by S L Shelton
Damn it! My vest is still sitting in the truck.
He looked down and saw a dark stain forming on his light-colored plaid shirt.
“Shit,” he whispered, gurgling and then slid his gun hand out in front of him. He was surprised to see his SIG still clutched tightly such was the lack of feeling in his arm.
He squeezed the trigger, firing at the feet of the approaching men. When one of them dropped to the ground, screaming, he fired several rounds into the man’s head. Fighting against the closing darkness, he tried to take aim at the next target, but realized he was out of ammunition when the trigger produced a hollow click.
“Storc!” Nick yelled out with a call that emptied his lungs. He struggled to gasp air back into them…but they wouldn’t cooperate. He was choking on his own blood; he could feel it bubbling in his chest.
Behind him, he heard the rapid clack of suppressed gunfire. In his field of vision, the other assailant fell, eyes open and staring at Nick, vacant, no life left in them.
“Medic,” came a familiar voice. “Over there.”
Nick, still gasping for air, turned his head to see Dylan Pritchett running toward him. Nick shook his head as Dylan arrived and helped set him up.
“It’ll be okay,” Dylan said supportively.
Nick couldn’t draw enough breath to speak, so instead, he slapped Dylan in the face and pointed at the van. Just then, the medic pressed a plastic patch over the hole in Nick’s chest, allowing Nick to take a bit of a breath. “The van…make sure the kid is alive,” he said.
Dylan stood. “Medical in the van,” he said to another team member and then kneeled back down in front of Nick.
Nick shoved him away. “The kid. Take care of the kid first.”
Dylan disappeared around the van and returned a few seconds later, carrying Storc between him and another man. His face had been beaten to a bloody pulp, but he was still alive.
“It’s a flesh wound,” the medic said about Storc. “We need to take care of you first.”
Nick nodded, relieved to hear Storc would live.
“They know where Scott is!” Storc said after inhalants had revived him. “They have his iPad MAC address and the tower ping.”
Nick’s eyes opened wide and he reached out, grabbing Storc by the collar. “I didn’t tell them where he was,” Storc said angrily, slapping at Nick’s hand in a display of assertiveness he wouldn’t have expected from the computer nerd. “They beat me for an hour until their tech guy accessed the proxy string. They’ll be able to narrow his position down to fifteen meters.”
Nick sat up, struggling against the insistence of the medic, and pulled out his phone. He quickly dialed the analyst number at Langley.
“Rhodes,” answered Penny from the other end.
“Scott’s been blown. He needs to leave, wherever he is, now. Get a message to him,” he rasped.
“Sending,” Penny said without hesitation.
“It won’t do any good,” Storc sobbed. “They killed the servers. He’s got no connection.”
“Fuck,” Nick spat, and he handed the phone to Storc. “Tell her everything you can that might help us locate Scott,” he said, rising to a seated position.
Storc closed the one eye that wasn’t already swollen shut and began to recite an address. “It’s a tower ID,” Storc said after he had repeated the numbers twice, correcting himself only once as he recited. “I don’t know the location, but that was the last tower hit ID I remember seeing.”
One of Dylan’s team came over and whispered something into his ear as Storc held on the line. Dylan nodded.
“What?” Nick asked Dylan.
“The guys in suits are—well, were—Baynebridge Tactical. Only one left alive. They’re bagging him up now.”
“Basel?” Storc asked, snapping Nick’s attention to him. “Basel, Switzerland.”
Nick grabbed the phone from Storc. “Lock it down. Now,” Nick hissed, blood dripping from his mouth. “Get DevGru on the tarmac at Andrews and get the G550 fueled up and ready.”
“Nick…has it occurred to you that the G8 is in—”
“Yes,” Nick snapped, fluid bubbling in his voice. “Just do it.”
He closed his phone and slumped back, closing his eyes and trying to build enough momentum to rise. When he leaned forward, the patch came off his chest and the bubbling in his lung started anew.
“Come on,” the medic said as he pressed it back into place. “Let’s get him in the street where the chopper can land.”
