Jones stared at Harrington. “You have cookies? Do you have any with green sprinkles?”
The colonel ignored their banter—he had been warned about Payne and Jones’s antics—and flipped through his folder instead. It was filled with maps, photographs, and reports. All of them stamped
CLASSIFIED
in red letters. “Gentlemen, let me be blunt. I don’t want to be here, talking to non-army personnel. I think it’s a total waste of time, both mine and yours. However, the Pentagon felt you might offer something to my investigation, although I can’t figure out what.” With a disapproving eye, he glanced around the room. “It’s obvious you’ve gone soft.”
“Soft?” Payne echoed.
“Yes,
soft.
You and your fancy-ass leather chairs and your Radio Shack surveillance equipment. How long have you been out of the service? Four years? The entire infrastructure of the military has changed in that time. How in the hell can you possibly help me?”
Somehow Payne managed to keep a straight face. He pondered things for a moment, trying to read between the lines of the colonel’s rant. No one in his right mind would show up with this much attitude unless he was trying to pick a fight. And the only purpose that would serve is if Harrington wanted to end this conversation before it got started. And that didn’t make sense. If Harrington wanted to have a fifteen-second chat, he could’ve done that by phone. The fact that he flew here from Washington meant something else was going on. Something less obvious.
Suddenly Payne figured it out. At least he hoped he had.
“Colonel, I have to admit I was
this
close to throwing you out of my fancy-ass chair. Then it dawned on me, there’s no way the Pentagon would’ve sent a total prick like you without giving me some kind of warning. Therefore, I’m going to assume that you’re acting like an ass in order to test us, maybe trying to see if we’ve lost any discipline during the past few years. If that’s the case, I gotta commend you. Because you’ve got that asshole thing down pat.”
Payne hoped he had guessed right, but if not, so what? He was retired and had enough money to live for the rest of his life. What did it matter if he told off some jackass from D.C.?
Still, the room grew uncomfortable while Payne waited for a reaction.
Finally, he got the one he was hoping for: Colonel Harrington broke into a smile.
“Forgive my rudeness,” Harrington explained, “but I had to know what I was dealing with. There’s no way I was going to entrust you with this information if I didn’t think you could handle some heat. Because, trust me, there’s going to be some major heat on this one.”
“What kind?” Jones asked.
“International, domestic, political. We’ve got the potential for a world-class shitstorm, and right now we’re missing our weatherman.”
Payne deciphered the statement. “Does this weatherman have a name?”
“One you’re familiar with: Captain Trevor Schmidt. I believe you trained him with the MANIACs.”
Payne and Jones both nodded. They had
run
the unit for several years, and Schmidt was one of their favorites. A black-haired kid from Columbus, Ohio, who had a passion for war and a taste for revenge. Then again, that could have described anyone in the MANIACs. They were a special group with a unique assignment: Do anything necessary, but don’t get caught.
“When was Schmidt last seen?” Jones asked.
“We aren’t really sure.”
“How about where?”
“We don’t know that, either.”
“Okay, Colonel, let’s approach this from a different angle. What
do
you know?”
Harrington shrugged. “We know that he’s missing. Him and his entire squad. Gone, like fucking ghosts.”
Payne grimaced. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Neither did I. At least not until recently. Now I’m not so sure.”
Somehow the Department of Defense had managed to lose an entire squad, which was pretty tough to do with modern Combat Survivor/Evader Locator (
CSEL
) radios, technology that provided precise geoposition and navigation data to rescue parties. That meant Schmidt was running a classified black op, a covert operation that the Pentagon didn’t want anyone---not even Combat Search and Rescue (
CSAR
)—to know about.
“Tell me, how black was the mission?”
“Black as you can get,” Harrington answered. “And it’s my job to keep it that way.”
“If that’s the case, why bring us into it? Why go out of house?”
“Is it because
I’m
black?” Jones asked.
Harrington ignored him. “The reality is you trained Schmidt so you might be able to give us some insight into the way he thinks—where he’ll go, what he’ll do, who he’ll rely on. The truth is you MANIACs are an interesting breed, one with a unique sense of warfare that no one fully understands but yourselves. Furthermore, two generals and an admiral assured me I’d be a fool if I didn’t use you as a resource.”
