The Team (2 page)

Chapter 3

Al Qaisumah

Saudi dessert

Abu Mohamed sat silently in the box truck watching the air strip in the moonless night. It had been a long three weeks—the planning, the payoffs, and every mode of transportation known to man. It had been very stressful, even for a seasoned arms dealer like himself.

“There,” whispered the driver, Kalif. He pointed to the lights of a plane getting closer. An ancient cargo plane slowed and descended. The tires chirped twice as it touched down and cruised to a stop at the end of the long runway. The twin props cut off with a few coughs and a long dying whine.

“Go,” said Abu quietly.

Kalif put the truck in gear and drove out to the tarmac behind the plane. The cargo door lowered slowly, opening the belly of the plane under the tail. Low lights inside revealed four men in coveralls who were releasing cables and hooks from a large wooden crate, which they then rolled carefully down the ramp.

Kalif drove in a half circle then slowly backed the truck up towards the cargo ramp until one of the men patted the rear of the vehicle a few times to signal “stop.. Abu’s two men in the cab silently hopped down and jogged to the rear of the truck where they lowered the tailgate. The six men then pushed the box to the edge, hoisted the lift until it was level with the back of the truck, and pushed it inside. Once centered in the truck, cables and heavy straps were attached to the crate to secure it. After a few test tugs, the men hopped down and closed the tailgate.

Kalif jogged up the ramp of the plane, handed the pilot a heavy duffle bag full of cash, and jogged back to the truck. Once inside, he pulled away quickly with the four of them sitting in complete silence. By the time they were out of the tiny airport, the cargo plane was taxiing down the runway on its way back to Egypt.

Abu watched the plane bank left and smiled. The Sarin had been stolen and smuggled from Syria to Lebanon by truck. In Lebanon, it was transferred to a boat which sailed to Egypt near Alexandria, where it was loaded aboard the ancient cargo plane and flown to Al Qaisumah in the Saudi Arabian desert, about three hundred kilometers from the Kuwait border. There had been payoffs every step of the way. It would now make its way along the extensive sun-baked highway known as “Eighty-Five” until it turned into “Seventy-Five” and got them close to the Qatar border at Al Hofuf. Once Abu made it to Al Hofuf, his mission would be over, and he could enjoy the life of a rich prince.

Chapter 4

January 2012, Hawaii

Chris Mackey and Chris Cascaes had used a secure phone in their gear to call Dexter “Dex” Murphy, the Middle East Assistant Desk Chief back in Langley. Dex had run the Crescent Fire operation with them the previous December and was the number-two man for Middle East Intelligence in the CIA after Darren Davis, the Desk Chief.

At forty-nine, Dex was considered young to be the number two man in the busiest section of the CIA, but he had proven himself to be a highly intelligent and creative chief. His reddish-brown hair was getting salty from way too many hours at his job—a schedule that his wife tolerated because she knew his job was designed to keep their children safe from Middle Eastern terrorists. Dex had a small build, and too many hours at a desk was starting to make him soft in the middle, which his wife did
not
tolerate. As a result, it wasn’t uncommon for Dex to be found doing push-ups or sit-ups in his office, while wearing a shirt and tie. Dex had an understanding with his two secretaries—any work week that extended beyond seventy hours triggered a bouquet of flowers being sent to his wife. He credited them and the florist with saving his marriage. A few eighty hour weeks resulted in jewelry, also picked out by his secretaries.

It took a few phone calls back and forth to coordinate their conversation, but finally Mackey got Dex on the phone, with Cascaes sitting next to him in Mackey’s hotel room.

“Hey, Mack, good to hear your voice,” said Dex. “Enjoying your R and R on the beach, I trust?”

“You know it, baby. But you know how easily I get bored. I’m here with Chris Cascaes. We’ve hatched an idea that I want to run by you.”

“You’re supposed to be on vacation—what are you guys up to now?” asked Dex with a laugh. Dex was very well acquainted with Cascaes from prior missions involving his SEAL Team.

“Can you talk now?” asked Mackey. “I mean, we’re on a secure phone. Are you alone right now?”

“Yeah, go ahead. I’m secure here. Now you’ve got my interest piqued,” said Dex.

“Well, it’s just an idea, really. I can’t even take credit for it—it’s not new. Back in Vietnam, I knew a guy that played on a baseball team that wasn’t a baseball team. They used to tour around Southeast Asia as a baseball exhibition team playing local teams and teaching baseball. They’d roster like fifteen guys but never had more than eleven or twelve in the dugout. The other guys would be
working
, know what I mean?”

Dex was smiling on his end of the phone, thinking about a soccer team that currently had two agents on it in Mexico. He only knew about it because they had once played in the United Arab Emirate and he was given a heads-up prior to a hit on a “most wanted” from his section.

“Yeah, I follow you. What are you concocting now?”

