Sabotage (2 page)

Vince figured it probably wasn't the first time it ever happened. They were over Africa, after all. However, when he pulled out his satellite phone and tried to get a signal, he couldn't. That was a first for him as well.

Karl was outside the plane again, giving water bottles to both pilots.

"Hey Karl, you ever had one of these sat phones go out on you?" Vince asked, shaking his head in confusion.

"Just the one that got shot out of my hand. You know, the one right outside Jalalabad."

Vince hadn't been there, but he knew the story well. Karl had been calling in for close air support when an enemy sniper fortunately missed Karl's head, but unfortunately, put a bullet in the sat phone instead
. BAM.

Vince was about to ask the pilot if he knew their location when a crackle of gunfire erupted from some distance away.

At least a klick, maybe two
, Vince thought as he dove to the ground.

As he hit the dirt, he went to check the status of the lead pilot, also lying on the ground. Vince winced. Half the man's face was gone and blood poured from the wound onto the ground, inching its way toward Vince’s position.

"Get down," Karl hissed at the copilot, who was crouched next to the cockpit.

The man looked back at the plane furtively and then toward where the gunfire sounded.

"Maybe if we surrender," the man puzzled, "maybe if we tell them who we are. It could just be all a mista—"

He never completed the word. A flurry of bullets hit his body in rapid succession, metal tearing through and obliterating the man’s flesh. Vince knew the copilot was dead even before he hit the ground.

Vince shot Karl a
What should we do next?
look. Their options were restricted. The terrain was vast, wide open, providing them no cover. If they moved away from the plane they would be sitting ducks; but hell, they already were sitting ducks. He could feel an invisible force of evil moving closer. He saw the rounds tearing through the sky overhead. Due to the seemingly endless barrage, Vince estimated there were at least twenty men, maybe more, raining bullets on them. That was a lot of firepower, especially considering Karl and Vince had no weapons to protect themselves.

Then to his complete surprise, something both horrible and wonderful occurred. He hadn't noticed the sky turning black. It began as a couple of raindrops, but within mere seconds a torrential wave of rain poured from the heavens. He could barely see Karl, who was only ten feet away. Soon, Karl was able to locate him through the near-blinding rain and was yelling in his ear.

"We need to go. We need to go
now
!”

That's when Vince remembered that he had something that might help them, but not if he waited long. It had been a gift from a friend – a new but good friend. Vince had helped him in the recent past, and Vince harbored no doubt he would help them, if at all possible. He delved into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

Karl looked at him like he was nuts, but Vince ignored him. He tore through the packet. The already-sodden tobacco sticks fell to the ground and were washed away in the newly created, raging streams. Tucked inside the cigarette pack was something that resembled a credit card, but once Vince depressed his finger on the bottom right corner, a screen lit up. He'd been told he'd only get one shot at using this device. Once used, it would be useless. “One shot, one kill,” his friend had said. It was securely encrypted. It would send a signal up to a private satellite, after which Vince’s friend would receive its message.

He typed out the message quickly, pressed the send button and waited for the green light to know the transmission was successful. Although its burst battery power was now expended, Vince snapped the card in half and shoved it back in his pocket. There was no sense leaving behind evidence.

Now came the hard part. They needed to somehow find themselves a safe haven while trudging through the blinding rain, holding onto hope that the heavens would give them more than a few minutes of cover.

Chapter 2

Cal Stokes leaned back in his rust-encrusted metal chair and stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. The room he was sitting in stunk like elephant dung incense sticks and he winced as the taste assaulted his tongue.

"Don't tell me you're getting tired of this already, Cal," boomed Master Sergeant (MSgt) Willy Trent's baritone voice from the corner. There was no need for them to be quiet. They were two levels underground and plenty of concrete stood between them and any prying ears. "Here," Trent said, as he tossed Cal something.

