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Authors: Mack Maloney

BOOK: Strike Force Charlie
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It was strange for Ozzi to hear it all, laid out by someone who was there for most of it. He couldn't imagine the multitude of national security violations they were racking up here. But like Fox said, breaking the law and violating national security were things the team couldn't worry about. Not anymore.
The firefighters began to ask questions, and it didn't take long for their mood to turn angry. To a man the jakes agreed the government had not gone after Al Qaeda as hard as it should have. Everyone in the room knew someone who'd been killed on September 11th, friends, relatives, and neighbors. While the U.S. armed forces were fighting in Iraq, it seemed like the real enemy—the terrorists—had been allowed to run wild, expand their numbers, expand their terror. The jakes were also very pissed off at how the government had handled the whole investigation of 9/11. How were dozens of bin Laden's family members living in America allowed to fly home to Saudi Arabia in the dark days after the attack when every plane in the United States was supposed to be grounded? Why wouldn't the United States give the families of the 9/11 victims everything they wanted and more? The government was more interested in covering its own ass; that was the consensus.
“Which is why we're here,” Hunn told the firefighters, finally pausing to take a long swig of beer. “We need your help to fight these Muslim assholes ourselves.”
Hunn cued Ozzi, who was now on his third Bud—or was it his fourth? He staggered to the table and set up his laptop. The wall behind him was painted white. He began flashing images from his computer onto it.
The first one showed the mysterious soiled napkin. Hunn explained that this was their only clue as to what they thought the terrorists' Big Plan might be—that is, what the second bus was up to. He told them the ghosts had no idea what the drawing meant. They
did
know it came from a “Drive, Shop 'n Go” store located somewhere in New Jersey, though. The ghost team suspected the drawing was made in one of these places, the coffee stain being the clue, and the imprint of the
nickels, as if they were part of the change. The problem was, Hunn explained, that according to a Google search, there were more than 150 “DSG” stores throughout Jersey.
The ghosts suspected that some people helping the terrorists' missile teams might be connected to these places. They were looking for one individual in particular who might be either working in one of these stores or visiting one frequently.
Hunn nodded and Ozzi put up the next image.
“In other words, we're looking for this guy,” Hunn said.
The image filled the entire wall. It showed a man in a pen drawing—done by Li—with bad hair, bad skin, an ugly face, and very criminal eyes.
“His name is Ramosa … .”
 
Captain Ramosa.
Yeah, Ozzi knew
him.
He was the guy whom the ghost team chased all over the Philippines and who got the drop on them not once but twice during the search for the Stinger missiles. He was connected not just to Al Qaeda but, no doubt, to French Intelligence as well. Ramosa's cover as a terrorist for hire, bloodthirsty and efficient, was a good one: he was a highly placed officer in the Philippine national police.
The ghosts had always suspected that if the missiles ever made their way to the United States, then Ramosa would come here, too. There
had
to be a key man inside the country, a ringmaster pulling the strings for Al Qaeda's airliner shoot-down scheme to work. No doubt, Palm Tree had provided support on this side of the Atlantic, too, but he was running back to Paris when the team settled their score with him. But like every good intelligence operative, he had “cutouts,” spy talk for middlemen, the people who did the heavy lifting in the espionage business. Ramosa was already thick into the missile plot. He was up to speed on who and what was involved. He was the natural person to take the reins, to oversee the plan. The one with whom the others—most likely sleeper agents inside the United States, as well
as the “soccer players”—would “get their hands dirty together,” as the Muslim saying went. Besides, the ghosts knew Ramosa had found a secret phone number in Manila that would activate these sleepers once the missiles arrived in America. Obviously someone had already used it to awake this small army of fifth columnists.
So, if Ramosa
was
in the United States, then catching him might give the ghosts a solid lead as to what the napkin drawing was all about, if anything, and perhaps what the second bus was up to. But Ramosa was a very slippery fellow, Hunn explained again. With what they were up against, even if they tipped off the FBI or the New Jersey State Police and somehow convinced them that Ramosa was a dangerous person, there was a chance that the Philippine cutout would get word beforehand and disappear before law enforcement moved in. They couldn't take that chance.
That's why the team needed to find Ramosa quickly and quietly. But how could he be found? The ghosts didn't know exactly. But they had a good guess where to start: at one of Jersey's 155 “Drive, Shop 'n Go” shops.