“Well, we’ve been playing baseball for over a week, and the guys on our little team are serious athletes—I mean
really
good. I think some of these guys could make it professionally, no kidding. Anyway, they’re SEALs, Recondos, Rangers, and a trio from our neck of the woods. The SEALs are Cascaes’ crew, and they are
hardcore
. Anyway, I’d like you to run background on all these guys and see what you think. Personally, I think these guys could do just about anything. What if they were a Navy All-Star team or something and traveled around playing teams from other countries? It would be a great way to get in and out of places.”

“Send me an email with your roster—names and social security numbers, branch of service, etcetera, and we’ll look into it. Like you said, what you are proposing has been done before, so we have to consider how effective it could be, but I’ll run it past Darren and see what he says. In the meantime, try and get some rest and stay out of trouble. I’ll talk to you later, after I get your email.”

“Okay, see ya later, Dex.” Mackey hung up and repeated the message to Cascaes.

“Well, he didn’t say no,” said Cascaes.

* * *

Six days later, a new file was opened in Dexter Murphy’s office, simply referred to as “The Team.”

Chapter 5

April 2012, Over the Med

Chris Mackey, the coach of the baseball team, was briefing his men in the back of a chartered commercial jet as they flew from Germany to Saudi Arabia. He and his players were the only passengers besides the flight crew in the cockpit. There were no flight attendants, and the flight crew knew they were not to interrupt the meeting in the back of the aircraft. Instead of eating peanuts and watching a movie, the passengers watched a slide show of Middle Eastern maps and people.

Coach Mackey, a CIA operative for over twenty years, was the team leader of this Navy All-Star Exhibition Team. His fifteen men were all great athletes and excellent baseball players—good enough that they could compete with almost any minor league team around. The truth was, it really didn’t matter if they lost one hundred to nothing, and they weren’t touring all over the world because they needed to win on the baseball diamond.

Mackey stood before the fifteen players seated in front of him and began his presentation. The first slide came up showing Eskan Village, the home to a few thousand US personnel stationed in Saudi.

“This is Eskan Village, outside Riyadh. Any of you been there before?” asked Mackey.

The Army Rangers, Marine Recondos, and one of the CIA operatives raised their hands. When Mackey made eye contact with the CIA agent, an agent by the name of Cory Stewart, Cory shrugged and smiled and added, “
Allegedly
.”

“Well, for those of you who haven’t been there, Eskan is where most Air Force personnel live who work in Riyadh. The place is clean and well maintained, except for the occasional pile of camel shit. It was originally built by the Saudi government for the Bedouins, but they preferred their tents and camels, and the place was abandoned until we started using it.” He changed slides to a road map of northern Saudi Arabia, showing roads from Riyadh through the Northern Border leading to Iraq. “These are the main roads from the capital to Iraq. It appears that
zaqat
money—that’s money the locals give to charity—is ending up in Iraq funding the insurgency. I’m happy to say that our job isn’t very complicated. We’re merely pulling an armed robbery.” He smiled and paused.

Earl Jones, a Marine Recondo from Harlem, couldn’t help speaking up. “Yo, man, you better let
me
have a whack at
this
job. I wasn’t
always
a poster boy for the United States Marine Corps.” He laughed loudly and gave Raul Santos, another Marine, a long 150th Street handshake.

Mackey smiled. “As a matter of fact, Jones, you
are
on this job—now shut up.” Mackey used a laser pointer to illuminate one of the small lines on the screen. “This road here is a little off the beaten track. Our intelligence in Saudi tells us that money and weapons have been moved along this route into Iraq. Apparently, there is a major bankroll headed north in a couple of days.”

Mackey changed slides again, this time to a picture of a fruit truck. “This little piece of crap truck is our target, gentlemen. I’ll give you more pictures of it later to study and memorize, but this innocent old truck is reported to be hauling more than figs and dates. The number I was given was fifty million in US dollars.”

“
Dat’s
what I’m
talkin’
about!” said Jones. He leaned forward and whispered, “We get to keep a little taste?” He was grinning from ear to ear, his teeth white in contrast with very dark skin.

A stern look from Mackey was enough to shut him up, although he did exchange another wild handshake with Santos.

“While eleven of you take the field to play the Prince’s Royal Team, Cascaes, Hodges, Jones, and Perez will be taking down the truck. Moose, you’re pitching. And I am
ordering
you to throw a no-hitter while we run up the score.”

