by Peter Nealen
“He’s a good son,” Brannigan said, as he slid into the booth across from Hector and another man, fatter and balder, and wearing a rather more expensive suit. Brannigan momentarily felt slightly underdressed, as he’d come down in his jeans, boots, and flannel shirt, but shook the thought off. He was here for business, and he was too old to worry about image games. They wanted to talk to him.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but when this came up, you were the first one I thought of,” Hector said. “This is Frederick Tanner. He’s a rep for Tannhauser Petroleum.” The fat, bald man extended a hand, and Brannigan shook it. Rather as expected, Tanner’s handshake was soft, clammy, and somewhat less than impressive. “I take it you haven’t been paying much attention to the news?”
“No attention whatsoever,” Brannigan replied. “I’m out of the game, so I hunt, fish, and work on my cabin. That’s about it.”
“We have a…delicate situation in the Persian Gulf,” Tanner said. His voice was soft and somewhat breathy. “One of my company’s tankers has been taken hostage.”
“Hold on,” Hector interjected. “Let’s back up a moment, and give the Colonel the full story.” Brannigan kept his face carefully impassive at Chavez’ use of his former rank. It was a signal, a quiet message about just why they were there. And he forced that sudden, hopeful feeling in his chest down. He was going to hear them out, and get all the details before he made any decisions.
Chavez looked Brannigan in the eye. “Are you at all familiar with the island of Khadarkh?” he asked.
Brannigan nodded. “We sailed by it on a float or two,” he said. “Strategically placed just west of the Strait of Hormuz, technically an independent kingdom, though the royals have played the allies game with both Iran and Saudi Arabia over the last few decades.”
“Well, about a week ago,” Hector said, “a force of paramilitaries, looking suspiciously like an IRGC Qods Force unit, but without any insignia or markings, seized control of the island. Not a lot of details have gotten out, but it sounds like it went very smoothly. Up until they massacred the surrendered Khadarkhi Army, anyway.
“The king was out of the country, in Riyadh for a meeting with the Saudi royals at the time,” he continued. “Needless to say, he’s staying there for the moment. These unknowns completely control the island. In the course of the coup, however, they also took hostages.”
“One of our tankers, the Oceana Metropolis, was docked in Khadarkh Harbor at the time,” Tanner explained. “The entire crew was taken hostage, and the leader, a Commander Esfandiari, issued a warning that any sign of American naval presence or aircraft within one hundred nautical miles of the island will result in all of the hostages being executed.” He shuddered suddenly. “They already murdered our security contractors. There were pictures.”
Brannigan looked at Chavez. “Don’t tell me that the Navy’s holding off because of terrorist threats,” he said.
Chavez looked troubled. “No one is saying anything,” he said, “but so far the Navy is holding off, both to the north, near Kuwait, and off the Strait of Hormuz. The word I’m getting from the inside is that it’s not just because of the hostages, either.”
Brannigan just raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“The word on the street is that the Saudis got the message through their lobbyists in Washington to certain influential Congressmen and Senators. They want the US to stay out of the Khadarkh situation entirely,” Chavez said. “No one knows why, but they appear to have gotten their way. There are negotiators flying into Dubai and Bahrain, but the Navy is presently in a holding pattern.”
Brannigan frowned. That was unusual. Especially in the last couple of decades, the Navy had come down on pirates like a ton of bricks, the Maersk Alabama mission being one of the most high-profile such incidents. It really made no sense that they wouldn’t move on terrorists, simply because they had hostages.
“The tanker can be written off,” Tanner said, “but the longer our people are in those terrorists’ hands, the worse this could get. I’ve tried talking to anyone in Washington who might listen, and so far, all they’ve offered are the same canned platitudes about negotiations. But the terrorists haven’t made any demands. They’ve only warned everyone to stay away, or else they’ll start killing the hostages.”