Darkness began to close around him. He could hear the distant whomp, whomp, whomp of an approaching helicopter.
“One, two, three,” the medic said before two of them lifted Nick and carried him to the edge of the street.
His head fell backward as they moved him, and he caught a glimpse of Storc. “Hey,” he rasped. “Today you are a man.”
Storc looked up and smiled through a bloodied swollen lip. “Yeah, well, tomorrow I’m going back to being a boy.”
Nick chuckled, bringing a gurgling foam of blood to his mouth. “Smart-ass computer geeks,” he rattled as they sat him down at the curb.
His mind slipped in and out of consciousness as the helicopter got closer. He was vaguely aware of his phone ringing, and it sent a ripple of agitation through him. When Dylan took it from him and answered, he relaxed a tick letting the darkness swallow him again.
“No… Nick’s not going,” Dylan said, bringing Nick back to the edge of awareness.
In front of him, the MedEvac chopper had touched down, and he realized they were moving toward it.
“Damn it, Penny…Bethesda,” Dylan said into Nick’s phone. “Have transport waiting for me so I can be at Andrews within the hour.”
Nick looked at Dylan and then at the medic who was putting the tube in his chest.
“There’s plenty of time! They’ll need to load equipment anyway,” Dylan said into the phone before pausing to listen to her response. “I don’t care. The SEALs can have command once we go in, but they’re going to need CIA liaison to get into place. It’s Switzerland, not Afghanistan.”
Dylan ended the call and shook his head. “She wanted to know why you weren’t leading the tactical team,” Dylan said loudly over the din of the chopper’s engines “She seems to think she’s in charge now.”
Nick looked up at the medic. “Am I gonna die?” he asked.
The medic must have mistaken his question for a fear of death and comforted him by saying, “No. You’ll be fine. It’s a clean wound, and we already have a tube in you.”
That’s all Nick needed to hear. “Penny’s not in charge…I am,” Nick rasped. “We’re skipping Bethesda. Fly a surgeon to Andrews. They can patch me up in-flight.”
Dylan smiled briefly, but then he realized Nick wasn’t kidding judging by the crease in his brow and the frown. “Nick, sucking chest wounds are what take you out of combat…not what you start combat with.”
Nick rose from the gurney, grabbed Dylan by the throat, and then pulled him close. Despite the medics and Dylan’s best efforts, they could not pry Nick’s hands away. “Fuel the Gulfstream. Have the surgeon waiting for us. Do it now, or you will be going to Bethesda,” he growled, his face a contortion of pain and anger. “I’ll drop you out of the plane myself when we fly over.”
Dylan nodded, prompting Nick to release him.
“Change of venue, boys. We’re going straight to Andrews,” Dylan said, rubbing his throat.
The crew chief looked up at the medics, who shrugged. He shook his head and then spoke into his mic, letting the pilot know the change of plans. The helicopter made a sharp bank before speeding toward the Joint Base at Andrews.
“Just for the record,” Dylan said after a moment. “We won’t be passing over Bethesda…so you couldn’t throw me out of the plane there anyway.”
Nick grinned. “The Atlantic, then.”
Dylan smiled and shook his head. “You are the badass to end all badasses.”
“We’ll see,” Nick
muttered, inaudible over the helicopter’s engines.
They landed at Andrews Joint Base less than ten minutes later. The Gulfstream had already been wheeled out of the hangar by the time they’d landed a few hundred feet away. As Dylan and the medics took Nick off the evac chopper, he looked over and saw that a tactical team was already loading gear aboard. They rolled Nick toward the CIA-owned jet.
The Gulfstream was a heavily modified model G550. The cruising speed of a normal G550 was .85 of Mach. This one would pull just under Mach 1 at .925 of Mach, making it the fastest non-military aircraft currently flying. Its modifications were the inspiration for the yet-to-be-released G650. Travel time to Scott’s location in Switzerland from Andrews: about six hours.
Other modifications had been made as well, not the least of which was a modified cargo hatch and hold, designed specifically to allow egress during flight—even high-altitude, high-speed egresses.