That brought a few laughs. Mackey continued. “Listen, I wasn’t given the whole scoop on this prince other than this—the guy’s a multi-billionaire who loves American baseball. He just doesn’t like Americans very much. He’s got a domed stadium and brings in Minor League teams from the states for his own personal entertainment. While most of his buddies are buying and selling race horses, he’s watching baseball or racing cars. It’s my understanding that he has his own Royal Team from around the Middle East that trains with American coaches and players. Those are the guys you’ll be playing. Who knows, maybe he’ll own a team in the States in another year. In any event, the baseball game isn’t why we’re traveling halfway around the world. Fifty millions dollars is a large amount of money. I’m slightly concerned with our informant’s information. According to our source, the money will not be guarded by more than two or three men to avoid suspicion at the border crossing. Let’s hope that is correct.”

Mackey changed slides and showed another map reference, depicting a road. “This point here is one of the most remote on the route from Riyadh to the border. The four of you will head out the night before in an unmarked truck. You’ll take down the truck, transfer the money, and get back to Eskan by the time the game is over. We’re supposed to play at ten-hundred hours local time, so I want you back by noon, latest. You will have papers to get you back in Eskan Village with the civilian truck. We’ll be back from the game by no later than thirteen hundred hours—hopefully earlier because Moose isn’t going to let them hit the ball, right Moose? Then we load the loot and get out of Dodge before the Sheriff finds out there’s been a robbery.”

Mackey paused, then added, “Oh, and don’t get caught stealing in Saudi Arabia. They’ll cut off your hands before they stone you to death.” He flashed his own sarcastic smile at Jones, who winced and looked down at his open hands.

Cascaes had been the SEAL team leader prior to the seven of them being included in the baseball team. Although the team didn’t use their former ranks on a regular basis, Cascaes was the senior man after Mackey and would be team leader for the mission.

“The driver and guards?” asked Cascaes.

Mackey shook his head and made a slit-throat motion under his own chin. “And I don’t want them found, either,” he added.

Cascaes nodded. “You say this area is remote. Not much vehicle traffic?”

“Shouldn’t be anybody out there. We’re talking middle of the desert.” He pointed to Hodges, the Marine Sharpshooter. “If any other vehicles approach the area, Hodges can give them a flat tire before they get within a mile of our operation.”

Hodges gave a quiet “Hooaa” to voice his enthusiasm about shooting his newly-issued prototype sniper rifle.

Mackey continued. “We will have eyes in the sky to help you locate the truck. Our guy inside Saudi has already placed a GPS sensor on the vehicle, and it has been tracked ever since. You’ll get a heads-up when the target is getting close. This shouldn’t be too complicated.”

Cascaes smiled. “They never are, until something gets complicated.”

“Yeah,” Mackey grunted. “Chris, you and your crew will work out the details on your own. The rest of you guys—here’s the lineup. Moose is throwin’ a no-hitter. Ripper, you’re catching. Jake, first base…”

Chapter 6

Saudi Arabia

The jet landed in Riyadh, and the team walked out of the aircraft in their US Navy All-Star sweat suits. The Saudi Arabian weather welcomed them like a blowtorch with punishing sun and a cloudless sky. Their sweat suits were white with large blue stars running down the legs and arms. An American flag covered the left breast of the jacket with “All Stars” embroidered underneath. “US NAVY” was written across the back. The uniforms were flashy and professional looking, and the team looked every bit the part of an All-Star team. Each man carried a large duffle bag full of equipment, military uniforms, weapons, radios, and typical combat packs, as well as another duffle bag with their baseball uniforms, gloves, and batting helmets. They were prepared to play baseball or fight a small army.

The plane was greeted by an Air Force General who had been somewhat briefed by a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff that this baseball team was to be treated as VIPs. Neither of the Generals knew anything about the actual mission, only that this team would be playing the prince’s hand-picked baseball team at his personal indoor stadium. Simply put, the team was to have whatever they asked for, no questions asked—and that came straight from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs himself. It was apparent to the Air Force General that greeted the plane that the President must have been a big baseball fan.

The General and his staff shook hands with Coach Mackey and his players and welcomed them to Saudi Arabia. He had one of his staff escort the team to a blue Air Force bus, where they stowed their gear and hopped aboard the air-conditioned bus to escape the desert heat. It had to be at least ninety-five degrees, and this was still spring. In another two months, it would be well over a hundred. The team politely listened to an Air Force sergeant tell them about the base, local customs, and where to find basic necessities. The bus pulled up in front of a four-story apartment building, which was immaculate and freshly painted in desert colors. The team unloaded and headed to their rooms, which were private—a nice surprise. They
were
VIPs, after all.

After they had unloaded, the team assembled in a small meeting room that had been reserved especially for them. Once there, the team helped Cascaes, Hodges, Jones, and Perez assemble their weapons and check their radios and gear. The game was to be played tomorrow morning, which meant the foursome working on the truck interception would be heading out tonight. It was already fifteen hundred hours, having lost a few in the air, and the men needed time to plan and then rest before heading out.