“And that's where you guys come in,” Hunn told them.
 
The meeting broke up 30 minutes later. A group of firefighters escorted Hunn and Ozzi upstairs.
As Ozzi was walking back into the dimly lit card room, one of the jakes pulled him over to the bar and bought him one last beer.
“They might be ducks,” the firefighter said, handing him the bottle of Bud.
“Excuse me?” Ozzi was confused.
“That drawing, on the napkin,” the jake said. “They look like ducks to me. You know, flying in formation, just some higher than others.”
Ozzi thought a moment. It seemed to be an amateurish guess at best.
“But how about what looks like the bus in the lower corner?” he asked. “Are you saying the terrorists are going duck hunting?”
The guy looked at him like he wanted to take his beer back.
“No, but maybe the duck thing is a code or something,” he said. “Or did you ever hear about that place down in Louisiana, it's a floating barge that's got a house on it? All these bigwigs shoot ducks from it. The Vice President, the Chief Justices. It's a very exclusive club. Maybe the terrorists are going to attack it when they know a lot of bigwigs are going to be there or flying in or something.”
Meanwhile, on the other side of the bar, Hunn was power-drinking one last beer as well. Suddenly a man approached him from out of the shadows. He was older than all of the firefighters downstairs. Gray hair, same ruddy face, but softer eyes. He was a priest, the chaplain for one of New York's fire districts. He was also Hunn's cousin.
Hunn was stunned to see him. They embraced warmly, but then Hunn said to him, “You can't tell my folks I was here.”
“I won't, you have my word,” the chaplain replied. “And I wasn't even going to come here myself when I heard what was happening. But then I felt I had to.”
Hunn eased up a little. “Is my family OK?”
The priest nodded, but with a little hesitation. “Everyone is healthy,” he replied. “But they worry about you. About where you are. What you are doing. They get by knowing you're in these special operations, but …”
“I'm fighting for the people of this country, padre,” Hunn told him. “I'm fighting for them. For my sister. For everyone who was killed on 9/11. This is just something I have to do—but if they knew anything about it, it could really be trouble someday.”
“I understand,” the chaplain said. “Just be careful, Davey. If your parents ever lost you, too, after your sister, well, I don't know if they could handle it.”
The chaplain touched his shoulder, then said, “And if you must do this, then take this with you. If you ever have a vision, something that seems odd yet connected, trust your instinct. Such things are meant to happen. God bless you … and please be safe.”
With that, he walked back into the shadows.
At that moment, Ozzi reappeared. He'd drained the last of his beer.
“We've got to get going,” he told Hunn. “We've got a long ride back to D.C.”
There were handshakes all round. O'Flaherty reassured Hunn that whatever was said downstairs would stay secret. He was dead serious about that.
They walked to the rear of the building, to the back door again. Just as they arrived there, the door opened and two more jakes walked in. They looked like they'd just stepped off their fire engine. They were in complete firefighting gear—hats, utility coats, boots. They were carrying a copy of the
New York Post.
They seemed to know who Hunn and Ozzi were.
“Have you guys seen the headlines?” one asked them.
Hunn and Ozzi just shook their heads no.
The firefighter held up the paper, and there it was, in bold type:
“Secret Army Battling Terrorists in U.S.? Sources link mystery team to Hormuz, Singapore Tower.”
Hunn and Ozzi just froze.
“I hope this isn't a joke.” Ozzi said.
The firemen laughed.
“Joke, hell!” one said. “You guys just became famous.”
Hunn asked if he could take the paper and the firefighter compiled. Then the ghosts said another round of hasty goodbyes and left.
 
They climbed back into the van, exited the garage, and headed back toward Manhattan. Hunn sped past the street where his family lived but gave it only a passing glance, and it was gone. The Whitestone Bridge lay ahead.
Ozzi speed-read the newspaper, using the light of the glove compartment for illumination. Though the headline was a real screamer, the story itself, somewhat buried on page 12, was rather small. Basically it said that in the past few days a series of mysterious killings had taken place in the Midwest, the victims being undocumented aliens of
Middle Eastern descent who might be somehow mixed up in terrorism. One of these incidents took place inside a theme park and was witnessed by several hundred people, including a number of police officers. But details were sketchy as the paper went to print, just that the acts seemed similar, by boldness alone, to those attributed to the rumored secret unit who saved the carrier
Abraham Lincoln
and pulled off the rescue in Singapore. Tellingly, the story had been generated by a news service used by police departments across the country and not by the government or the FBI or anyone else in Washington.