Nick looked over and saw Lieutenant Marsh running toward him. Behind him were several of his team members.
“We’ve got it,” Marsh said to the medic who stepped away and let the SEALs continue wheeling Nick toward the Gulfstream. For a nervous instant, Nick was afraid they were going to ditch him in the hangar, leaving him behind with the doctor.
“How’s it goin’ there, boss man?” Marsh asked with a grin.
“Some fashionista didn’t like my shirt,” Nick rasped.
“I don’t blame them. Damned ugly shirt,” Marsh replied. “Too bad you were still in it.”
Nick’s breathing was labored, but he knew it had more to do with the tube in his chest than anything else. It was probably time to let some pressure out. That would hopefully all be remedied before they landed in Switzerland.
“We have to go save our boy again,” Nick said through a rattle in his throat.
“Monkey Wrench?” Marsh said, shaking his head. “Always gettin’ into trouble.”
“Tell me about it,” Nick replied.
The surgeon arrived in an SUV a few minutes later, accompanied by a nurse. The driver helped them bring their equipment aboard the jet.
It was ten minutes from touchdown to take off. Nick struggled to take a breath as the additional g-force of take off constricted his chest. The pressure eased once they were airborne.
“Okay, Doc,” Nick said, turning to the surgeon. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
“I’ll state again for the record: this is exceedingly stupid,” the doctor replied.
“Yeah, well…it wouldn’t be the first time I did something stupid to save Scott Wolfe,” Nick replied.
The surgeon shook his head, but he went to work on his task as soon as they hit cruising altitude. The nurse prepared to inject the general anesthetic into Nick’s vein.
“No,” he said, grabbing her wrist. “I’m going to be on the ground in less than six hours and need a clear head.”
The nurse looked at the doctor, who shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. “At this point it would be less dangerous to euthanize him. Just give him a local.”
Nick grunted as he readjusted himself in the fully reclined seat that had been converted to a makeshift operating table.
“Sorry, but I’m fresh out of sticks to bite on,” the doctor muttered as he began probing the wound.
Nick winced from the touch. “I’ll live.”
“I doubt it,” the doctor said with a bored tone.
For the next hour, the surgeon performed his trade on the fully awake and alert Nick. When he had removed the bullet and inserted the drainage tube, he closed the wound using surgical glue and staples.
“I’m worried sutures would rip if you’re really going through with this,” the doctor said as he pinched the skin together around the tube and stapled.
“That’s fine…just make it hold for now,” Nick replied.
“Oh I didn’t say it would hold,” the doctor replied. “Just that sutures would rip. The staples are backup for the glue, but more than likely you’ll rip it anyway.”
Nick nodded, grimacing as the local anesthetic began to wear off.
The SEALs had found the show interesting, turning back in their seats several times to watch the in-flight entertainment.
“Tell the doc to leave a flap so you can hide microfilm and shit,” Petty Officer Egermayer—Owl—said over the nurse’s shoulder.
“Ha,” Nick scoffed with a grim smile. “Shows how much you know. We don’t use microfilm anymore.”
“Then hell!” he replied. “Have him sew it into a holster for a flask.”
The seven-man SEAL squad burst into laughter. Nick couldn’t help but grin.
Dylan sat down beside him a few minutes later, after the doctor had finished his work.
“Rhodes said Director Burgess is in Lucerne for the G8 with the Secretary of State,” Dylan whispered. “Do you think we should notify him that there’s action so close to his position?”
Nick shook his head. “We don’t know if there’s action yet or not,” he replied as he adjusted himself. “I plan on briefing him as soon as we know what’s going on.”
“You didn’t just activate DevGru on a hunch,” Dylan replied.
Nick turned his head and looked at Dylan, his brow furrowed in agitation.
“Alright, alright,” Dylan replied, putting his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t like this job much anyway.”
“It is what it is, and the old man gave me command over the section,” Nick said in a quiet voice. “I’ve seen John Temple call in an air strike without director approval.”
