by Vince Milam
“Let’s lock and load.”
No hesitation. Delivered as a tangible matter of fact. Catch didn’t care if there were thirty armed terrorists. Or care about the chance we might tangle with Spetsnaz operators. I reiterated both those points.
“Yeah. Got it,” he said. “You gonna call Marcus?”
“No. No, he’s settled. Doesn’t sweat the bounty.”
“Right. When we leaving?”
“Catch, there’s no guarantee the Russians know the backer. They could be reaching into their own pockets. But I can confirm they know of the bounty.”
“You’re getting tedious. You know the head Russian spook there?”
I flashed again to the Kiunga FSB agent. Sokolov. His flat accent and smooth skills. His pithy comments. Not the next time we meet, scooter. You won’t wear a practiced smile then.
“Yeah.”
“Give me ten minutes with him and I’ll find whether he knows. You don’t get to participate.”
“What?”
“You’ll get all moral and shit. So it’s him. Me. Answers.”
“Not this time. He’s mine.” Abbie. She might already be dead.
“We’ll figure it out on the way. When are we leaving?”
“I’ll line up the logistics. You sure you understand what we’re getting into?”
The question applied weak salve on the angst of asking my brother to join me. A requirement, affirmation that Catch understood. We were headed into a shitstorm. The odds damn poor.
“Whack a bundle of jungle jihadists. Save your spook friend. Maybe pop a few Russki special ops.”
“Right.”
“Find the Russian spook you ID’d. Lean on assorted body parts. Get an answer on who’s funding this BS we’ve carried over our heads for too damn long. That about cover it?”
“That covers it.” Juan Antonio Diego Hernandez, Badass Inc. He failed glomming onto any downside. Unleash the man, get out of the way.
“And I’ll try Bo one more time,” I said. “Be good if he would join us.”
“Either way, quit piddling. Let’s rock and roll, bud.”
Catch pulled me the last step across the finish line. A personal admission, and not an easy one. I’d always lacked the knife-between-teeth attitude of my brothers. But they still respected me. For one reason. When things became serious, Case Lee threw the switch with the best of them. The killing switch.
I texted Bo. Antarctica, the Gobi Desert—who knew where he’d holed up? The text explained Catch and I would arrive in Port Moresby within twenty-four hours.
I stood on the banks of the Rubicon. A long whistled exhale, doubts erased, and I crossed the river. Called the director back.
“A Portland stop. Oregon. Pick up an associate.”
“It will be arranged.” She’d make the Catch connection shortly, if she hadn’t by the time I finished my sentence.
“Then Port Moresby. And Kiunga. Safe transport from the airstrip to the docks.”
“Fine.”
“Full operational package on the jet. For at least two of us. And I do mean full.”
Weaponry. The best. A full array of Delta-style armament loaded on a Company jet.
“Understood.”
“Transport from Kiunga upriver to the camps.”
“It will be arranged. We have a Kiunga asset. He has taken over the role we’d expected you to fill.”
A dig? Guilt trip? Shake it off, Case. She played three-dimensional chess. I played with live ammunition. And I’d meet their person in that mudhole of a town. We’d chat. A serious chat. Kiunga offered too much opportunity for double-dipping. Actions that could have facilitated Abbie’s capture.
“No guarantees, Director. None. She may already be dead.”
“Again, understood.”
“And if we tangle with Russian Special Forces, they’re going down. Hard.”
“Not a Company endeavor. A disconnected series of events by a third party in a distant land.” She let that hang for emphasis. “And where might you be, Mr. Lee? For pickup. You’ve gone to great lengths disguising your location.”
“Savannah. Georgia.” A two-hour drive. It would take the Company that long to load one of their long-range jets and fly here. Plus, my personal dossier mentioned Savannah. My hometown. She wouldn’t pick me up in Charleston, ever.
“I will alert you with an ETA, Savannah.”
“No promises of success.”
“So you’ve said.”
Silence.
“On a personal note, Mr. Lee, I do sincerely appreciate your endeavors. Godspeed.”
She hung up.
