Covert Commando: A Sam Harper Military Thriller

by Thomas Sewell

  Adrenalin flooded into me. I ducked underwater. Pushed off the hull for a fast start.

  Transparent water didn't work to my advantage.

  Swam as far as I could toward the end of the concrete pier. Surfaced right at the corner of the end. Glanced back to shore.

  The paperwork official blew his whistle for reinforcements. His supervisor sprinted along the beach. Reached the 20-meter wide ramp where the pier connected to land.

  No escape there.

  I hauled myself up onto the pier. Scraped my forearms and legs. Jogged across it to a white fishing trawler alongside.

  Recovered some of the breath I'd expended swimming.

  The supervisor sped down the pier. Fast for such a robust eater.

  Couldn't shoot him just for doing his job.

  I let him get most of the way to me. Climbed up on a yellow metal safety fence. Dove back into the water. Swam for the shore around a corner of the seawall.

  Scrapes reminded me that open wounds don't go with salt-water.

  He turned to run back.

  Couldn't outswim his legs, but because a walled yard surrounded every building, he not only had farther to run, but would need to pick a gate and demand entry to reach the seawall.

  I stroked past several smaller outriggers at anchor. Presumably belonged to the homeowners.

  Should I borrow one?

  No, even if I found a paddle and cut the anchor, I'd have to return to shore eventually. He could track me at leisure in a government vehicle.

  First, I'd make him guess where I left the water, but second I'd need to then hide somehow.

  Couldn't exactly blend in while towering over a crowd.

  Homes might also be occupied. I'd attract attention in their yards.

  No other choice.

  I picked a yard with three lines of clothes hung across it. Plenty of concealment.

  Scaled the seawall. Scrapes complained again. I told them to shut up.

  Shouts from a home toward the pier in Tagalog. Probably the supervisor arguing with an occupant.

  Needed to avoid that, myself.

  Pulled my shirt off. Doubled it up. Used it to protect my hands from the glass shards and razor-wire embedded in the top of the block wall around the yard.

  Dropped low. Out of sight from the other side.

  At least they weren't rich enough to own a dog.

  Ducked between the clotheslines. Bright yellow sheets pinned on the outside. Female women's wear hung from the center line. Muslim styles in black.

  Muslims made up ten percent of the island's population. Just my luck to find myself in their literal backyard.

  What if they supported the ISIL tangos?

  I grinned. Grabbed a full flowing black dress. Pulled it over my head. Donned the headscarf and veil. Took me three tries to tie it right.

  After all, I needed a better disguise.

  No reason they couldn't support me at the same time.

  Arms folded, I minced along with a hunch to pass as shorter and fatter. Headed out a gate to the street. Turned back toward the port, opposite of where they'd think to look for a fleeing fugitive.

  The customs supervisor bounced right past me on the street, hopping up and staring over yard walls toward the water.

  Once out of his sight, I sat on a landscaping rock preventing vehicles from ramming someone's banana stand near the street corner and transmitted a message to Schnier.

  He'd have to find a different way besides ferry-boat to get his platoon and their weapons to the island.

  Now how would I locate Omar's group?

  * * *

  Pahk's tablet showed a new message from Comment Crew, but he'd need to wait for calmer seas before reading it in detail.

  He preferred command to riding as a foreign passenger. Former Korean Special Forces first lieutenants should get more respect from Chinese sailor women.

  The green mass of Lubang Island grew at high-speed to fill the horizon.

  He imagined each wave crossing the bow of their torpedo boat was aimed at him deliberately by the pilot in her protected cockpit. That turned his bouncing struggle to stay upright on the fast-moving craft into a fierce battle for supremacy.

  Not a game he was winning. Seawater drenched his clothing.

  Pahk knew the covert boat needed to get in and out before anyone from the local navy noticed them, but did that process require rattling his teeth around?

