“Look, we’re not angels,” Kilos told them, lowering his voice. “In this business, few people are. So I’ll tell you a little secret: Black-market weapons are among the most profitable cargoes to carry these days. They are easy to handle, easy to ship, easy to sell. Just as long as the anti-piracy patrols don’t find you, or the pirates themselves, it’s a quick way to make a lot of money, off the books.
“Now we have some important shipments coming up. We have to protect them, without bringing any attention to ourselves. We don’t want any of the NATO naval ships to be involved. If any of them got a real look at our cargo holds, it would not be good.”
Conley spoke now: “This guy you greased, Turk Kurjan. He might be gone, but we’ve learned he has a brother, over in Indonesia, who could follow in his footsteps. Turk had informants in some key places—he probably even had a clue what we were carrying on the
Global Warrior
. If his brother decides to pick up where he left off, and is half as good as Turk was, it could make things difficult for us.”
“This is why it would be in our best interest to deal with this brother right now,” Kilos said. “Before he becomes a problem. And of course, do so as quietly as possible.”
An uneasy silence fell on the room.
Conley said: “So—are you guys interested in more work?”
Lost Limb Ward
Building 18
Walter Reed Army Medical Center
IT WASN’T THE
cockroaches that finally got to Twitch.
Nor was it the chronic infection above his severed knee, the perpetual phantom pain, the paint chips falling on and into everything, or the drug dealers who roamed the halls of Building 18 at will.
It was the mouse shit. It was everywhere—around his bed, on his sheets, on his meal tray, on his clothes. In his only shoe.
He never saw the little bastards, only their droppings. And they made him sick to his stomach, especially in the morning, when he was usually in the bathroom puking anyway. In the perpetually humid LLW—the Lost Limb Ward—the mouse shit produced a smell of its own. A package of rancid hamburger left rotting in the sun offered a good comparison.
Twitch had been stuck in the same boxlike, four-bed room for three years, his fifth hospitalization since 2001, when he left most of his right leg back in Tora Bora. Besides the unsanitary conditions, Building 18 was a nightmare of Army bureaucracy. Every patient needed a case manager, but it took twenty-two documents, filed with eight separate Army commands, just to arrange an initial sit-down with one. Every time Twitch got close to getting all twenty-two documents approved, they would inevitably get lost, in a computer crash or through a misplaced file, or simply into the ether. No case manager meant Twitch had no contact with the outside world, no way to get things he needed, no way to complain. No way to get out.
It didn’t end there. His physical therapist was so incompetent, Twitch suspected he was on drugs or perhaps brain-damaged. Sometimes Twitch would wear his prosthetic leg; other times he’d get around in a wheelchair, if one was available. Because of this, his physical therapist came to believe he was
two
different people and demanded the proper paperwork from him every time he arrived for a session, which was infrequently.
The last straw came during a ceremony marking the anniversary of 9/11. Twitch had never gotten a replacement for the uniform they’d torn off him that horrible day in Tora Bora. When he finally tracked down the clerk responsible for issuing new uniforms to those who had lost them in combat, the man demanded Twitch
prove
his fellow soldiers had destroyed his old uniform in the course of treating him. Twitch had no idea how to do that. Later that day, at the 9/11 observance, a soldier who had lost both legs, an arm and an eye in Iraq was being presented with his Purple Heart. The officer in charge of Building 18 had ordered all patients who could get out of bed to attend the ceremony. Twitch went in the only clothes he had—his gym clothes. The officer in charge chewed him out in front of the entire ward for being out of uniform.
Returning to his bed, he found it again covered with mouse droppings. And that was it, the final straw. That’s when he decided to just end it all. He had no wife, no kids, no real family other than a few distant relatives back in Hawaii to whom he hadn’t spoken in years. Even if he ever were released from here, he had nowhere to go, no place to live, no prospects for employment. Not many demolition companies would hire a one-legged charge setter. He didn’t want to do it, but he just couldn’t take it anymore.