“Just a resource? Nothing more than that?”
“Actually, I’d welcome you aboard in any capacity. Whether that’s here or in the field.”
Payne glanced at Jones, who was nodding eagerly. That wasn’t a surprise because Jones was always up for another mission. Upon his retirement from the military, he became a private detective, setting up shop in Payne’s office building, a way for the best friends to grab lunch whenever possible. Unfortunately, the life of a Pittsburgh PI was not nearly as glamorous as Jones had imagined, especially compared to the missions he ran for the MANIACs. How could taking pictures of cheating spouses ever compare with killing terrorists or blowing up bridges?
Payne, on the other hand, was more reluctant. He wasn’t fully comfortable in the corporate world, opting to donate most of his time to local charities instead of living at the office the way his grandfather had. But that didn’t mean Payne was willing to risk it all. If he was killed without an heir, he knew Payne Industries would be dismantled, piece by piece, and sold to the highest bidder. And that was something he couldn’t let happen. He loved his grandfather way too much to dishonor his life’s work by doing something reckless.
Still, Payne felt a similar obligation to his military career, an unwavering devotion to his country and the men he trained. If one of them was in trouble, he knew it was his duty to help—whether that was as a behind-the-scenes resource or as an expert in the field. Hell, he couldn’t live with himself if he opted to sit on the sidelines while one of his men needed him. In his mind, that would be far more irresponsible than risking his own life to help.
“Okay, Colonel. We’re willing to lend you a hand. What do you need us to do?”
“I need you to come with me. We’ll have
plenty of time
to talk en route.”
“En route?” Jones asked. “To where?”
Harrington stood from his chair. “Korea.”
Payne winced. He wasn’t expecting such *a long trip. *”North or South?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. I need to know how much ammo to pack.”
Harrington smiled an all-knowing smile. “Don’t worry, Payne. Packing
won’t
be an issue. I already sent some men to your homes. Your clothes are waiting at the airport.”
The plane departed from a cargo hangar at Pittsburgh International Airport, far away from the main terminal. It was a nonstop flight to Los Angeles followed by trips to Hawaii, the Marshall Islands, and Japan. Harrington would accompany them to California, briefing them on the way. After that, Payne and Jones would travel overseas on their own, which was the Pentagon’s way of ensuring deniability.
Payne got comfortable for the long trip, changing into a gray Naval Academy sweatsuit that accommodated his 6-4, 240-pound frame. He had played two sports (football and basketball) at Annapolis, yet made his name in a different arena: kicking ass. It didn’t matter if he was facing ninjas or Nazis, Payne had the innate ability to isolate his opponent’s weakness and exploit it, using a combination of strength, quickness, and leverage. He had refined his skills over the years, training at Fort Bragg, Naval Base Coronado, and several dojos around the world. Yet none of them could take full credit for turning Payne into a warrior. That particular gift was a blessing from God. A part of his
DNA
, just like his brown hair or hazel eyes.
He made his way to the back of the plane, where a conference area had been assembled. Four first-class chairs surrounded a wooden table, cluttered with three laptop computers, several manila folders, and a thermos full of coffee. Harrington sat on the left, growling into his cell phone, telling someone to do something
ASAP
or he was going to kill the guy’s mother. Meanwhile, Jones sat on the right, staring at his computer screen.
“Anything interesting?” Payne asked as he buckled himself into his seat.
“Not really. The colonel blocked every porn site on the Internet.”
Harrington hung up at the mention of his name. “What was that, Jones?”
“I told Jon that you’ve been keeping important details to yourself.”
He knew Jones was lying but wasn’t going to press it. “So, Payne, now that you’re in your jammies, are you ready to begin?”
Payne gave him a mock salute. “I’m comfy and accounted for.”
“Oh, goody.” Harrington opened the top folder and removed a single photograph. “Captain Trevor Schmidt, thirty-five, served as a
MANIAC
until three years ago. Based on your recommendation, he was selected to lead his own crew, one that did special projects in the Persian Gulf.”
“Meaning what?” Jones asked.
“Meaning they’re none of your goddamned business.”
“Great! Thanks for clearing that up.”