He wrung his hands in front of him. “After getting stonewalled for three days, I started to look for other options,” he explained. “Mr. Chavez was the first one I managed to make contact with.”
“I’m running a maritime security concern of my own, now,” Chavez said when Brannigan glanced at him. “They’re good boys, but not really cut out for hostage rescue. Not to mention that we’re far too high-profile to pull off an Operation HOTFOOT.” He was referring to Ross Perot’s 1979 rescue of two of his employees from Tehran. “That was when I thought about you. I know you’ve been off-grid for a while, but I also know that you know people, you’ve got a well-deserved rep for pulling off the impossible through sheer guts and audacity, and that it wouldn’t take you long to get back in the zone.” He gave his old friend an appraising glance. “From the looks of things, even less time than I’d expected.”
Brannigan had a host of questions and concerns, but the gears were already turning in his mind. “This is one hell of a risky op you’ve got in mind,” he said, “not only in terms of possible opposition.” He looked at Tanner. “Legal authorities don’t tend to like private military forces crossing international borders and conducting unilateral operations, you know.”
“Tannhauser has a small army of lawyers,” Tanner replied. “If anything goes wrong on the legal front, we will cover you as best we can. You have my promise on that.”
Brannigan eyed him. “Under the circumstances, you’ll understand that I don’t know you well enough to know if your promise is good in that regard,” he said quietly. “This is some heavy stuff we’re talking about. Lifetime in Leavenworth level heavy.”
And yet, even as he said it, he knew he was going to take the job. It was an opportunity, regardless of the risks involved.
“Mr. Brannigan…Colonel Brannigan,” Tanner said earnestly, “I fully understand the risk I’m asking you to take. Really, I do. But you know as well as I do, deep in my gut, that negotiators aren’t going to solve this. And if the military waits too long…”
“Then the hostages are dead,” Brannigan finished for him. He took a deep breath, then looked at Hector. “If I do this, it won’t be cheap, you know that? I’m going to have to find men, good men, set up logistics, get in, and get out.”
“How much are you thinking?” Chavez asked. Brannigan took a pen out of his pocket, grabbed one of the paper napkins on the table, thought for a moment, then scribbled a figure on the napkin and shoved it across the table.
Chavez’s eyebrows climbed a little, and he whistled softly, but then he got a thoughtful look on his face, as he started to run the numbers in his own head. Chavez was no fool, and he knew the costs involved as well as Brannigan did. Maybe even better. Tanner just stared at the number blankly, then nodded.
“Consider it done,” he said. He pulled a checkbook out of the inside of his suit. “How much will you need up-front?”
Brannigan held up a hand. “Doesn’t work that way,” he said. “Hector?”
“I can get a shell company set up in fairly short order,” Chavez said. “All transactions—all ‘white’ transactions, anyway, can go through that.”
“Get me the info by the end of the day, if you can,” Brannigan said. He was already fully in planning mode, building a mental checklist of things he would need to do, and men he needed to recruit. “What kind of a timeline are we talking, here?”
“As soon as possible,” Chavez said, before Tanner could say anything. “You know as well as I do that the hostages are living on borrowed time, especially since the bad guys have already killed five people, not counting Khadarkhis.”
“How many in the crew?” he asked.
“Fifteen,” Tanne
r replied. Brannigan was already taking brief, almost indecipherable notes on another napkin.
“There are unconfirmed reports that the terrorists might be holding as many as thirty to forty American hostages,” Chavez put in. “The Oceana Metropolis’ crew were not the only Americans on the island.”
Brannigan nodded. “I’ll need as complete an intel breakdown as possible, as soon as possible,” he said.
“I’ll have a comprehensive intel dump put together and delivered to your cabin by eight o’clock tomorrow night,” Chavez said.
