The Perfect Weapon

by Christopher Metcalf

  “Can you share any of these theories of where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing?” Lance leaned back now.

  “After you got off the plane in Antwerp?” Fuchs asked.

  “After that.” No surprise they tracked him that far.

  “There is a whole continent for you to cover. But a suicide in Paris the next evening caught his attention.”

  “Suicide?” Lance's eyebrows rose.

  “Yes, a long-term KGB player. Not an active player in bomb-making, to our knowledge.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A 30-year KGB mole policeman in Vienna shot dead in an alley a couple of days later really raised some eyebrows.”

  “Vienna? That’s one place I still need to visit. Old Europe with significant Eastern European influence. Such history there.” Lance had leaned close so they could speak just above a whisper.

  “He’s definitely afraid someone is off mission.”

  “But here I am, a couple of days late. No problem, right?” Lance met Fuchs’ smile with his own.

  “Its not my job to follow you or babysit, as you all call it,” Fuchs leaned in closer. “I’m not here because I want to be. You understand that, right?” All traces of German gone from his voice, Fuchs seemed a little pissed off.

  “You don’t need to be here.” Lance replied.

  “Too late for that. I’m to work with you. We are to follow through with your original mission. Maybe I can help shorten the cycle.”

  Lance hadn’t worked with Fuchs on an extended mission. They had only participated in sweeps in Jeddah, Baghdad and Oman. Working together to gather intelligence, work it into strategy, and initiate tactics would be new. Lance knew there was more to Fuchs, but he still couldn’t get past the physical aspects the man embodied. Fuchs was like a lion moving through a jungle catching and killing everything he wanted or needed.

  “Why did you let me win back there?” Lance tried a change of subject, to lighten the mood.

  “I didn’t.” Fuchs replied.

  “You did.”

  “When?”

  “During the roll, after you came off the floor. You tensed but didn’t move. You could have done about 12 different moves, but did none.” Lance added.

  “Nope. You were too fast this time. I gave nothing away.” Fuchs took a drink of water and leaned on his elbows. “I don’t want to delve into your personal life and certainly not your labyrinth of a mind, but you are different from the last time we were together at the Point.”

  Lance furrowed his brows appropriately. “From a month ago? How so?”

  “Your economy of movements. You are lacking the flourish with which you usually act.” Fuchs smiled.

  “Flourish?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Not sure I do. Enlighten me please.” Lance leaned in on his elbows.

  Fuchs smiled for a moment and glanced around the room. It was obvious he knew every detail, every person, every action taking place. Just as Lance did. “The closest way I can describe it is that you are like a cat with a mouse trapped under your paw. You play with people, like a cat plays with its food before killing it.”

  Lance snickered at that.

  “You laugh, but you know. I’ve seen you in action enough. You’re some kind of freak of nature living among us, but not one of us."

  “Damn. I’ve known you for three years, and this is more than you’ve said to me in all that time.”

  “You can diffuse it and turn it into whatever you will. I knew from the first time we trained at the Point you were not normal. He thinks he picked you, he found you. He’s got it backwards. You found him. You would have found him eventually.”

  “Geez. You’re going a little deep.” It was Lance’s turn to smile.

  “I’m just trying to make my point.” Fuchs nodded.

  “And that is?”

  “You are simply not the same person. I watched you in that studio. Where you used to push and prod and evaluate your options, you simply stripped your motions to a bare minimum and destroyed anything in front of you, me included. It was really marvelous to watch.”

  “I was just tired and didn’t want to waste energy before I got to you.”

  “No. You never miss an opportunity to put on a show, never. You are different. I can see it right now.”

  “Okay, so people appear different. Especially someone who's traveled non-stop for days. You are seeing things that aren’t there.”

  Fuchs snickered this time. “As I said, it is not for me to delve into your personal life. I just know he is going to have a few questions when he sees you.”

  “Okay Mikey,” Lance turned his head to look out into the night. “I’m guessing you have some new information for us to act upon.”