That day, he set about hoarding his codeine painkillers, and after three weeks had fifty-six in all. With high irony, he’d bought a bottle of paregoric and 100 aspirins from one of the coke dealers he saw regularly walking the halls. On the day before his thirty-seventh birthday, Twitch crushed the codeine pills and the aspirins into a powder and mixed them
with the paregoric. The result was a cocktail that he was sure would end his life peacefully.
He waited until the lights went out in the LLW that night, then retrieved the potent concoction from beneath his bed. He put the plastic cup up to his lips, tried to remember a prayer, couldn’t, and started to drink.
That’s when the man in doctor’s scrubs and mask strolled into his room, turned on the light, and told Twitch that he was being moved.
“Moved? Where?” Twitch asked him, stunned and confused. It was the middle of the night.
“Back to the real world,” was the reply.
The man lowered his mask and Twitch realized it was his old friend, Crash.
He’d never forget what his former Delta mate said to him next: “You’re too good to be wasting away in here, buddy. So I’m breaking you out.”
Twitch had already swallowed a bit of his suicide cocktail, so all this was like a dream. Yet, he didn’t question how Crash was going to do it; he didn’t care. What did he have to lose? So he climbed into his gym clothes, put his leg on, and then flushed the rest of his deadly drink down the toilet.
Then he hobbled outside, with Crash leading the way. A couple of orderlies challenged them outside the main door, but his old teammate growled them away.
By now, Twitch felt like he was floating. It didn’t seem real. One second he was about to end it all, and the next, he was sitting in the front seat of Crash’s rental car, speeding out the front gates of Hell.
The Bahamas
The next day
THE NIGHT IT
happened, Batman Bob Graves thought he was having a nervous breakdown.
He’d been living in paradise for the past year. A ten-room
waterfront villa, perched on one of the highest elevations in the Bahamas, surrounded by plant life that seemed sprung from heaven. The ocean water he looked out on every day was the most amazing shade of blue, and the stars at night were absolutely brilliant. Whenever he wanted to, he could break out his telescope and look northeast, into the heart of the Bermuda Triangle, and wonder what exactly was happening out there.
This life was everything he thought he’d ever need. He had money. He had privacy. He wanted for nothing.
But he was miserable.
Even worse, he was paranoid. He lived alone, but was always looking over his shoulder. His nearest neighbor was two miles away, a light year in terms of Bahamian real estate. Yet he always heard voices at night, or thought he saw someone sneaking through the bushes during the day. Did he really lock that door, or unlock that second-floor window? Who turned on the lawn sprinkler the other morning? Was his rental car’s interior sky blue when he first got it? He thought it had been red. These sorts of things had been happening with much frequency lately, and it was scarier than any kind of combat he’d ever been in.
As with every other night, this night he’d called for a dinner delivery at 8
P.M.
He had a deal with a restaurant farther up the beach, and usually these things took a matter of minutes from phone call to drop-off. He’d been on Xuila for a year, and never had a food delivery been more than a twenty-minute wait. But by 10
P.M.
, he’d still seen nothing of it.
He sat on the front porch waiting, praying to see the headlights of the delivery Mini bumping along the beach road. To his mind, if his meal didn’t come, that meant something was
really
wrong. But he saw nothing, not even the darkened car coming from the other direction, creeping up his steep gravel driveway.
But the sound of his front gate being opened?
That
he’d heard clearly. It sent him into a full-fledged panic attack. Someone
had
sneaked up on him, his worst fear come true. And he had no way to protect himself. Not for the first time since coming here, he cursed himself for not bringing a gun.
When he heard the front door squeak open, and then the sound of footsteps in the hallway, he knew it was the end of him. He sensed two dark figures standing behind him, saw their scrambled reflections in the porch window. He froze, unable to move, unable to even reach for the phone and call for help. There was no way he could call in a JDAM this time. He was unarmed and had made himself too many enemies.
So he turned to face the music, only to find it was Crash and Twitch standing behind him.
He barely recognized them; he hadn’t seen them in eight years. Crash looked older, a more-sophisticated surfer dude. Twitch? Well, he looked a mess.
He almost threw his chair at them.
“What the fuck?” he kept saying over and over.
