then leaned back, close to his ear. “It's been six or so with him. He doesn't train with us. Just shows up when called and knows his stuff.”

Lanyard pointed discreetly across the aisle at Carter. “Most teams like this? Patched together? Between Carter and Marksman, that's two we've never trained with. With you that's . . .” Lanyard held Red's gaze.

“Seems we always have at least one new face, depending on what skills we need for the op. Language, terrain, demolitions, engineering. Me? Hell, I've got enough doubts for the both of us. Carter? I gotta trust the colonel knows what he's doing. I don't like him here, either. But Marksman, you don't have to worry about him. Don't know his day job, but it's not domestic. I think he's Russian, Spetsnaz, probably Alpha Group by the way he handles himself. But he's old enough to have been KGB.”

“How would that work?” Lanyard sneered.