“True,” Dylan replied tipping his head to the side and nodding. “But then again, he’s like a hundred years old and his career is pretty much over anyway.”
Nick glared at Dylan before returning his attention to the satellite photos in his lap. “If they want my job, they can have it,” Nick replied after a minute.
They might take me up on it after this, he added in his head.
**
11:10 p.m.—Basel, Switzerland
HARBINGER pointed at a fire lane, prompting the driver to pull to the side. The three black Range Rovers pulled to a halt in the side parking lot of a small apartment complex.
Harbinger turned in his seat to the two men behind him. “This is the MAC address of the device that’s pinging the cell tower,” he said, handing one of the men a slip of paper with handwritten numbers on it. “Take two men and go to the rear of the complex with the monitor.”
The man nodded before getting out.
“Bellos, you take two of the French security guards and wait in front with the second monitor,” Harbinger continued. “Once we’ve triangulated the position and have found which unit Wolfe is in, you will coordinate the attack.”
“Yes, sir,” Bellos replied as he moved to get out as well.
“And Bellos,” Harbinger added, stopping his man at the door. “If you fail me this time, I will kill you…you can’t blame it on the couriers this time.”
“I’ll get him,” Bellos replied, his angry enthusiasm pulling his mouth into a sneer.
“Remember,” Harbinger said before Bellos could walk away. “If it’s Wolfe, you must take him alive.”
“Yes sir,” Bellos replied before turning and moving off.
Harbinger got out of the vehicle and stretched his enormous arms. Finally, he thought. You and I are going to have our long-awaited face time. I have many questions I’ve been aching to ask you…for instance: “How does a computer geek from Virginia ruin the perfect operational record of a Gold Rush soldier?”
Harbinger closed his eyes and sniffed in anticipation.
**
11:15 p.m.—Basel, Switzerland
Rather than make Hülya and Maurice feel uncomfortable because of our spat, Kathrin had insisted I sleep in the guest room with her instead of in the car…but then she tossed a pillow and a blanket on the chair in the corner. That had been at 9:45 p.m.— I would have slept much better in the car.
Shortly after eleven o’cloc
k, I grew tired of balancing upright in my chair and grabbed my iPhone to check the status of Loeff’s computer hack. I rubbed my eyes and sat up when my proxy connections failed. I leaned forward, blinking sleep from my eyes, hoping I had just made a mistake.
Maybe the proxy string I downloaded got corrupted, I thought.
I attempted to send a secure message, but the app couldn’t connect to any of my primary or backup proxies. After a second and then a third try, I realized my iPhone had become an expensive paperweight.
“Shit,” I muttered as I reached into my canvas bag and pulled my iPad out by the cord that was recharging it.
Quickly recalling the direct path to Storc’s servers, I attempted to link my secure VoIP app to his systems without the benefit of the proxies: <
As I stood and rushed to the window, Kathrin rolled over in bed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked with a sleepy rasp.
“I don’t know,” I muttered as I peered through the window. “All of my tech is down. No connections.”
I heard her sit up. “Maybe it’s just an outage?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I have access to the tower but not to my proxies,” I replied quietly.
A sudden shiver worked its way up my spine, like icy fingers warning me.
“Something’s wrong,” I said turning from the window and then grabbed my pants. “We have to move.”
She sat up and followed my example, rolling out of bed and starting to dress.
In the kitchen, I could hear Hülya puttering.
“We should get Maurice and Hülya out of the house,” I said, lacing my boots.
Kathrin pulled her boots on and without lacing them, ran into the kitchen.
“Wake Maurice. We are in danger,” I heard her say as I continued to prepare to flee. I strapped my holster and weapon to my shoulder, pulled my jacket, on and then grabbed my already-packed duffel bag.
“What’s going on?” Hülya asked as I exited the guest bedroom, all my belongings in hand.
When I hefted my bag to my shoulder, my jacket opened and she caught a glimpse of my Glock. “What is that? Is that real?” she asked, pointing at my holstered weapon.