  As the PLAN boat approached the shore, their speed dropped to where conversation was possible against the wind. They motored toward the mouth of a small river, barely wider than their hull.

  "We're going in there?"

  The witch at the wheel glanced back. "You want to meet your group's truck, don't you?"

  "Yes, but we don't need to wreck in the process."

  She looked ahead. Pushed the throttle forward again just enough to bounce them across a shallow spot where the sea met the river's mouth. "The truck is inland."

  He stared at the back of her navy blue digital camouflage uniform. Arrogant, as well as a crazy driver. Almost like a fighter pilot.

  She throttled back as the river narrowed.

  He checked his tablet. Comment Crew sent a list of American units in the Pacific Region with unknown whereabouts.

  The hacking unit also included images of various sniper teams taken from traffic and business cameras in Manila during the incident.

  Definitely Americans, despite their civilian clothing.

  The boat's pilot pointed ahead. "Your dock."

  A faded orange truck waited, backed up to a four-foot jetty along the right side of where the river widened. The truck's bed made up for its short length with tall walls and rear-gate.

  The sort of thing two-dozen Filipinos would pile into the back of for a free standing-room-only ride into town.

  This one came with four grim-faced ISIL soldiers idly smoking.

  Good, they'd need help with transferring the weapons he'd prepared as payment.

  She cut the engines, spun the wheel, and coasted the boat up to the pier. Barely tapped it, but managed to spin around in the process to leave the rear facing it.

  One sailor jumped off the stern. Another tossed him a coil of rope, unspooling through the air. He wrapped it around one of the landing's wooden posts.

  The Chinese always were efficient, at least. It was how they'd come to rule this part of the world.

  While the sailors and ISIL soldiers hauled weapon crates across to the truck bed, Pahk flipped through the rest of the security camera photos Comment Crew had emailed.

  He stopped at a photo of two military age men, one carrying what looked suspiciously like a hard-case for a sniper rifle, the other a pair of black duffel bags.

  They faced the camera while preparing to cross a street. Checking for cross-traffic.

  Pahk knew them. Recognized them.

  Had lost his career, his homeland, to this particular pair of Americans.

  That changed everything.

  Could he be sure? Checking the missing units list, he found their ranger platoons reported as having vanished from Seoul, destination unknown.

  His intentions shifted.

  He'd deliver the weapons to Omar, but then it would be time to plan an ambush for his two friends from the old country.

  A deadly trap.

  * * *

  Larrikowal stared at the report on his computer. Omar Yousef. A jihadist extremist known as the Wrath of Allah. Responsible for over a dozen terrorist bombings. Three dozen shootings.

  Hundreds of murders.

  Add the traffic officer near the train station to his tally.

  They had him on video from the rail platform nearby. He jogged as if late. Pressed cash into the hand of the security guard responsible to search everyone who entered.

  The guard would pay for that mistake.

  But Omar was a dangerous man. Unlike him to miss a target, but there was still the other team. The one who'd fired at him. Drove him away ahead
of the assault team.

  Facial recognition tracked Omar south from the train to Talisay Road. Near the Lubang ferry. He'd made a mistake. Led them closer to his hideout than ever.

  Unfortunately, the video recording from the customs shed on the dock was missing. Not a malfunction, because more recent footage was recorded.

  Another cover-up? Or a stupid mistake by someone?

  After all, it left a trail. Video didn't delete itself.

  Tracking the second team had gone better. No facial recognition hits, somehow they'd avoided airports and other public transit locations, but they'd found them exiting a vehicle outside the building with their sniper nest on the roof.

  Followed the vehicle back in time to the west of Manila. To a vacation resort on the coast. A collection of nipa huts, the entire complex recently rented by a shell corporation out of the Bahamas.

  Very little in public record about it, just owned by yet another shell. A front for some nefarious organization.

  But they had the resort complex.

  Time to prepare a raid. Propose it to his boss.

  Catch the bad guys asleep in bed.