Cal snatched it out of the air and examined the small package. "Gum?” Cal asked. Trent shrugged as if it was the only logical solution to the noxious problem. Cal sighed in resignation, popping one of the pieces of bubble gum out of its wrapper. Maybe it would help the smell. He placed it in his mouth and started chewing.
Nope, still smells
.

He couldn't wait to get out of this place. Their hosts had been proud to exclaim that they had been given a piece of prime real estate—a place to accomplish good work. If this was prime real estate, Cal Stokes was a flying monkey with gossamer wings.

"Man, remember the old days when we pumped in mariachi music, kept people awake, slapped them around a little bit, and just made their lives miserable until they told us the truth?" Gaucho asked from his location. There he'd laid out a bedroll and stretched his burly form to its just over five-foot potential. "Now you've got Doc in there with his potions and we don't get to have any fun. I don't understand why we all had to come out for this one anyway."

The Hispanic former Delta operator was just ruminating aloud. Cal would never interpret a comment from any of these men as an accusation or direct threat to his authority. Together they'd been through too much and they all bitched and moaned. Well, except for Daniel. The Marine sniper had his chair leaning against the far corner of the room, his eyes closed, but Cal knew he was hearing everything. Daniel Briggs was just one of those guys who was so in tune with the world that his radar never stopped scanning.

"What do you think, boss?" Gaucho asked. "You think Doc could use my help? Maybe I could put on a blindfold or maybe mess up the guy's hair or something."

MSgt Trent chuckled. "Yeah, you're one big, tough Delta operator, aren't you, Gaucho? Maybe I'll put in your retired military record that you like to tousle people's hair and give them wet willies. What do you think about that?"

Gaucho shook his head, but he was smiling. "I don't know, Top. Sounds a lot tougher than all that stuff in your service record about making crème brûlée or quiche or whatever you did in the Corps.”

"You’ve told me you liked my quiche, Gaucho."

"I told you that just to keep you quiet. I much prefer your enchiladas."

Neither man could keep their composure now and they burst into fits of laughter. Cal did too until the enhanced smell of the room invaded his senses again and he pinched his nose.

"He's coming," Daniel Briggs foretold, his eyes opening and his feet once more on the floor.

Cal hadn't heard a thing except the laughter of Trent and Gaucho. He was about to ask Daniel if he was sure until he heard the creaky door open as Dr. Alvin Higgins stepped inside.

"I believe you owe me seventy-five dollars, Gaucho," Higgins stated in his not quite Northeast yet not quite British accent.

Gaucho sprang from the floor. "What? Has it already been fifty minutes?"

Dr. Higgins shook his head, "Forty-seven minutes and thirty-three seconds, to be precise, my friend."

Gaucho grumbled but produced the bills from his pocket and handed them over to a grinning Dr. Higgins.

"I told you not to bet him," Trent said, his grumbled laughter slow and steady.

Dr. Higgins held up his hand, the one with the fistful of bills and said, "Now gentlemen, no need to argue. Would you, or would you not, like to know what our friend in the other room had to say?"

+ + +

Two hours later they were lifting off the roof of the same building. The pilot was a salt-and-pepper bearded member of the Egyptian General Intelligence Directorate (GID). Altogether, it had been a pretty easy pay day. The request for their assistance had come from the CIA, Dr. Higgins's former employer.

An Egyptian businessman had been robbed of roughly 100 million dollars and the members of the GID thought it was tied to a young terrorist group working out of Cairo. The Egyptians wanted the best to determine the group responsible. Thus, the CIA had called on Dr. Higgins, who now worked for Cal Stokes and the Charlottesville, Virginia-based The Jefferson Group (TJG). TJG performed consulting work, most of which revolved around security and international relations. However, there was the occasional request for Higgins's interrogation savvy.

Dr. Higgins always wore a tweed jacket with a red handkerchief, even during this sojourn in Egypt. He knew how to pry truth from the most stubborn of men and was behind much of the interrogation reform at the Central Intelligence Agency. From the day he was hired by the CIA, he’d advocated for more humane tactics during the interrogation of prisoners. In fact, Dr. Higgins had perfected techniques to the point he barely had to lay a finger on any of his subjects.