  “Just a few pieces. We need to jump on down to Mindanao.”

  “That was going to be my fourth stop.”

  “Let’s skip a couple and see if we can’t find this son of a bitch.”

  As if on cue, a single beep emanated from Fuchs’ bag lying on the floor. He reached down and pulled out a pager and looked at the readout. “Let’s go.”

  “New orders?” Lance was grabbing his things and putting money on the table to pay for the meal.

  Fuchs stood and picked up the bag and put the strap over his shoulder. “No. Just a go ahead.”

  Chapter 21

  Turns out, Geoffrey Seibel had about 70 men under various forms of detailed and satellite surveillance at any one time. One of these men just happened to be on the tiny island of Tapul. He had arrived on the boat with Anwar.

  The man, who was noticeably bald, was somewhat easy for cameras to spot from 150 miles above in low earth orbit. He had traveled from Bahrain to Pakistan to Brunei under visual surveillance by agents, but contact was lost there. Seibel put the satellites to work and a small boat traveling from the large island up the chain of small islands reaching down from the Philippines caught one analyst's eye. Further satellite images showed the boat hugging coastlines and docking on Tapul, a tiny municipality island.

  Seibel liked the looks of it. Detailed imagery of the island pointed out a few interesting looking compounds. Near one facility on the southeast end of the small island, there were several craters. These craters featured the telltale signs of explosions, with debris in defined hub and spoke patterns; like maybe bombs had been detonated. It was the kind of needle in a haystack break that comes every few decades. Ensuing satellite imaging showed activity at the compound. People were there, including a bald man.

  And wouldn’t you know it, Geoffrey Seibel had his lead field infiltration operative just a few hundred miles away. The coded page Fuchs received in the restaurant ordered him to call a secure line, which would then be transferred several times and connected with Seibel. Papa was surprised to learn his senior operative just happened to have the junior member of the team standing beside him.

  “Put him on.” Seibel was short with Fuchs. No patience right now. Fuchs handed the phone to Lance. They were using a payphone in a laundromat.

  “Yello’” Lance smirked to Fuchs as he spoke.

  “Was she in Belgrade or Prague?”

  The smirk slipped from Lance's face. “Who would that be?”

  “She has her hideout somewhere in eastern Europe. She’s been able to keep it secret from me and my minions. But I’m willing to bet my little hound dog was able to track her down.” Seibel seemed downright jovial.

  “Track who boss?” There was a tiny trace of venom in Lance’s voice.

  “Our mutual friend, of course.”

  “What do you need from us?” Lance wasn’t biting.

  Seibel hesitated. “Ah yes. Business. You’ll have to fill me in later on your visit. Please tell Foxy to expect a message in the next eight minutes. Get to the airport now. You're flying.” Seibel hung up.

  Lance hung up the phone and turned away from the booth. “He seemed a little tweaked with me for some reason. Don’t know why. I made it here, just a litt
le late.”

  “I don't think he liked being out of contact with you. You were not at any of your designated locations and had not checked with a single contact provided.” Fuchs added, “Are we off to the airport?”

  “Yep. You’ll be getting another page in a few minutes with instructions. Do you like having that thing on you all the time?” Lance pointed to the pager clipped to Fuchs' belt.

  “Not really. Keeps him too close. What was he asking you about? ”

  “Nothing really. Just chatting.”

  “Seemed like he was grilling you pretty good about her.” Fuchs insisted.

  Lance stopped and looked at him. “Just like I said to him, who is this ‘her’?”

  “Where was she? Prague or Munich?” Fuchs smiled.

  “Who?”

  “How long are you going to keep this up?”

  “You guys keep talking in this code and I’ll catch up some time. Right now you have lost me.” He gave nothing away. A consummate liar.

  “Like I said, your personal life is your own. But there are lines we can’t cross without jeopardizing everyone else. She is one of those lines.”

