Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  “No Sir. I think that summed it up pretty well.”

  “You guys CIA or something?” Steve asked.

  “Mr. Pizza Man,” Hunter strained to say, “if we tell you, we’d have to kill you. The gentleman saved your life. You can repay the favor by keeping your mouth shut about all of this. You seem to be a nice guy. I don't want to kill you.”

  Steve Krasic took several breaths before looking at McGee. “I won’t say anything. I promise. Thank you for saving my life.”

  “Forget about it,” the former SEAL said. “I’m serious. You just need to forget about it. It’s our little secret, OK?” He offered his hand.

  “OK.” Steve shook hands and realized the man’s muscular hand could have snapped his like a twig. It was quiet for a moment, as if something passed between them, then he stepped outside.

  Hunter’s loud exhalation from the back seat broke the quiet. “Hey! Did you bring any pepperoni?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  2200 June 11, 2011

  7445 Polo Court Drive Newport, Rhode Island

  Hunter was astonished when McGee pushed the kid’s small pickup off the stump and got him on his way. Unable to help, Hunter supervised. Bill dragged the shooter from his truck without any care for the man’s health or injury. A killer of SEALs wasn’t going to be coddled.

  “Stay here,” McGee told Hunter. “I’ll be right back.”

  “10-4. I have pizza.” Duncan remained on the porch.

  The retired SEAL quickly lowered the tailgate and rolled the man off the truck. He fell heavily to the ground, groaning and moaning, as he was moved. Completely defeated, he didn’t try to fight back.

  McGee dragged the overly tall man into the house by his feet, through the kitchen, and down the stairs to the basement, not caring that the man’s head banged roughly on the stairs. He checked the man’s plastic cuffs and lifted his head to study him. Blood covered his face and still oozed fresh streaks. He roughly wiped off his face. He’d never seen such a wound on a human being.

  The word BANG was burned into his face across his eyes, or what was left of his eyeballs. All that remained were bloody sockets and what looked like thousands of minute, razor-thin cuts. Dropping the man’s head on the floor, he walked upstairs.

  “You’ll keep,” he said over his shoulder.

  He went outside and touched Hunter’s shoulder. “How are you doing? I think you earned that Trident tonight. Dude, you were awesome.”

  “Thanks, Bill. Just an average guy trying to do an above-average job.”

  They laughed. Hunter tried not to hurt himself. They looked at each other for a few seconds, then started talking simultaneously.

  “There’s something else….”

  “I need to tell you….”

  Hunter threw up a hand. “You first, Bill.”

  “Bin Laden’s alive.”

  Hunter stared at him for a second, then slowly set down his pizza. Two could play that game. “Nazy found the file. The president’s a documented fraud.”

  “That could be a problem.”

  “Constitutional crises are above my pay grade. What do you mean Osama bin Laden’s alive? You mean it was a bait-and-switch? The public isn’t supposed to know?”

  “No. I’m fairly certain Ox called an audible at the line. The press played it up as a search and destroy, but, for whatever reason, they took him alive and didn’t kill him. They’re holding him. I expect Ox would like someone to relieve him of the turd, so someone could interrogate him. That’s my interpretation.”

  Hunter was at a loss. Like a racecar with a broken transmission, he sat in place, trying to make his brain go. The past month had been one national photo-op orgy after another, one article of phony presidential courage and leadership after another. The slovenly press rolled over on its belly for the White House every way it could, while SEALs and special operations were touted as the new heroes of America against their will. Meanwhile, the president basked in the glory of media worship.

  All the showboating was for naught. Osama bin Laden wasn’t really dead. Why not? Suddenly, Hunter’s brain started working and eliminated all possible motivations why a senior SEAL commander wouldn’t execute his orders.

  “It must’ve been an illegal or improper order,” Hunter said, “or an order whose strategic implications were deliberately being ignored.”