Once the weapons and radios were assembled, they were put back into their packs along with night vision equipment, body armor, Ghillie suits, some MREs, and water to last two days. The men changed into desert camos and pulled out maps to recheck their routes. In the meantime, Mackey arranged for a civilian truck to be brought to their apartment building, which would be the mode of transportation from Riyadh to the ambush point.

The team went back to their rooms, each with their own equipment, and tried to grab a couple of hours of sleep. At oh-three hundred, Cascaes and his crew headed down to the truck and took off for a small desert road to the north. At oh-six hundred, the rest of the team woke up and headed over to the chow hall to grab breakfast, now dressed in their brand new blue and white uniforms. They carried duffle bags that now held only baseball gloves, hats, and helmets, cleats, and batting gloves, and bats. (And micro-sized radios to communicate with their team.)

They were treated like star athletes in the dining hall, with other base personnel wishing them luck in ‘kicking some Saudi ass.’ The team smiled and shook hands with everyone, realizing that their uniforms did make them look like a team right out of the Majors. It was their first real game, and the men on the team where actually starting to get psyched about playing now that the crowd was egging them on. They had beaten every team they had played in Hawaii, most of them badly, but they had yet to play a
real
team.

None of them had really mentally prepared for baseball stardom. It was fun, but at the same time, they were trying to appear serious about the upcoming game. They did, in fact, want to win—it was their natural competitive spirit, but of course, they were all distracted by the mission that had started while they slept. They finished breakfast with lots of additional backslaps and high-signs, and they were happy to get out of there to a round of applause by the entire dining facility.

Coach Mackey smiled and waved as they left, and then quietly told his team to get their asses on the bus. They had a forty-minute drive by bus to the prince’s private stadium.

While they all knew the man was stupid-rich, nothing could have prepared them for what they saw when they pulled into the stadium parking lot. It was a scaled down version of the Houston Astrodome. The stadium could hold five thousand fans, although it was a private facility that rarely held more than three hundred. The stadium was domed and climate controlled, and the Astroturf field was as nice as anything in the Majors back home.

When the team arrived, their bus was greeted by a full staff of the prince’s, who, they were told, was waiting for them inside. As they headed inside, a few of the players whistled quietly at the enormity of the stadium. Only a couple of the guys on the team had ever played college ball, and even those stadiums were nothing like this. There were electronic scoreboards and enormous replay screens—nicer than those found in most professional American stadiums.

The team followed their coach into the stadium and were greeted by Prince Abdul bin-Mustafa Awadi, their host. He was one of a few thousand billionaires in Saudi Arabia who smiled and did business with the west, while privately holding no love for the Americans outside of their one common interest—oil money. They went through the formalities and introductions but were surprised when an assistant came to the team and asked for each player’s name, so they could be announced at the start of the game. That brought a few nervous chuckles.

When that business was settled, the team headed to their dugout by third base. They could see the opposing team enter their dugout from an inner door, and they watched them trot out onto the field where they began a formal warm up routine. Moose was the first to notice two of the players on the Saudi team. He grabbed Ripper, his catcher.

“Hey, Rip—you see who that
is
over there? That’s Jose Torrez, man. Doesn’t he play for the Mets?”

Ripper looked over and squinted. “Holy shit, man. You ain’t kidding. Look who he’s talking to.”

Moose couldn’t believe it. “Christ. That’s Fernandez from Los Angeles. He hit like...three forty last year. You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“I guess when you’re a billionaire, you can hire a guy to play one game,” said Ripper. He looked back to Moose, but Moose was already trotting over to Mackey.

“Hey, Coach. We got problems with our little exhibition game,” he said.

Mackey looked up from his roster. “What’s up?”

“They’ve brought in ringers. That’s Fernandez and Torrez over there.”

Mackey raised his eyebrows. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

“Damn straight. Those guys are pros. They each made like a
boatload
of dough last year playing at home. Torrez throws like a hundred miles an hour, and Fernandez will be bouncing the ball off the lights. Lord knows what Prince Raghead paid these guys to play one game.”

Mackey looked over at the Saudi team, in neat rows, stretching in pre-game warm-ups. Their white uniforms were immaculate. Only the beards on some of the players gave away their nationality—otherwise, they looked like a professional American team.

“Quit your bitching and get the guys out to do warm-ups like those guys. Try and look like a baseball team.”

Smitty walked up to his Coach and whispered in his ear. “Problem, Coach.”

“Yeah, I know about the ringers.”

“Ringers?” asked Smitty.

“What’s your problem, Smitty?”

“It’s the radios. They are getting almost no signal in here. Must be the steel dome. I haven’t been able to reach our team at all. Been trying since we walked in.”

“Shit. Okay, keep at it. Oh, and be ready to play today. We may need your bat. The prince was kind enough to hire professional baseball players. Apparently, he takes this shit as seriously as I do.”

Smitty looked across the field. “Holy crap. Isn’t that Jose Torrez from the Mets?”