  Lance looked off into the distance and the hustling of passersby. He wiped sweat from his brow. The heat and humidity of the Philippines were oppressive, even at night. “Mikel, all I know how to do is cross lines that get me in trouble. You brought me on board to cross as many lines as possible. And you all put your lives in jeopardy the day you roped me in back in Dallas.”

  “You need to think about this. Be honest with yourself.” Fuchs responded, leaving the Dallas thing alone.

  “Shit. Honesty? When did you start getting all touchy feely? You’ve been lecturing me for hours now.”

  They continued walking down the street to a major thoroughfare to catch a cab. Just before they hailed one, Fuchs answered his question. “I don’t mean to lecture you. Its just that I can see a razor’s edge here, a line that you are walking.” The cab pulled to the curb, but Fuchs stepped in front of Lance. “You are playing with fire and there is no doubt you’re going to get burned.”

  Lance didn’t miss a beat, “No doubt.”

  Four hours later, Lance, Fuchs and a pilot named Horatio touched down at Zamboanga International Airport at the southwestern tip of Mindanao Island. They had found a pilot willing to fly them late at night by asking the right questions and offering cash. Forty-eight minutes after landing, they boarded a boat Seibel had arranged for them. His contact had stocked the speedboat with maps of the Philippines southwest island chain, food, water, assorted guns and grenades. The boat also had a satellite-linked radio, for any changes in plans.

  Fuchs took the wheel and Lance immediately passed out, after memorizing a detailed map of Tapul. He could dream about the island from 10,000 feet and swoop in for a closer view when he reached REM sleep. The trip would take about three and a half hours.

  Two hours later, Fuchs woke Lance. It was still dark at 4 a.m. The engine and the pounding of steady waves had put Lance into another world and he didn’t wake easily.

  “Time to rise,” Fuchs shoved him a little harder than necessary. “We are about an hour out. Papa wants us to check in at 4:15.”

  Lance rolled to a sitting position to orient himself. He’d never been all that great on boats and was surprised how well he’d slept. Fuchs pointed to a built-in cooler where he’d find a Coke. He took a few swigs and stepped up beside Fuchs at the wheel. Mist splashed up every few seconds. It helped him wake up.

  “Anything new?” They had to yell to be heard over the roaring engine.

  “No. We’ll see in a few minutes when we check in.”

  “So let’s recap.” Lance went through the details as Seibel had relayed them to Fuchs at the tiny Zamboanga airport. High-res satellite images pointed to at least a dozen individuals at the camp. Best guess put at least one known terrorist there. Bomb craters near the compound indicated explosives training. And best of all, Anwar was a known associate of the Omani terrorist who’d led them here.

  “You think we’ll actually get that lucky? A ghost we know next to nothing about might just be there, on this tiny speck on the this big ol' round sphere?” Lance turned away from the steady burst of mist from the front of the boat and leaned against the dashboard next to Fuchs.

  “We’ve gotten lucky before.”

  “This lucky?”

  “No. This is one in a million.” Fuchs wiped his face with a rag he had found on the boat.

  “So data like this is likely not the result of luck. My guess is Papa is more than a little sure about this.”

  “More than likely. Yes.”

  “Still just you and me, right?” Lance’s question was more of a statement.

  “Yes. Two-man op. At sun-up.”

  “Eyes left open?”

  “None.” Fuchs replied. They were here to kill not capture.

  Fuchs powered the engine down then killed it. They opened a channel on the radio and called in.

  “Morning gentlemen,” Seibel was chipper, for late afternoon. Twelve time zones separated them.

  “Good evening,” Lance replied in Russian.

  “Gentlemen, this is potentially an open line so let's be brief. There are no alterations to report. Last round of images provided no additional information. Number is unchanged. Goal is unchanged.”

  “Number in our party the same?” Fuchs asked.

  “No change. Only you are dining.”

  “No take out?” Lance this time.

  “No.” Seibel wanted this short.

  “Confirmed.” Fuchs was ready to sign off.

  “Was it Milan?” Seibel apparently couldn’t resist.

  “Signing off. Sleep well.” Lance cut the transmission.