His secret lay in the concoctions he'd perfected over the years. Somehow, during the 90s, he'd convinced the CIA to send him back to university to become a medical doctor, get his Pharmacology degree and a specialty in Anesthesiology. He'd singlehandedly pioneered a new realm by melding the use of mind-altering drugs with psychology. This ensured subjects were safe and more than willing to comply with his directions and answer his questions. It truly was a glorious combination.

The Egyptian official who had taken custody of the man who’d been interrogated was quite pleased with the information Higgins had extracted. They'd suspected that the man tied to the gurney was some mid-level moneyman for the terrorist organization. They'd hoped to get a few crumbs, but Higgins had exceeded their expectations. Within an hour and with a willing smile, the man had been only too happy to provide the names of the men in charge of the financial arm of the responsible organization.

Cal was still amazed at Higgins's work. He never asked for credit and was always looking to perfect his techniques. There wasn't a man at The Jefferson Group who didn't respect Higgins and all he did. He might look like Santa Claus’s cousin with his portly belly, but all TJG operators treated him as an equal team member when he accompanied them on missions.

Cal tried not to think about what the Egyptians would do to the man in the basement. Now that the information had been extracted, he'd either be put in a solitary cell for the duration of his life, possibly beaten and tortured, or he could just be killed. Cal had to remind himself that wasn't his problem. To the former U.S. Marine Staff Sergeant, a terrorist was the lowest of the low, willing to kill women and babies if it suited their purposes.

But now it was an Egyptian matter. Cal and his men had done their part to help. Since they were not in need of money, they were not motivated solely by money. They had taken this job to keep busy.

By the time they returned to the Presidential Suite at the Marriott overlooking congested Cairo, Cal had resolved to take the first flight home. He missed Charlottesville, and he missed his girlfriend, Diane Mayer. She was currently doing a stint in Dam Neck with the Navy, receiving follow-on training as a Naval Intelligence Officer.

Cal was just about to repack his bag when Daniel walked into the suite they shared. When they were on the road, Cal and Daniel always bunked together. Well, unless Diane was along for the ride. 

"I just got a call from Neil," Daniel stated, referring to The Jefferson Group's head of the Technology and Development division. "He says he needs you and Gaucho on the phone NOW."

"Did he say what it was about?" Cal asked.

Daniel shook his head.

When they arrived in the adjoining suite, the mismatched pair of Gaucho and huge MSgt Trent were digging through heaping plates of room service food. They looked up when Cal and Daniel entered the room.

"What's up?” Gaucho asked, his mouth full to bursting.

Daniel held up their secure phone. "Neil wants to talk; he's got some news."

Gaucho and Trent both cocked their heads. The repartee between this duo reminded Cal of the movie
Twins
with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito. The characters were so different and yet their mannerisms somehow matched at strange moments like this, just like Gaucho and Trent. 

Daniel dialed Neil's number and placed the phone on the table. A moment later Neil's voice came over the receiver, loud and clear. "Cal, you there?" Neil asked.

"Yeah, I'm here," Cal said, "And I've got Daniel, Gaucho, and Top with me. What's going on?"

There was a pause followed by the scratching sound as the encryption took hold. Then Neil's voice returned.

"We had an emergency message come in. It's from your friend, Vince Sweeney."

"Did he use the E.T. phone home?" Gaucho blurted, a bit of bread falling out of his mouth.

Cal heard Neil exhale before saying with exasperation, "You know, I don't like it when you guys call it that." Neil Patel had originally named the small emergency one-time device something technical, but Cal couldn’t remember the name. Like most of Neil's inventions, The Jefferson Group operators always renamed them for the purpose the devices served. Therefore, the tiny device had been christened “E.T. phone home.” It made sense to them, if not to Neil.