  Chapter Nine: Tracking Paperwork

  Michelle wondered if her relationship with Schnier could survive their working together. He didn't take orders to pack up and go home from his girlfriend very well.

  She lifted and clacked two of the shells on her necklace together. Helped her think.

  Of course, Sam was just as bad, and he was supposed to be her best friend. He'd rather roam the islands to lead the way looking for terrorists, though.

  Men.

  Even worse, Army Rangers!

  Schnier soared up the bamboo ladder into the boys' home/office combination nipa hut. Ignored her to dash over to his laptop computer.

  Ugly thing. Green and clunky.

  The laptop, not Schnier.

  Well, he had a strong jawline and lean muscle for days, anyway. Plus red velvety hair everywhere.

  Not all bad.

  Despite his job-obsessed rudeness.

  "Something new?"

  Schnier looked up. Shook his head to clear it. "Sorry, forgot you were waiting there. Sam tracked the tangos to the Lubang ferry. His platoon sergeant passed on video of them buying tickets."

  "That's good news, right?"

  "Sure, but, well, Sam says there's no way to get my platoon across on the ferry, so I need to find an alternative. Maybe a boat?"

  She shook her head. "Any boat ride you get from the seventh fleet at this point is going to end in Japan."

  "I'll get the MI guys working on finding a local charter boat for us. Should be something along the coast."

  Sometimes as dumb as hitting on nineteen in blackjack, though. She made a production out of checking the time on her sat phone.

  "That going to happen in the ten hours you have left until D.C. wakes up?"

  He sighed. Began typing a message to Sam's MI platoon, designated to support his. "We'll hire a charter bird instead."

  Her last helicopter ride ended up with her parachuting into the Pacific Ocean. "Well, I'm not going with you, then."

  "Who said anything about you going? This is a combat reconnaissance, search and perhaps destroy, not a spy mission."

  Despite all his confidence, Schnier could be a real jackass sometimes. Or maybe because of?

  "If a microscope man like you can handle it, I'm sure I could. Besides, I'm in overall charge here, remember?"

  Could he take a joke? Remember the reference to how they'd met?

  "The agency may have you running things in-country, but that doesn't put you in my military chain of command."

  Apparently not. What was she still doing with this jerk, anyway? Her stomach tightened.

  "I may not write your performance evaluation, but your assigned mission is to support me."

  Not that he shouldn't already be supporting her, rather than running off to chase terrorists with Sam.

  Didn't he realize her career was on the line here?

  He grinned. Speared her with his intense blue eyes.

  "I'm sorry, but did you forget this is my first independent command? It's not just your career at stake. How will the Army trust me with company command if I can't pull off leading two platoons on an allied island? After what happened in Seoul, Sam isn't exactly the major's favorite, either."

  Selfish. That's what he was. Egotistical. Narcissistic. Just wrapped up in himself.

  She'd have to stroke his ego a bit, but that didn't end this.

  "You're doing fine in command of your rangers." She reached out. Slid her hand down his bicep. "You know I want you to succeed here. We all want to succeed together. Just remember the actual mission."

  He leaned back in his chair. Exhaled loudly. Deeply. Tension vanished from his body.

  "Thanks. Need to step back. Work the problem."

  "You do that. I'll catch up on my own messages."

  He nodded. Stared back at his laptop.

  A girl wants a little romance, you distracted muscle-bound jerk.

  She walked over to his bed. Sat on the end. Scrolled through the messages on her agency phone.

  Should she drop Schnier? There were plenty of other men around, although not as many with the right clearance to know what she actually did for a living.

  No, not one of those embassy boors.

  For the millionth time, she wished things had worked out between her and Sam. They'd broken up after high school. Drifted apart when they went to separate colleges. Her to Berkeley, while he remained in San Diego.

  They'd stayed friends, but it didn't make sense at the time to not date others. Eventually, they each found someone local they liked.

  A long-distance friendship, until the tech demonstration of his eSurfboard and her orders to get him to Seoul.