  He knew that the on-scene SEAL commander must have determined that killing Osama bin Laden wasn’t a strategic imperative, while having him alive to tell his story was. That story would include the inner workings of al-Qaeda and where his supporters were the intelligence community didn’t know about, along with other gems of information the National Counterterrorism Center would like to know. Dumping the body into the Indian Ocean was a red herring. The SEAL commander was a patriot for all the right reasons, while following some illegal order would have been wrong for all the wrong reasons.

  The matrix logic picture came into focus, and Hunter grinned. “Now that’s a patriot.” He laughed, and it hurt, but he couldn’t help himself.

  McGee wasn’t laughing.

  Hunter stopped. “What are you thinking?”

  “Danny Cox reached out to me to see if I could help. I don’t know how, but I have friends with a jet and some senior contacts in the CIA.”

  “You’re so lucky. Where is he?”

  “The Indian Ocean, Diego Garcia. He’s on a sub or will be soon.”

  “Diego Garcia? No shit. I killed a man there once, in my enlisted days.”

  “OK. How, pray tell?” McGee gave him an incredulous look, YGTBSM. He waved his fingers to indicate, Give me more.

  “We were on a cruise. We pulled into port for fresh fruit, milk, and stuff. I weaseled my way off the boat and went to the racquetball courts for a game or two. I was totally screwing with this supply officer, running him back and forth, when he fell over and died. I thought he slipped and hit his head on the concrete floor. When I checked his pulse, I freaked and yelled for help. I did CPR, but nothing worked. His heart exploded. The Navy wasn't very happy with me and said I killed their supply officer.”

  “I can see the episode left you crushed.”

  “There was a moment when I thought I’d be thrown in the brig—Marine enlisted turd killed one of the Navy’s finest. It’s not like I stabbed him. Anyway, Sierra Hotel. Do you and…?”

  “Cox—Ox.”

  “Do you and Ox have a plan?”

  “I was hoping you might come up with something. What about the president?”

  “I'll have to come up with a plan for that.” He pulled the pizza box close, picked up a slice, and bit into it.

  “Can you come up with a plan for Osama bin Laden?”

  “I can come up with one. How much time do we have?”

  “They set sail Thursday, Diego Garcia time. I’m not exactly sure, but I think they have him squirreled away on a sub, the USS Texas. If I had him on a boat, I’d want him off before we pulled out of port. This is an incredible secret, and I can see if it gets too far from comfortable, Osama bin Laden really will be tossed over the side and we won't learn anything from him. Hell, it might already be too late.”

  Hunter’s mind power-shifted through several gears, trying to keep up. “Ahhh. So there’s a significant sense of urgency to make this happen. If we don’t get there in time, do you know where they’re heading? How would we get him off a sub?”

  “I don’t know where they’re heading. Once underway, it could be months before they pull into port. If the sub has a SDV, a SEAL Delivery Vehicle, getting someone on or off is relatively easy. I expect they have one if Ox is highlighting the Dallas. It just depends.”

  “Where and when?”

  “Right.”

  “Best to pick him up at Diego Garcia, I’d think.”

  “Probably.”

  “I think we can get there, but we may need help. Then we have to find a place to take him.”

  “I think that’s the hard part.” McGee looked away f
or a moment, then looked Hunter in the eye. “You have a better idea?”

  “Not at this time. I’m still trying to assimilate all that happened since you called.” He yawned, exhausted from being shot, fighting the sniper, and trying to use his brainpower to understand the latest revelations. Exertion and lack of sleep, plus intense pain, were getting to him. He fought back the idea that he was getting too old for crazy stuff.

  Who else could do it? No one they knew could be trusted with the information on Osama bin Laden and the president, and do something about one or both of them. Greg might have a contact or two, but he was retired, and contacts for a couple of retired men were especially perishable and growing deader by the hour.

  Maybe fatigue clouded his mind. More likely it was the realization that if something had to get done, it had to be by himself and Lynche.