Chapter 31
Unmarked—no tail number or insignias—the Gulfstream G650 pulled alongside the Savannah private plane terminal at zero dark thirty. The queen of private jets, funded from the Company’s dark operations budget. Congress wouldn’t have vetted this expense. With an eight-thousand-mile range, it scooted along at just under the speed of sound.
I carried my rucksack aboard. And none of my weapons. A large black container occupied the rear of the passenger section. Weaponry. We were airborne minutes later, a scheduled Portland refueling a few hours away. Fuel wasn’t the only thing coming on board at the next stop.
I sent a text message for Mom. Have to go help a friend. Bit of an emergency. Back soon. Love you. She’d understand, and ask minimal questions when I returned.
If I returned. A Delta Force mission, plain and simple. The last one was years ago. Travel for my current career emphasized sleuthing, fact-finding. An element of danger—part and parcel of stirring nefarious pots—was a facet of each job. Acknowledged, accepted, and dealt with. Not now. A storm brewed. Full-on assault, a hostage rescue. And a chance of discovering the paymaster. If such a discovery was realized, the next violent steps would be planned. And executed.
The mind-set, radically different. For paid engagements, caution and observation and crafted, quiet exit plans ruled the day. This trip, now, dwelt within a dark and seldom-seen world. I traveled to deliver retribution. The flip side of that coin would be a concerted effort to kill me. Collect the bounty. Put my head on a stake. I’d left the appropriate mind-set behind years before. It was time for a mental dusting off and re-engage with a remorseless heart where trigger pulls and violent terminations superseded talk, negotiation, observation.
If I returned. A quandary. Catch would visit Mom and CC if I didn’t make it and explain what happened. But Catch sat alongside me in the same boat. If neither of us made it back, my family required contact. A period at the end of the Case Lee sentence. There was Marcus, unaware of this mission. He would remain so because as sure as the sun rose, he’d cowboy up and insist joining us. Bo—out of the loop, and into Bo world. Few communication choices of my potential demise existed.
I emailed Jules. A weird setup, but I’d run out of options. She’d hear if I bought a last ticket. And she’d let Mom know. An assumption, a gut feeling. Jules had implied, in the past, knowledge of my family. A frightening thought at the time. But now an outlet, an option. Marilyn Townsend, another option, but one discarded. Such a request implied association, connectivity. How and if she’d handle it a question.
Headed for PNG. Hostage situation. With Portland associate. Our whereabouts unknown. At least Jules didn’t require elaboration. Her network would feed the Clubhouse a thorough backstory. She’d paint a picture. A complete picture, and one liable to have dried paint soon enough.
Airborne, I checked the black container. Marilyn Townsend kept her word. Aware there would be at least two of us, she’d added sufficient extras as contingency coverage.
Four MK18 Mod 0 assault rifles. Fully automatic or single-shot selector. Several dozen thirty-round magazines. A CQB weapon. Close-quarters battle. A tight situation rifle. A jungle weapon. Each fitted with optional night vision.
Four Colt 1911 .45 semiautomatic pistols. Old school. Reliable, accurate, and designed to stop someone in their tracks.
The copilot, a C
ompany employee, poked her head into the cabin and asked if I needed anything. In the midst of a weapons check, clacking firing mechanisms, I replied, “No, thanks.” She didn’t blink an eye.
Two M870 pump shotguns. With two boxes of 00 buckshot rounds. Just in case. A dozen fragmentation grenades, a dozen flash-bang grenades, and an assortment of sheathed knives, razor sharp. Two M136 AT4s rounded out the selection. Rocket launchers—one shot, disposable, and guaranteed to ruin your day. Four sets of small radios with earpieces and mikes, voice activated. An assortment of combat uniforms. Combat vests, with regulation first aid kits stashed in pockets. Camo face paint, miniature flashlights, kneepads. Even food—MREs. Marilyn Townsend hadn’t held back.
Sunrise chased our tail and we landed in Portland early a.m. Catch waited, rucksack over shoulder. He boarded as the plane refueled. A tight, quick hug, knowing nods, and few words. Before takeoff, he rummaged through the weapons container. Several “yeah, baby’s” came from the back of the plane.