“You’re getting nervous in your old age,” Crash said calmly.
He pulled them both into the porch and closed the front door behind them, furious but immeasurably relieved. “What the hell are you guys doing here? How did you find me?”
Both collapsed on a long divan.
“It’s 2009,” Crash replied nonchalantly. “Anyone can find anyone these days. What do you have to drink?”
Batman sprinted into the kitchen and returned with a six-pack of Red Stripe beer. Crash drank one bottle in a long, noisy gulp. Twitch could barely twist the cap off his.
Batman checked the locks on the front door again.
“What’s your problem?” Crash asked him. “I thought you’d be thrilled to see us.”
Batman calmed down. He opened a beer. “It’s hard to be thrilled about anything when half the fucking world is looking for you.”
“So I heard,” Crash said, taking another beer. “Who’s worse? SEC? FTC? FBI?”
“All of them and ones I don’t even know about,” Batman replied. “You think bin Laden and his crew were bad? These Wall Street cops make them look like fairies.”
“Hey, can you blame them?” Crash said. “Your name is right up there with Bernie Madoff. I mean, I thought you were doing the best out of all of us. I saw you in
BusinessWeek
,
Forbes
. Caught you on CNBC a bunch of times. So what happened?”
Batman’s relief turned to defiance. “I
wasn’t
involved with Madoff. Let’s get that straight. I was just doing side deals on what he was into.”
“Like what?”
Batman shrugged. “I was selling Madoff shares to people who knew it was a Ponzi scheme but still wanted in.”
“There are people
that
stupid?”
“It wasn’t as stupid as it sounds,” Batman told him. “They wanted in because it was quick money and they thought the government would bail out Madoff’s investors once the whole thing came crashing down—just like they bailed out those assholes at AIG and the others. But they didn’t. And so here I am. Trying my best to stay out of sight, and feeling like shit day and night.”
Batman drank more of his beer. “So really—why are
you
here, after all these years?”
“I got a call from Gunner,” Crash said. “He wanted to know if we were interested in work overseas.”
“What kind of work?”
“Security work for the Saudis. That’s all he could tell me. But he said it would be good pay if I could get the whole gang back together. Of course, it might not be the kind of money you’re used to.”
Batman took another swig of his beer. “At this point, don’t assume anything.”
“Well, if you’re interested, there’s something we got to do first,” Crash told him.
“Snake?”
“Did you hear what happened at his trial?”
Batman stopped in mid-sip. “I didn’t even know he had a trial.”
Crash produced a DVD. “I was freelancing as a shooter in Southeast Asia earlier this year; I saved a guy’s ass on Sri Lanka during their last big battle against the Tamils. This guy was another ex-Delta operator, and he’s like an octopus, he has so many connections. He owed me the favor, so when we
got out of there, I asked him to track down Snake. He gave me this.”
They walked to the living room where Crash stuck the DVD into Batman’s Sony player. The big screen came alive with a burst of static, then the image cleared to a black-and-white scene of a spare military courtroom. There were only four people in attendance. The judge was an Army officer dressed in plain unmarked fatigues with black bands covering his rank and name plate. A PFC was serving as the stenographer. Another Army officer, also in plain, unmarked fatigues, was reading off a long list of questions. And on the stand, looking beaten and exhausted, was Snake Nolan.
A bandage covered his left eye, a cane was nearby. Most alarming, he was wearing the uniform of a private; he’d been busted down that far. A time stamp in the corner indicated the video was shot five weeks after the disastrous mission in Tora Bora. Nolan was so gaunt and pale, he looked like a ghost.
The prosecuting officer was in the middle of questioning him. It was clear the former Team Whiskey CO was on trial for insubordination and disobeying a direct order. Yet there was no defense attorney present.
“Those assholes in Rummy’s office wanted their pound of flesh,” Crash said. “And this is them getting it.”
There were no histrionics. This was not Nuremberg or The Hague they were watching. Everything was calm. Everything was deliberate. A sham trial on Xanax.
That is, until the prosecuting officer asked Nolan if he considered himself a traitor—and Nolan finally exploded.