  The thought frightened him. “Bill, I don’t know anyone else who can do this but Greg and me. It’s too time-sensitive for something this important. The jet has the legs to get us to Africa and probably Doha or Abu Dhabi. I may have to three-or four-hop it. We need to start soon. I think we can do it. What do they call it in the press? Extraordinary rendition? This definitely falls into the category of extraordinary.”

  “Agreed.”

  “First, we need to find out who sent that asshole.” Hunter gently jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  “That’s my job.” The man with the gray flattop and round spectacles could have smiled, but he was dead serious.

  “We need to find out who sent that asshole.”

  “I will take care of him. I will find out, and I will take copious notes. Apex, we need you to get the other asshole.”

  Hunter understood. McGee didn’t need help or a witness. The words we need you sounded suspiciously like Hunter was jumping into the category of reluctant patriot. He wasn’t doing it for himself, Lynche, or McGee, but for something much larger—the American people. He had to find the answers to the questions thousands of innocent people had been asking since that fateful day in September.

  McGee saw that Hunter finally understood. Hunter would have given his friend one of his informal salutes, but his ribs hurt too much.

  “Welcome to the war, Apex,” McGee said softly, then he corrected himself. “I think I’ll start calling you ‘Maverick.’ It’s a better fit for you.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir. Do you have any painkillers for these ribs? Can you give me a ride back to my car?”

  “Are you a pussy or what?” McGee joked, hopped to his feet with the reflexes of a cat, and jogged into the house. Returning a few moments later, he handed Duncan a bottle of water and a handful of pills. He watched Duncan take six of the little white capsules and wash them down.

  “Will you be OK?” McGee asked.

  Hunter nodded and stood. “Let’s giddy-up, Kemosabe. We patriots have work to do.”

  CHAPTER

  FO RTY-TWO

  1300 June 12, 2011

  Easton Municipal Airport, Maryland

  Hunter and Lynche received their departure clearances to Lajes Field in the Azores from Baltimore Air Traffic Control. GPS and departure frequencies were set. Hunter jutted his thumb in the middle of the cockpit to indicate his part of the takeoff checklist was complete, and he was ready to fly.

  Lynche taxied the jet from the hold short to the centerline, braked, and ran up the throttles. Satisfied the jet’s systems were operating as advertised, he released the brakes. Lynche immediately noticed the jet didn’t accelerate as quickly as usual.

  With a full load of fuel for the first leg, a 2,600-mile six-hour trip to the island paradise of the Azores, the jet took more time to rumble down the runway and achieve flight speed.

  Once the gear was checked up and locked, it took over thirty minutes to reach their cruising altitude of flight level 450. Hunter’s flight plan ensured they’d land under cover of darkness, making the job of professional and hobby tail-watchers difficult. If a tail watcher identified the aircraft’s owners and operations through an Internet search of the aircraft’s N number in the FAA registry, he would have found that the registration number belonged to a jet from an oil-drilling rig company in Roswell, New Mexico.

  From Lajes, their next stop was Monrovia, Liberia, then on to Dubai. From Dubai, they would fly to Diego Garcia. With the autopilot engaged, Hunter left the cockpit and wandered to the cabin for the first sleep shift.

  They’d been incredibly busy for the last thirteen hours. Greg flew the Wraith back to Elmira, and Ferrier put the ghostly aircraft back in the Vault until Bob and Bob arrived to take her to their Maryland hangar.

  Duncan left Newport and headed directly back to the old Bridgeport Airport to retrieve their jet; then went to Elmira to pick up Lynche. The worst part of the flight was opening and closing the cabin door. The strain on Duncan’s back and abdominal muscles nearly made him queasy and he squealed like a girl. He responded by taking the rest of McGee’s medications.

  Lynche hadn’t been waiting too long for Duncan to arrive and raced onto the jet, flying it to Maryland. Duncan slept fitfully in a recliner in the rear of the Gulfstream.

  *

  The sun was just peeking over the horizon when they pulled into Lynche's driveway. Between houses, Hunter commented there were already golfers on the course. Though he and Lynche were also technically retired, they were too busy to take time off to beat little white balls around the links. Duncan couldn’t even think about golf. His ribs were killing him. It was a struggle to breathe or take a full breath.