“I might pack one of these for the hell of it,” he said, and waved an M136 rocket launcher. At fifteen pounds, he’d sling it over his back and not notice it. “See if I can light up a few of those clowns.”
The door shut, we taxied, and I shot a final message to Bo. “On our way.” He’d glom onto the “our.” If he read the message.
Catch settled across the aisle and pulled a flask.
“One for the road,” he said, and took a deep swig.
A long, burly arm extended across the aisle and handed me the flask.
“One to us, my brother. One to us,” I said, lifting the container as a salute.
A twelve- to fourteen-hour Port Moresby flight, headwind dependent. A quick transfer to a prop plane for the Kiunga leg and its shorter runway. Then Kiunga. The danger zone. Entrance to the killing floor. Land early afternoon, PNG time. Walk off the plane loaded, locked, safety off. Have a heart-to-heart with the Company’s asset. If we encountered Russians—no talk, no negotiations. Slap the trigger if necessary. Our core mission: Abbie.
There was no hiding our Kiunga arrival or having JI alerted of our presence. Either their resident agent or the Russians would pass the word. Fine. Let them know. They could die anticipating or die surprised. Didn’t matter.
Then upriver. On something faster than the Sally. Hit the JI camp at dawn. Thirty-plus JI fighters. Russian special operators in the mix, somehow, somewhere. They’d all expect me. Fine.
I settled in the large seat, leaned back, and caught some sleep. We flew above commercial jet traffic, a clandestine Valkyrie delivering death. A calm—cold and remorseless—settled. The switch thrown. They’d get what they’d asked for. And rue the day.
Chapter 32
Midmorning, Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea. Tropical mountains pushed against the city from one side. The light-blue South Pacific lapped at the other. We taxied toward the small private airplane terminal. Rain, large, steady droplets, greeted us. A twin-engine prop plane waited.
So did Bo.
Bo Dickerson squatted, back against the one-room concrete private plane terminal. Arms wrapped around legs, his chin rested on kneecaps. A rucksack leaned against the wall alongside him. He faced our now-parked jet, a battle smile pasted among the strands of unruly beard. The building’s overhang afforded rain protection. A sheet of runoff provided a liquid curtain. He wasn’t alone.
A determined, grim man sat alongside him. Tied up. Hands behind back, legs extended through the wet runoff, bound at the ankles. We’d met. The guy who’d watched Abbie and me at the airport lounge. The guy who’d followed us outside. Mr. Sunglasses.
A mental shift radiated joyous and relieving and assured. Catch and I constituted a formidable team. Capable, deadly. But the addition of Bo edged us toward a full-strength Delta team. A thin but persistent pang of kamikaze, shoved deep down a mental well, disappeared. The three of us, together, raised the bar past formidable. Way past.
There was one sour note. When the Russians received word of our trio, as opposed to only Case Lee, Esq., they would engage at a more active level. A given, and so be it.
An airport employee, uniformed, exited the private terminal’s glass door. A dark slicker protected him from the rain. He approached Bo and his guest. Intense gestures, authoritative looks, and emphatic language were delivered Bo’s way. My brother maintained an unmistakable demeanor: I’m a nice guy, but if you mess with me I will kill you. It was clear this discussion had taken place before. The employee shook his head, said something to the trussed man, and headed back inside.
“You know him?” Catch asked, referencing Bo’s tied-up guest. He unbuckled and pressed against me, peering through the jet’s small window.
“Yeah.” I detailed our previous encounter. He’d forgotten that sliver of my tale when the three of us visited the Oregon coast.
The pilot opened the door and lowered the stairs. I confirmed the weapons container would transfer to the waiting twin-engine prop plane. Catch and I exited.
“Greetings, tourists! Do you bear gifts?” Bo asked as we approached. His grin widened. The area smelled of aviation fuel, fresh rain, and a moldy tropical funk. Rain splatted our heads and shoulders.
“Oh man, do we,” Catch said. “MK18s, .45s, grenades, shotguns. And get this, hippie boy, a couple of 136s!” Catch considered Marilyn’s missiles a special treat. Lagniappe—a little something extra.