Harrington stared at him, unaccustomed to backtalk. “As I was saying, Schmidt kicked a lot of ass during his first year. No matter what we asked—and we asked a lot— he got it done. We were thrilled with his results and quickly increased his workload. That is, until the incident.”
Payne arched an eyebrow. “The incident?”
“You know how it goes. We got some piss-poor intel and dropped his crew into a zone that was much hotter than we expected. Of course, he kept his composure and handled himself brilliantly. I don’t know how he did it, but the bastard managed to fight his way out. Several injuries to his crew but no deaths.”
Jones beamed. “That doesn’t sound like an incident. That sounds like a
MANIAC
.”
“Actually, that
wasn’t
the incident. The incident came later.” Harrington opened one of his folders and slid it across the table. Neither Payne nor Jones looked at it. They knew that what Harrington was about to say was far more important than what was written in the report.
Reports were written in black and white. They were more interested in color.
“As you know, our military has a strong presence in the Persian Gulf. Iraq, Iran, Kuwait. Every Arab nation in that godforsaken desert. We’ve been there for years and we’ll be there for years—even places the president doesn’t know about. Unfortunately, when you’re talking about thousands of soldiers, you can’t keep everything a secret. Bases are sitting targets. Troop movements are constantly monitored. So are our warships in the gulf and the Red Sea. We do our best to protect our men, but let’s face it: war is war. There are going to be casualties.”
Harrington tapped his folder for emphasis. “Your boy Schmidt did everything right. He protected his wounded, secured transportation, and got the hell out without announcing his position. He avoided the hostiles for several hours, waiting until he was far from the hot zone before calling in air support. Eventually, his crew was picked up, patched up, and taken to Taif.”
Taif Air Base is in the foothills of Saudi Arabia, approximately an hour’s drive to Mecca and a two-hour drive to Jeddah, a historic Muslim city near the Red Sea. Taif is home to the U.S. Military Training Mission (
USMTM
), a joint training program between the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and U.S. Central Command from MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida. The goal is to provide military advisers to the Royal Saudi Air and Land Forces while providing protection to U.S. Department of Defense personnel stationed in Taif. More than three hundred Westerners, working for companies such as McDonnell Douglas and Pratt & Whitney, live in the Al-Gaim Compound, a modern community with an American feel. Al-Hada Hospital, a Saudi facility staffed mostly by Westerners, provides basic medical and dental care. But in emergencies,
USAF
flight surgeon support was available from Prince Sultan Hospital and other neighboring bases.
“Obviously, we didn’t admit our fuckup. We rarely do. But we knew we couldn’t send Schmidt’s crew right back into action. Half his men were hospitalized; the other half were pissed. So we decided to give them some extended downtime in the plush confines of Al-Gaim.”
Jones smirked. “Not exactly a trip to the Ritz. Yet better than Baghdad.”
Payne ignored his partner, focusing on the missing details of Harrington’s explanation. “Unless I’m mistaken, you still haven’t mentioned the incident.”
Harrington nodded. “Schmidt and his men were valuable assets, and we tried to smooth things over by flying in the families of the wounded. Some of them were in intensive care, so we figured it was the least we could for morale purposes. Turns out it made things worse.”
“How so?”
“Just look at the report. Everything’s in there.”
Payne shook his head. “I’d rather hear it from you.”
Harrington stared at Payne, still trying to figure him out. Payne’s credentials were impeccable, yet he still didn’t have a feel for the man. Who was he? The decorated soldier who captained one of the finest fighting units in modern warfare, or a burned-out officer who retired from the military in his midthirties for a cushy desk job in a penthouse office? Until he figured that out, Harrington was going to analyze Payne’s every move and second-guess his every action.
But for the time being, he decided to play along and answer his questions.
“As I mentioned, we brought in their families. I’m talking parents, wives, kids, girlfriends. We even flew in a dog. We had extra housing at Al-Gaim, so we figured what the fuck.” Harrington paused, garnering his thoughts. “The third morning we bused them over to the hospital for visiting hours, just like we’d done the previous two days. Schmidt actually drove them himself, making sure his wounded men and their families were as comfortable as possible before he left for a briefing back at Taif Air Base.”