  “Persistent isn’t he?” Fuchs smiled as he started the engine.

  Lance looked to the east. The faintest glow in the sky gave the first hint of daybreak about an hour away.

  Chapter 22

  Sunday, August 19, 1991 — Island of Tapul, Philippines

  The first bullet hit him just to the left of his right shoulder socket -- the glenohumeral joint. It passed through without breaking any bone. The next one was lower and definitely broke bone as it struck a rib. Felt like the seventh rib, costae verae numeral VII, from his study of the human anatomy as a nine-year-old. Didn't feel like it punctured the lung or any other organ in the thoracic cavity. He owed Seibel an ass-kicking, if he ever saw him again.

  The compound had proven not to be very secure as the two of them converged from 45-degree angles. Problem was, the estimate of 12 targets in the facility was about 100 percent low.

  Lance silently took out the lone guard on the beach with his knife. There were five buildings in the camp. He and Fuchs identified the two likely to have the most terrorists sleeping inside. They moved in on the two buildings, nodded to each other and threw two grenades through windows. This was not silent kill strategy. The explosions blew the morning wide open, and were followed by screams from inside and then as a few men exited doors only to be mowed down by automatic rifle fire. Lance moved on to the next building and tossed a grenade through an open window. The explosion was furious. The roof on the small outbuilding blew off at the corners.

  The bullets started flying as Fuchs moved up on his next building. It seemed the fourth and fifth buildings had at least a half dozen men, based on the number of muzzle flashes. Lance fired back from his vantage point behind a tree stump. Two men exited the building Lance had just blown. They were staggering, trying to run away. At 45 feet, they were easy for his bad aim. They fell immediately. But his shots gave away his position. That’s when he was hit.

  Damn. This was bad and getting worse. They didn’t have a body count, didn’t know how many more men were in the compound. The moving formation he saw exiting the fifth building about 75 feet from his location brought a new realization. The men who flowed out of the building did so in formation. One glance was all Lance needed to see what that meant. He also
knew right away that one of these men had shot him.

  All five men were Mujahedeen, veterans of the Afghanistan war with the Soviet Union. It was easy to see their training, their skill, their experience. The second man out the door, now moving away from Lance with three others covering his flank, was Anwar, their ghost.

  Lance had to try for the kill. He fired two dozen rounds at the retreating group. Two men fell. Not bad, but Anwar wasn’t one of them. Lance got up to a knee and brought the weapon on top of the stump to steady his aim when the remaining man covering Anwar’s flank fired off a salvo that sprayed the stump, barely missing Lance’s neck. He returned fire and put the man down.

  Sixty feet away, Fuchs was moving on the fourth building in slow, expert fashion. Lance glanced over and knew right away the men shooting back at Fuchs were not Mujahedeen. They were not disciplined in their firing or formation. They shot from windows, which made them sitting ducks as Fuchs got closer, close enough to lob a couple of hand grenades.

  Lance looked back to see Anwar and another man reach the tree line approximately 150 feet away. Damn. He was about to take a chance with a few more rounds in their direction when pain ripped into his right thigh. He was hit with a third bullet, this time from behind.

  He looked down and was thrilled to see the bullet had missed his femoral artery. He rolled to his left to see a muzzle flash from the corner of the first building he had blown apart with grenades. One of the men had evidently crawled outside to join the firefight. Lance fired a dozen rounds in that direction. They hit the ground and the building but not the man. Lance was safe for the moment behind a small hill, but he couldn’t help but look back in the direction Anwar had fled. This close to completing the mission and embarking on the new mission he and Marta now shared.

  Thinking of her for the first time in about five hours sent something of a chill down his spine. He surveyed his wounded shoulder, chest and leg and cursed. This was going to seriously affect his productivity for the next few weeks. The process of surgery, wound care and rehab flashed through his mind. But just as he finished this thought, the next took over. He might not be productive, might not be anything at all if he didn’t get the bleeding stopped and a round of antibiotics coursing through his body within hours. Shit, he could be dead in a little while.