Ozzi read the story aloud to Hunn, then said, “I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I mean, like you said, what the copter guys are doing was bound to hit the papers eventually. But if the government didn't know it before, they sure as hell must think we're still alive now. And when more details do come out, well, we might see our friends on CNN yet … .”
Hunn just shrugged. “Well, again, it won't be the first time.”
They drove for a dozen blocks or so, but then suddenly Hunn screeched to a stop in front of an especially busy stretch of businesses: a grocery store, a hardware store, an OTB shop, and a liquor store. Hunn wordlessly bounded out of the van and ran into the liquor store. Ozzi could see him buying something with the last of his spare change. He ran back out and jumped into the van. He had a bottle of wine with him. Ozzi pulled it out of the paper bag and read the label.
“Thunderbird?”
he asked incredulously. “Isn't this what the winos drink?”
“That's right,” Hunn answered. “I used to love this stuff when I was a kid.”
Hunn put the van in gear and quickly turned back into the traffic. They were under way again.
“Was that OK, sir?” he asked Ozzi. “Me picking this up, I mean?”
But Ozzi was already sitting way back in his seat; he wasn't really listening or even thinking about the news story anymore. Instead he was looking at the approaching skyline of Manhattan.
With a laugh, he just said,
“Ducks?”
From the looks of it, the old refueling station hadn't been used in years. It was located on a tiny tree-covered island 100 feet off the shore of Minnebago Lake, a large body of water 50 miles south of Green Bay. There was an old log shack located on the bank of the half-acre island, though it was barely standing, battered by too many long winters and hot summers. There were two gas pumps next to its dilapidated dock. They looked to be vintage 1950s; they even had an old Cities Service green emblem on them. The place had once serviced floatplanes, as well as recreational boats. The cabin itself looked more like a hunting lodge than a gas station, though. Make that a very old, very small hunting lodge.
The Minnebago water was high now, which worked out well for the ghost team. They avoided having to land the Sky Horse in the middle of the lake. Instead they were able to put down next to the island and float the big copter right up to the dock. Incredibly—or not—the old pump's tank was full of fresh aviation gas, just the drink the copter needed.
This refueling stop began with a message from Finch back at Cape Lonely. He'd continued to be the copter team's intermediary for this mission, their “cutout,” if you will. Via a quick coded phone conversation, he'd told them where and when they could find the precious gas. After hiding out most
of the day back at the foggy Minnesota lake, they flew here, landing just after 5:00 A.M, their fuel tanks dropping below reserve, never a good thing. Before they activated the gas pump, though, Ryder and Fox stepped onto the island and checked it out thoroughly with their M15s. It was a wise move, a necessary caution, but not really needed. It appeared no one had been on the island for decades.
But then, appearances could be deceiving.
They soon had the gas pump's extra-long hose stretched out to the floating copter. Their tanks were so dry, they could hear the fuel gushing down into them. Though the team was now in possession of at least a dozen packs of cigarettes, thanks to Bates's quick thinking while on the ground at the theme park, they had to remind themselves not to light up while the refueling operation was going on.
Plus, they all had jobs to do. Puglisi watched the lake via the chopper's FLIR device. Gallant oversaw the fueling on the copter's end. And, as always, Bates stayed glued to his Eyeball Machine. Meanwhile Ryder and Fox checked out the interior of the cabin, as suggested by Finch. It was just one room, maybe 20 feet by 15, a combination kitchen, bunkhouse, and business operation. The floors were covered with soot; the ceiling was a canopy of cobwebs. The windows had indoor moss growing on them.
“I know those pumps look like they come from the fifties,” Fox said. “But this place? I'm thinking more like Roaring Twenties.”
Ryder scrapped some of the grime off the service desk. It was about a half-inch thick.
“Yeah, the
eighteen
-twenties maybe …” he said drily. “That looks like the last time anyone was in here.”