“Send it to my PO Box,” Brannigan replied. “I’ll probably be out of town at that time. There are some guys I’m going to have to go find personally.” He already had three men in mind. He’d need more, but at least one of them was going to have recruits of his own in mind, as well. “Crap. I’m going to have to get a cell phone for this.” Brannigan hadn’t owned a phone in over a year. “One other thing,” he said, spearing Chavez with a look. “I’m going to need as up-to-the-minute reports on what the Navy’s doing as you can get me. If the Navy starts moving in, the op is off. I am not getting caught in the crossfire, and I am not getting rolled up for an illegal military operation. Fair enough?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Chavez said. “I’ve still got a few friends in high places, who might be willing to bend the law a bit to help out an old friend.” He chuckled dryly. “They’ve done it before, and for far lesser causes.”
Brannigan nodded again. His mind was already far away from the table, the diner, or even Mama Taft’s cooking. Planning details and considerations were flying through his head. There was a lot to get done.
Most importantly, after three years, he suddenly felt more alive than he had since that fateful night on the African coast, when he’d defied the ROEs to save another group of hostages. That had been the end of one career. Fitting, perhaps, that another hostage rescue could be the beginning of another.
He stood up. “If I’m going to make this happen,” he said, “I’m going to have to get moving. Hector, is your phone number still the same?” Chavez nodded, though he looked slightly nonplused that Brannigan apparently remembered it. “Good. I’ll pick up a couple of burners today, and hit you up with the primary’s number. In the meantime, gentlemen, I have a lot of work to do. I’ll be in touch.”
He didn’t notice Ginger’s eyes on him as he strode out the door. She noticed the change in him, though. While John Brannigan had always had a considerable presence, the man who had just left the diner had a new drive and purpose in his step.
John Brannigan was going back to war. And he couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER 3
Carlo Santelli figured that he was probably the last man in America who actually went out to his fence to get the morning paper anymore. Everyone else just read the news online, or skimmed the headlines and got angry. Which, of course, was part of why he only read the local paper. It was mostly meaningless, but still far more applicable to his own life than the slanted ramblings of a major national news outlet, trying to get him outraged about things he couldn’t control or alter in any way.
Carlo would never be the image of athleticism, and he had gotten slightly rounder since his retirement. He still ran twenty miles a week, more out of deeply ingrained habit than anything else, but he didn’t look it. He looked like a clerk, or maybe a baker. It took a second look to see past the belly, the round face, and the glasses, to see that his shape was closer to the barrel torso of a powerlifter, his hands were broad, thick, and scarred, and that his nose had been broken several times. The Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattoo on his shoulder was usually hidden by his shirt.
He was presently dressed in his pajamas and a t-shirt as he stepped out onto his porch. Melissa was still asleep; she probably wouldn’t stir for another half hour. Which was fine with him. He loved her well enough, but she liked to talk, and sometimes Santelli just wanted some quiet.
With a wide stretch, he sauntered down to the picket fence and retrieved the paper. As he looked around, he shook his head. The old suburb wasn’t what it used to be. There was trash in the gutters now, and while most of the houses were still fairly well kept-up, a few were noticeably decaying. The wealthier folks had all moved away. It wasn’t the ghetto, not yet, but it was getting a little run-down.
Picking up the paper, he scanned the headlines, seeing nothing particularly of interest, and wandered back inside. He’d go for his morning run in a few minutes, after his coffee. But when he stepped inside, Melissa was standing in the doorway, her hair a mess, holding up his cell phone. “It’s for you,” she said blearily.
“Thanks, doll,” he said, taking the phone from her. “Sorry it woke you up, I don’t know who would be calling at this hour.” The sun wasn’t even all the way up. Melissa mumbled something sleepily and shuffled back toward the bedroom. Santelli lifted the phone to his ear. “Yeah?” he said, his nasal Boston accent suddenly slightly more pronounced.
“Hello, Carlo,” a familiar voice rumbled over the phone.
A broad grin spread across Santelli’s face. “Hot damn, Colonel, it’s good to hear from you. What’s the job?”