  Connie and Nazy were shocked to see the unshaven, bent-over man, obviously in great pain. Connie wanted to give him painkillers and let him sleep. Nazy wanted to hold him, but Duncan’s front and back were both heavily damaged from the impact and shockwave of the bullets striking his armor, crushing muscle and hammering his internal organs.

  Nazy responded with a long, passionate kiss that brought Duncan out of his reverie. He wanted something to drink, more painkillers, and to see what Nazy smuggled from CIA headquarters.

  What she had could be solid gold if one were a Republican lawmaker with cojones. The impeachment train would leave the station and plow through the White House despite a firestorm of Democratic supporters screaming, “This is a high-tech lynching of a president with a funny name who doesn’t look like other presidents.”

  As Duncan lay on Lynche's sofa, thumbing through the books, Nazy and Connie taped his back with white medical tape, while Greg told them how Duncan fought a tall dude who had killed Navy SEALs.

  Several dozen pages into the first book, anger welled in Hunter at the thought that the man in the White House was a fake, a master of deceit and deception. He was overcome by a strange numbness, as if all power and energy were sapped from his aching body. His arms tingled as if asleep, while his legs were shells of their former muscular selves. He couldn’t move them. As prickly heat flushed his face and chest, he couldn’t feel anything.

  As he read through even more pages, he became aware that what he read was too incredible. He was unable to admit to himself that the reason for his disorientation was that the material was true. Before blood spurted from his eyes, he gently closed the book and felt the sensation melt away. He was himself again, and he was angry.

  Lynche left out some of the details of the previous evening, like Duncan’s being shot and how Lynche used the Wraith’s laser to disable the bad guy. The women obsessed over the wounded warrior lying on his stomach.

  When Duncan turned over, he revealed three hideous black-and-blue welts, each the size of a grapefruit, with a one-inch raised circular white dot showing the impact point of the 9mm slug. Nazy said it resembled some of the bruises Duncan acquired during racquetball matches.

  Connie was more abrupt. “You were shot. When were you going to tell us you had been shot!?”

  “Please tape the area while I’m still conscious. I’m pretty sure I have a couple broken ribs. Body armor works. I’m lucky to be here.”

  Their real
ization was palpable.

  “You were shot?” Nazy looked at Connie, then at Duncan. “Really?”

  Duncan nodded. She saw he was all right and certainly better than functional.

  “Are you trying to make me a rich woman?”

  “Don’t make me laugh.” He opened, scanned, and closed the second book. “Well, that will create a constitutional crisis. It’s not my problem; way above my paygrade. Greg, the GOP will have a field day. They’ll want to undo every piece of legislation that closet commie ever signed. They’ll demand the FBI yank him and his family from the White House and have them shot.”

  “They won’t be shot. What do you think this is, Russia?” Lynche attempted a little ridicule.

  “Maybe not yet. He’s a fake and ran roughshod over the Constitution, though. These documents prove he’s not a natural-born citizen. He was a British subject who ran around the globe using an alias for years. The media and the Democrats have protected his ass with every excuse in the book, including calling anyone who disagrees with his radical takeover of the government ‘hood-wearing racists.’

  “He’s also been consorting with Islamo-fascists and bin Laden. These documents will stop him and his buddies. Maybe they can make a special wing for fellow traitors and this guy at Gitmo.” He held up on the president’s newly discovered apocryphal biographies without wincing in pain. The tape on his back was very helpful keeping his muscles free of strain. “We can’t sit on this. I have an idea to get the ball moving, but first, we need to tell you that Greg and I are leaving for a few days.”

  “You can’t go like that,” Nazy said.

  “I can, and I must.”

  “And you, Greg?” Connie asked.

  Greg, looking at the floor, nodded. “Duncan needs help flying the jet.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’d rather not say. Let’s just say it’s of national and strategic importance.” He didn't look up.