But no sooner were the words out of his mouth than he knew he was wrong. Sitting in a wooden box on the service desk, partially covered by an ancient yellowed newspaper, were a bunch of MREs, the field rations they'd been subsisting on since leaving Cape Lonely. Beside them a dusty box containing eight one-gallon jugs of spring water, plus essentials like toothpaste and deodorant.
“Check it out,” Ryder breathed, realizing the lengths someone had gone through to leave these supplies for them. Whoever had done it was fanatical in making sure it looked like no one had set foot in this place for years. Just like the gas still pumping into their fuel tanks, someone had bravely provided them the necessities of continuing the mission, cleverly disguising these necessities so they could hide in plain sight, so to speak.
The two men just stood there, astonished by the handiwork. The floor was so thick with dirt, they were making dozens of footprints, yet none were here when they'd arrived. The service counter was dirty and greasy, too, as if no one had touched it in a very long time. Yet it had been made just to look this way, for obviously whoever put all this stuff here had to have moved some of the dust and grime around.
“I don't think a special effects crew for a big-budget movie could have done a camo job this good,” Fox said. “Unless …”
“Unless what?” Ryder asked him.
“Unless our friends have some kind of a top-secret teleport device and they just beamed these things in here,” Fox replied with a half-smile.
Ryder just shook his head. “Don't even joke about that,” he said.
They continued exploring the kitchen area. They found more MREs and things like flashlight batteries, extra modem cords, more “safe” cell phones, and a small combination TV and AM/FM radio set.
“This will come in handy,” Fox said wryly. They had heard from both Finch and Ozzi, in very hasty phone calls, about how the copter team had made the headlines. It came as no surprise, especially after the theme park episode.
But Ryder brushed past all these things to explore the last box on the counter. It was his nose that led him to it. Inside he discovered a family-size jar of instant Chase & Sandborn coffee. It was like finding a pot of gold. Now that he had coffee
and
cigarettes, what else did he need?
But then it suddenly went through Ryder's mind that this really was like the Roaring Twenties—or maybe more like
the Depression years. Leaving this larder for them out here, so cleverly hidden, was not unlike the help provided by some people to the gangsters of the thirties, the Dillingers and Pretty Boy Floyds, bank robbers who became folk heroes and were aided and abetted in their efforts to evade the police by ordinary citizens. Strange times back then, indeed. But this wasn't a romantic notion now for Ryder. It was a scary one.
Is this what the country has come to … again?
he wondered. That ordinary people were so disillusioned with the nonsense in Washington that they were willing to help outlaws?
Federal
outlaws?
That's exactly what was happening—that and the person who did this for them, they could only assume, somehow knew the ghost team's guardian angel, Bobby Murphy.
Fox was thinking the same thing.
“He sure has a lot of friends,” he said. “For someone hardly anyone knows.”
Just then, they heard a commotion on the back porch. It was Gallant.
“Get back aboard quick,” he told Ryder and Fox. “Bates just got a lead on another missile.”
They were soon back on the floating chopper, gathered around the Eyeball Machine.
One of the mook phones was ringing. Bates had all his tracking gear already turned on; all he had to do was pick the phone up and answer it to get a location. He did so, and all they heard was dead air as usual. But again, it didn't matter. It wasn't important that anything be said during the call, only that the call was being made in the first place.
Bates got his laptops working and in just a few seconds had his pong blinking on a GPS screen, indicating where the call was coming from.
But there was a problem here. Although the circle highlighted a point on the map that was very close to the Milwaukee airport, the pong wasn't flashing over land. Rather, it was pointing to a spot over Lake Michigan.
This had never happened before. Usually they were looking for mountain peaks, the tops of buildings.
“Could that thing be wrong?” someone asked Bates.
“It hasn't been before,” he replied. “I mean everything matches up. It's near a place where the soccer team was set to play. It's near an airport, and it's a ‘real' phone call, just like all the others. It's just that the location is wacky. So, is my gear broken? Maybe?”
Ryder thought a moment. “Unless,” he said, “the mooks got themselves a boat … .”
 
Matt Ring was an unusual type of fisherman. He was trained to catch gilltails and cold perch, his gear configured to haul up these fish that tended to stay down near the bottom of Lake Michigan. This meant his 35-foot boat carried extra-large nets, long poles, and a deep holding pool full of ice water for his catch.