  That'd worked out alright. At least for her career prospects in the agency. She'd parleyed the win into this assignment as station chief in the Philippines.

  Well, that and a little judicious leverage of her boss back in D.C., who made the assignments she wanted.

  With Sam out in the field, out of touch much of the time, she should check his email. Just in case something needed to be dealt with to preserve his covert cover.

  She switched to his mailbox on her phone. No parents to write him. Terrorists killed them when he was a kid.

  A couple of group messages from the BOQ office in Seoul. Bunch of Army procedure updates spam.

  Unanswered email from Hyo-jin, that volleyball scientist Korean girl he met in Seoul. Only knew the cover story, that the ranger platoons were off on a training mission in New Zealand.

  Probably private. Should she read it?

  Most likely person to blow his cover, after all. She'd expect to hear back from him. No one else would think anything was wrong if they didn't get a response right-away.

  She shifted on the bed. An invasion of his privacy? Naw, they were close friends. He'd already told her a lot about their relationship.

  It wasn't as if she didn't already know they were together.

  Better read them. Just in case.

  The messages were stuffed with mush. Ugh.

  That brat didn't deserve Sam.

  Even if she claimed to miss him more than a thousand sunsets.

  Why did that cause her eyes to tear up?

  Michelle blanked her phone. She wouldn't reply to Sam's girlfriend with enough gushiness to make a response believable.

  Maybe if her roll of the dice with Schnier came up craps, she'd have to see if Sam was a better prospect instead.

  After all, they were already best friends. Worked together. No reason they couldn't go back to having more benefits.

  She stood up. Marched over to the ladder. She'd return to her own hut. Figure out how to save this fiasco in the making.

  At least from the agency end.

  But what could she do about Hyo-jin?

  * * *

  Raven collapsed with exhaustion once they finally rea
ched the portion of the cave complex reserved for living quarters.

  Dead to the world.

  Waking, she arched her back. Stretched her arms wide, like she was preparing for her gymnastic floor routine. Crawled off her sleeping mat. Knelt at its foot. Rolled it up with the bedding inside. Leaned it against a deep green cave wall, next to the LED lantern she'd brought from Texas.

  She'd grown used to the light aura of dampness on every wall and floor of the cavern complex. Like tears flowing from the mountain above.

  She repressed her own weeping inside.

  At least Omar didn't make her sleep next to him in his private section of the men's quarters. Probably afraid she'd stab him while unconscious.

  Or interfere with one of his concubine's visits.

  She shuddered. Donned a robe and head covering for warmth. The next prayer would begin soon.

  Time to go prepare food for him. She couldn't risk being caught unready. The last time she couldn't provide a meal when he wanted it, he'd stripped her down and beaten her with a wooden rod. The stave he kept specifically for that purpose.

  For beating his wives. Concubines. Slaves.

  He enjoyed their screams. They excited him. He called her his songbird, as if it were an endearment. A compliment on how well she howled in pain to please him.

  She'd believed she was preparing to join his jihad. After converting to the religion of peace, she'd followed her professor's exhortations to unite with her new people.

  Make a difference. Follow ISIL. Fight for the down-trodden against the corrupt west.

  They'd sent her to a finishing school for potential brides in Manila. She memorized Koran passages. Passed the test given by the Shaheed in charge, an older woman, wife of a martyr.

  Earned her red slip, which proclaimed her ready for a husband.

  At the end of the selection process, when the ISIL warrior beat her while naked, she'd been afraid, but told herself it was a test to see if she could resist pain and endure humiliation for her duty.

  Now she knew the truth. It was to see if Omar was pleased with the screams of his potential bride.

  His new songbird.

  Now she existed, along with the others, to feed him. Clean his quarters. Supply sex. Scream.

  That's how she tried to think of it. As a transaction. He was her husband, and she was to obey him. To give him everything he might need to sustain him in their fight.