Sabotage (25 page)

It was highly unlikely that Ling would lift a finger to save his or Karl's lives. There was a look of inevitability about the man now, like he was somehow accepting his fate even though Vince didn't know what fate held in store for his captor.

So he took the beatings with stoicism. When they slowed, he sensed Ling shifting to his friend. That was when Vince would lift his head and murmur something through swollen lips, and Ling would return to start the beatings anew.

So this is how it ends
, Vince thought,
I’ll die as a human punching bag
.

He always assumed that it would be a sniper's bullet or a miscast grenade that would take his life. He was very good at what he did. He loved what he did and lived with no regrets. The only regret wavering at the edge of his consciousness was that he hadn't been able to save Karl. But as Ling moved in for yet another one-way showdown, Vince focused on the image of the little red-roofed cabin atop some faraway hill.

+ + +

Vince thought he must be hearing things now. He figured it was probably his ears going out, like one set of senses finally giving way with a pop, pop, pop. His eardrums must’ve been destroyed.

With incredible effort, his eyes eased open. That's when he realized none of the blows had fallen above his nose. He could still see. Maybe that's what Ling had wanted, for Vince and Karl to see every punch coming.

Devious
, Vince thought in silent admiration. Even though the guy didn't have the balls to fight him man-to-man, he still had to admire the approach, like a boxer respecting the way an opponent threw a punch.

When he looked up, Vince fully expected to see Major Ling coming at him again, but Major Ling was gone. There was just an open door, and he could just make out shadows. Vince blinked, trying to clear his vision. There was a man with a dark mask heading in his direction. Two more men were following closely, weapons scanning the room.

There was something familiar—No. It was his eyes. His mind was playing tricks on him.
He had suffered too many hits
. But then the lead man stepped closer, removed his mask, and Vince Sweeney knew he wasn't dreaming.
Maybe he was dead. He had to be dead.
There was no other way that he was seeing this.

The man reached out and touched Vince on the cheek.

"I'm sorry,” Vince croaked. Slowly, the other men were lowering their masks too. Vince felt the worst sorrow he'd ever experienced, like the devil had reached into his chest and pulled out his heart, squeezing out his soul. "No, you can't be dead, too," he said to the other men.

"Vince, it's okay. You're going to be okay,” the specter said.

Vince shook his head. "We're dead. We're all dead, and it's my fault." He was looking away now. He didn't want to see the images. He tried to push them away, but the man's hands stayed where they were before moving to his chin, lifting Vince’s head to look him in the eye.

"Vince, it's okay. We're all here. We're all alive."

Could it really be? Could it?

"Mr. President?" Vince said, tears coming to his eyes. He'd fully expected death to take him, and his addled mind still didn't know if this was real. But he wanted to believe.

"It's me, Vince,” President Zimmer said. "Let's get you out of this chair, okay?"

As soon as they released the straps, Vince's body fell limp. It wasn't the others in the room, Cal, Daniel, Gaucho or Trent, who was now holding him up. It was the president.
Why was he there?

“Karl?" Vince asked.

"He's in rough shape, but we'll get him help."

Vince shook his head. He wanted to tell the president everything. He wanted to tell him that Karl was dying, and there was nothing they could do, that they were all helpless to save him. Then that special spark within him relit, the one that had sent him down to the recruiter's office, the one that had sent him through ranger training and into the most elite unit of all.

He was back in a flash. "Mr. President, I'm sorry. We should have been more careful."

The president looked at him with grave eyes and shook his head. "No Vince, I’m the one who should be sorry. It was my job. You and Karl were my responsibility.” He got a better grip around Vince’s waist as they headed out the door. “Now, how about we get you both home."

Epilogue

The place was more beautiful than Karl had described. The pictures Vince had seen didn't do the place justice. The little white cabin with the red tin roof was just the beginning of his amazement. The property spread over nearly 100 rolling acres. It used to be a boys’ summer camp but sat vacant for years. The existing amenities included a small lake surrounded by plenty of trails, a couple of bunkhouses, and even an old cafeteria. It would take some work, but Vince and Karl were excited about seeing the first step in their dreams come true.

Vince bought the place sight unseen. Then Cal and Jonah Layton, CEO of The Jefferson Group, stepped in and pieced together an additional 2,000 acres of land surrounding the property. Vince was amazed at what vast amounts of money could buy. He truly felt blessed.

It had taken a week to wrap up the closing on the cabin property and another three for the other properties to be placed under contract. Those would close in the coming months. And so he’d come with Karl to the cabin, and for the last five nights they’d finally gotten to call their dream property home.

Each morning shortly after rising, he made coffee for Karl and himself. He then carried it to Karl's bedroom where Karl lay with an IV bag stuck into his arm via long plastic tubes. He was alert; he’d even regained every bit of his fiery nature.

That morning, Vince had already delivered the morning coffee. He was just stepping outside to take a look at the bunkhouses. He wanted to make a guesstimate on how many months it would take to repair the buildings.

To his surprise, he saw a car coming up the drive. It was a blue sedan that he didn't recognize, a rental probably. Maybe the occupants were lost travelers or possibly campers revisiting the memories and the camp where they had stayed in the cabins when young.

Vince was curious, so he stood on the side of the porch, sipping his coffee, waiting for the blue sedan to arrive. It parked next to the big oak tree with a single rope dangling from an enormous limb that Karl assumed had at one time held a tire swing.

Two men stepped out. Instantly, Vince knew they were Secret Service.

"Mr. Sweeney?" one of them queried.

"That's me."

"We were sent to take a look around this property. Is now a good time?”

"Be my guest."