But truth was, Matt Ring hadn't caught a fish in years. This had to do with underground economics and the fact that Lake Michigan was an unusual body of water. A few hundred miles up from Milwaukee, through the Mackinac Straits, the lake just touched the edge of Canada, only for 50 miles or so, around the Manitoulin Island region. This toe step into another country was significant, though. Things were so much cheaper up there. Liquor. Cuban cigars. Cigarettes. But mostly prescription drugs—the newest “hot” commodity of the twenty-first century. Ring could pack his boat with more than 50,000 dollars' worth of eproximin, dicodin, and lobrutrin and still haul another 10,000 dollars' worth of cigars and booze and
still
not give a hint to an unsuspecting observer that he was catching anything more than fish.
Again halfway down the western shore of Lake Michigan was Milwaukee. Not far inland was Mitchell Field, the beer city's airport. This proximity worked greatly to Ring's advantage, too. Many of the people who would eventually buy his contraband lived nowhere near Milwaukee. He had a deal with the manager of an overnight air delivery service based at Mitchell Field though. Ring would get his stash from his Canadian associates, make the journey 350 miles down to Milwaukee, and unload said stash into air shipping
boxes waiting for him at the nearby marina. The boxes would then be flown out—without inspection—to places all over the United States, to people Ring did not know, who would split up the pharmaceutical booty from there. For every trip he made Ring earned himself $20,000, paid to him by the owner of the airfreight service. Ring made one trip every two weeks. He lived the good life of a smuggler. At 55 he'd once smuggled pot. But the way the drug companies were gouging Americans these days, moving pharmaceuticals was a lot more profitable.
Still, it was a risky business. There was always a chance the law might stumble upon you.
That's why Ring was so concerned this particular morning to wake up and find a Coast Guard helicopter coming right across the water at him.
 
He'd spent the night anchored here, just off the marina, close to the shores of Milwaukee itself.
He was waiting for his air-shipping contacts to show up at 8:00 A.M. It was now 7:30. The airport nearby was rumbling with flights ready to take off, a typically noisy start to its busy day. Nearby, the expressways were starting to fill up with commuters trying to get a leg up on the early-morning traffic. There were even people beginning to stir in the marina itself. None of them knew Ring was sitting on top of fifty thousand dollars' worth of cheap prescription drugs just a stone's throw from the dock.
But what the hell was the Coast Guard doing here?
He'd slept up on deck, as he usually did on warm nights, and woke up just in time to see the huge white helicopter coming, flying so low to the water, it was actually leaving a wake behind.
Before Ring could even think about it, the big copter went right over his boat—and, thankfully, kept right on going.
He let out a gasp of relief. But what he saw next bordered on the inconceivable and made him wonder if he was still asleep and just dreaming.
The copter was not interested in him. But it was interested
in the next boat over, a beaten-up yacht, with very dirty windows, moored about two hundred feet off Ring's port side. This boat had reached the marina's confines about an hour after Ring had, meaning about 3:00 A.M. He recalled hearing many voices talking at once over on the other boat, this as he was falling back to sleep.
Foreigners,
he remembered thinking.
Now this copter was circling the yacht like a bird of prey. He watched as it quickly pulled up into a hover. The aircraft wasn't making much noise, which struck Ring as being strange, too. But its engines were so powerful, the air itself around Ring's boat seemed to be shaking. His ears began to hurt immediately.
As this was happening, he saw a rope ladder fall out of the cargo bay of the chopper, and suddenly heavily armed men were coming down it. Ring was not just sleepy but also a bit hungover. He was trying to figure out if this was a real thing he was looking at, happening so fast, and in the bright early-morning daylight. Was this the Coast Guard's way of showing
him
what they could do—a kind of real-life, in-your-face warning? Or were they shooting an episode of
Cops
nearby? Or was this part of some reality show?
These were the thoughts going through his head as the first two men from the copter landed on the yacht's rear deck. Both were dressed in black camo and rigged up like SWAT team members. Big helmets, face masks, body armor. From Ring's point of view, they looked more like cops than Coast Guard guys.
The people on the yacht were now just coming to life. Two burst from the cabin door. The two armed men shot them down like dogs. Ring was stunned. Two other men appeared from the front of the yacht at just about the same time. They were armed with pistols. A gunfight broke out, and suddenly bullets were flying. Ricochets, glowing rounds zinging into the water, some even perforating Ring's boat.

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