He could almost see Brannigan’s frown over the phone. “Carlo, we haven’t talked in two years. I don’t even own a phone. How do you know I’ve got a job?”
“Because that’s the only thing I can think of that would have brought you back into the modern world, sir,” Santelli laughed. “Plus, I might have been waiting most of that two years for you to call me with a mission. You know me. I’ve been retired for two and a half years, and I still don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do.”
“Plenty of jobs out there for a retired Sergeant Major,” Brannigan pointed out.
“Yeah, and most of them are either pushing paper or babysitting,” Santelli replied, sitting down at his kitchen table. “I did plenty of that during my last eight years in the Corps. So come on, sir, spill it. I know you wouldn’t come down off the mountain for just any old contracting gig.”
“Not over the phone,” Brannigan replied. “At least no details. But it’s a rescue mission, in the Middle East. Pay’s good, too.”
“I’m in,” Santelli said. “Where are we meeting up?”
“Damn, Carlo, you didn’t even hesitate.”
“Of course not,” Santelli snorted. “Not when you’re asking. Where? And do I need to scrounge anyone up?”
“I’ve got two more names in mind, but I think we’ll need eight men, at a bare minimum,” Brannigan said. “I’m going after Hancock and Villareal.”
“Villareal’s going to be a hard sell,” Santelli warned.
“I know it,” Brannigan replied grimly. “But if you’ve got a better combat doc in mind, I’d like to hear it.”
Santelli blew a deep breath toward the ceiling. “No, I don’t. Good luck, though. You’re gonna need it.” He thought for a second. “I’ve got one or two guys in mind. I’ll see if I can dig them up.”
“You sure about this, Carlo?” Brannigan asked. “I called you because I had to, but Hector told me you’ve settled in a bit. Even have a lady friend.”
“Yeah, but I think she’s getting tired of me, anyway,” Santelli replied. “Come on, sir. You know I’m not the settling down type. I’ve tried it, and it ain’t working out for me too good. I’ll go find a couple guys, and we’ll meet up.”
“Good to have you aboard, Carlo,” Brannigan said. “I feel better about this already.”
***
Brannigan walked down the beach, breathing deeply of the cool, salt air. He’d had to leave early to make sure he got to California while it was still morning, which was why it had still been dark when he’d called Carlo Santelli, out in Boston. He was already tired, from a combination of the early wakeup, the flight, and the drive up the California coast. It had been a while since he’d had to negotiate California traffic, and he did not have fond memories of it. That morning had already confirmed that those memories were understating the case.
With any other man, that would have immediately scratched Hancock off the list. Well-to-do, comfortable men with families didn’t usually go haring off on dangerous mercenary missions in the Third World. But Brannigan knew Hancock. If anything, he was banking on the man’s current comfort to be his primary selling point.
The beach wasn’t crowded; it was a Monday morning. The only people in sight were the usual beach bums and surfers, mostly affluent locals who, like Roger, didn’t really need to work. At least half a dozen surfers were visible out on the waves.
He stopped and folded his arms, as he watched the man with the black-and-white surfboard suddenly turn in toward shore. The swell of the next wave set was rising behind him, and began to break as he hopped up to his feet. Expertly maintaining his balance, the man rode the edge of the wave almost clear in to shore, weaving beneath the crest, always staying just barely ahead of getting hammered into the ocean floor by the wall of water behind him. As the wave finally broke in a cascade of white foam, the man slid off the side, dropping back down onto his board and paddling in toward shore.
Brannigan walked down to the waterline to meet him. Roger Hancock was still fit, his sharp, angular features perhaps more lined than they had been, his hair close-cropped. He really didn’t look that different from the last time Brannigan had seen him, when he’d been Gunny Hancock.
“Holy shit,” Hancock said, as he waded ashore, gathering his board under his arm. He stuck out his hand, and Brannigan shook it, both men’s grips like vises. “What brings you down the mountain, John?”