He'd expected something like this. Maybe it was something the Secret Service always did in case the president was ever to visit an old friend.
They must just be getting the lay of the land
, Vince thought.

The men returned fifteen minutes later during which time Vince had already gotten himself a second cup of coffee.

"Thank you for your time, sir,” said one of the agents before slipping back into the car. No other words were offered before the blue sedan was executing a three-point turn, heading back down the gravel drive.

No matter how long Vince had been in contact with the United States Government, he never quite got used to how focused on expediting their duties most of them were, often at the expense of appearing brusque. He would have been happy to offer the lads a strong mug of coffee and most likely a bite to eat if they had stuck around.

Oh well. There were things to do. He put the brief visit out of his mind, and crossed the dirt road to tackle his morning tasks.

Soon a series of honks sounded down the drive. Vince reflexively reached for his sidearm, pulling it from his waistband. One, then two, then three more heavy-duty trucks came into view, all pulling trailers packed with stacks of lumber -  piles and piles of wood and bags of cement. As the trucks got closer, he saw Gaucho driving the lead vehicle, but who was in the passenger seat?

My God, that's the president. What's he doing here?

Once the vehicles were parked, the men started piling out. The sheer number of men reminded Vince of ants carrying food away from a picnic table. Accompanying Gaucho and the president were MSgt Willy Trent, Cal Stokes, the sniper Daniel Briggs, the portly gentleman, Dr. Higgins and young Neil Patel. Prancing along like she owned the place was the dog. What was her name? Ah, Liberty! Vince remembered she'd been a present from Cal's deceased cousin, Travis Hayden.

Two more familiar faces stepped out, and Vince had to swallow the lump in his throat. It was Christian and his grandfather. Christian ran to him, wrapping his arms around Vince’s waist. "This place is awesome, Vince. Have you gone in the lake yet?”

“Not yet, buddy,” Vince said with a chuckle, truly happy to see the young man.

Everyone was gathered together in an extraordinary show of support, and Vince had difficulty keeping his emotions in check. "I don't understand. Why are you guys here? Mr. President, shouldn't you be—"

"We wanted to be here. We want to be with Karl."

Vince had been the one to provide an update to President Brandon Zimmer. The best doctors said Karl had days, maybe weeks. Despite his outward optimism, Karl's body was finally submitting to the cancer that had spread to almost every inch of his body. The IV fluids were the only things keeping life manageable, with a heavy dose of pain medication on constant drip.

"What's all that?” Vince asked, pointing to the trucks.

Gaucho grinned. "I talked to Karl. He said you guys might need a little help getting this place back in working shape. We made a couple of calls, and here we are to get this place shipshape. Consider us the most elite working party you've ever had at your disposal."

That's when Vince noticed they were all dressed in working clothes. The president pulled a pair of work gloves out of his back pocket. "I'm going to go say hi to Karl, and after that, how about you tell us where we can get started?"

+ + +

Cal threw the tennis ball into the lake as far as he could, prompting Liberty to take a sprinting jump to fetch the projectile. She swam, legs pumping furiously while everyone laughed from the sandy beach.

They had made a lot of progress in the past three days. It turned out Karl had done a stint with the Navy Seabees while stationed in Guam. Along with the summers working construction as a kid, he was the resident expert when it came to repairing and rebuilding.

While he didn't have the strength to pick up a hammer, he directed it all from the sidelines. In the way of a man accustomed to living a hard life, Karl was happy to be with the others, executing orders and staying busy. There were only a couple of times Cal had seen Karl's face turn melancholy, like he realized he would never be the one swinging the hammer again.

By the end of three days, they'd not only repaired the holes in the bunkroom roofs, thrown out all the old cots and replaced them with new ones, but they’d also built a 1,000-meter rifle range and a long row of pistol pits. There was still plenty of work to do, but they could see the fruits of their labor.

They'd spent their days digging, cutting and hammering away. Top was skillfully moving tons of dirt with the front loader they rented, and Dr. Higgins was particularly talented using the electric saw. 

Each day, everyone gathered to eat lunch together by the lake. Conversations only ceased when Liberty took time to entertain the men by fetching balls in the water, or chasing a bird or squirrel that had gotten too close to the action.

Night times were especially memorable as the men sat gathered around the campfire. Everyone chipped in, relating their stories. Even Christian's grandfather opened up, telling of his days in the Djibouti Army.

The men had gathered to make light work of the property’s projects, but especially to be with Karl in his last days. They'd come to be together, but they'd come for a fellow warrior—to spend those last precious days together and see him off.

Back in the real world, America was clamoring to hear from their resurrected president. Zimmer had turned into an overnight sensation. Everyone wanted to see him, to make sure he was really alive. He’d told the men staying at the new property about how he’d escaped, aided in no small way by Elliot Peabody and his impressive Djibouti spy ring. It had been Peabody who’d tipped off the president about General Hachi’s assassination scheme. After that it was just a matter of coordinating a good old fashioned switcheroo where the plane had stopped just long enough behind the airport hangar for the two presidents and their security to jump out and hide. The plane had taken off by remote control, with the cost of the lost plane a small price to pay to uncover the truth.

But even though the president could have jumped to the mic, he instead avoided the spotlight, choosing to stay among his friends. He kept his promise, only occasionally taking phone calls that he knew he couldn’t avoid. Cal had asked him that first day about the status of the presidential election and how the recent events in Djibouti might change things. Zimmer had looked at him cautiously, like he was still trying to make a decision that he wasn't yet ready to share. Cal picked up on the hint, and he never broached the subject again. Politics wasn't his business anyway, and there was plenty of real work to do.