“You ever consider answering messages?” I asked, moving under the overhang. I grabbed a handful of red hair and gave it a tug. The bound man twisted his head and glared at me.
“There’s a communications aesthetic,” Bo said. “You must allow for spiritual vibrations.” He squeezed my calf. “I did reply. You didn’t listen.”
“Do us all a favor,” Catch said. “Skip the vibration crap when the bullets fly. Use the radio.”
“You’ve brought a friend,” I said. “A gentleman I know but haven’t met.”
“He creeped around me, trailing spook smoke,” Bo said. “And I remembered your tale of adventure. You had mentioned such an individual.”
“Glad you kept his capture out of the public eye.”
“A bit of a men’s room tussle and open-mouth looks when I toted him out here over my shoulder.”
“They don’t understand,” I said.
“They do not, my brother. So is this the guy?”
“The same. Followed Abbie and me. Here. At the airport.”
I head-signaled Bo and we moved seven paces along the building. He hadn’t received details on this mission. He hadn’t considered the purpose, goal, or risks. I’d asked for help. He showed and enquired about sufficient weaponry. End of story.
“So a heroine in distress,” he said. “A noble element. I like it.”
We spoke low, the trussed-up man out of earshot.
“JI. Plus the likelihood of a few Spetsnaz operators.”
“Hot times in a hot jungle. Double boiler. Fine, fine.”
“And a chance at finding our bounty source.” I detailed what I knew.
“A situation rife with possibilities. Well done, old son. A dimension of intrigue. Well done.”
“A couple of major caveats, Bo.”
“Life is one large caveat. Not a bad name for a rock band. One large caveat.”
“Abbie may already be dead.”
“Unworthy of our ruminations. Our path remains true.”
“And I don’t know if the head FSB knocker in Kiunga knows the source.”
“We can find out, goober boy.”
He smiled. I nodded. We returned to Catch and Bo’s guest.
Catch, still in the rain, bent at the waist and scowled at the man’s face. “Care to introduce yourself, asshole?”
“I’m a sovereign citizen. You have no right, none, treating me this way.” His Russian accent came through, thick. A run-of-the-mill FSB agent. He lacked the voice and style of a higher-up.
Catch placed his face against the man’s head and took a long inhale, smell
ing. “He’s a sovereign citizen all right.”
“So I’ve been told,” Bo said.
Catch pulled his combat knife. “FSB?” he asked me.
“High odds.”
“Let’s remove a few body parts. Get answers.” He placed the blade against the back of the man’s right ear. His other hand tugged the ear outward.
“I could make a necklace out of that,” Bo said. “Wear it into battle. A potent totem, my brothers.”
“Hold it, Catch.”
Catch twisted his head and locked eyes with Bo. “He always gets all moral and shit. Every time.”
“Delicate sensibilities. Part of his appeal.”
“You two can quit critiquing me. Let’s deal with a few facts. And put the knife away.”
Catch maintained a holding pattern, knife ready. But he didn’t remove the guy’s ear, either.
The Russian could provide answers. Maybe. But his capture held both a positive and negative. The man couldn’t communicate our arrival as long as we held him. It lessened the possibility of a Kiunga attack. An attack delivered by Russian operators. The downside—we couldn’t let the guy go.
“We’re sovereign citizens as well. Private contractors,” I said, addressing the Russian and tossing a bone to Marilyn Townsend. A degree of separation. Not sure this guy would buy it. “And here’s the deal. A friend of mine, of ours, is held hostage near Kiunga.”
He returned a flat stare.
“And we’re going to fix that. I don’t want your buddies getting in the way.”
“What about the game show prize?” Catch asked. He wouldn’t use the word “bounty” around this guy. “He may have intel.”
“Probably too low on the hierarchy.” I stared at Catch. “His boss is another story.”
“A quandary presents,” Bo said. “Our new friend requires babysitting. Or termination.”
“Let’s take him,” Catch said. “Open the door at five thousand feet. See if he sprouts wings.”
An option, for sure. But I refused heading down a slippery path flooded with uncertain blood. An element of humanity still lit the current road. Dim, perhaps, but there.