“Mosques? As in places of worship? Prayer centers?”
“I guess. I don’t know why he thought it was important to let me know. Shit! Those were the locations where the SEALs were killed. Could he have found out they played a part in that?”
“Damned SEALs are like ninjas. I think they fancy calling themselves that.”
“Don’t fuck with them. They are ninjas, and they’ll hurt you. Anyway, Bullfrog also said, in words to that effect, ‘seems like Prince Bashir was lost at sea.’ He fell overboard on his boat on the way to Monaco. It happened off the coast of Liberia. Have the article. It says, Al Jazeera reported Prince Azzam Mohammed Bakaar Bashir was lost at sea, 150 miles south of Monrovia, Liberia. Prince Bashir strolled out onto the fantail of his majestic yacht, the Sa’ad, when a fish flew over the side rail. The fish flopped around wildly, and Bashir caught it. He took it to the side of the boat and fell in. Guests were stunned. One second he was there, the next he was gone.”
“Couldn’t have happened to a nastier piece of shit.” Lynche maintained his defeated posture and his hands on his helmet.
“I couldn’t believe it when I read that. No way could that have happened. I wonder what really happened.”
Hunter tried to suppress a spurious thought of a sexually satiated Bashir wandering out of his cabin in the night to see a fish jump over the side of the yacht. It wasn’t a big fish, and, in three steps, he subdued the plain-looking fish, watching it gulp air instead of water. He was about to toss it over the side when he heard a low-pitched knocking coming from over the side, as if a log was banging against the ship's hull. As Bashir tossed the fish over the side, he looked at the horizon, then down and saw a light just under the surface. When he leaned closer to look, a frogman leaped straight up from the water, grabbed the prince’s robe, and both of them disappeared underwater.
“Maybe SEAL Team Six caught another terrorist,” Hunter said. “Who knows?”
“Whatever happened, good riddance.”
“We also got notification the USG procured the rights to Weedbusters. Now the Department of State and the Drug Enforcement Agency, and everyone else can use it to eradicate cannabis, cocoa, and poppy. It may not be enough to retire on, but hey, that’s huge, Sir.”
“You’re doing great, Mav. Your racecar and antique-airplane-restoration business is taking off. DOD has embraced quiet aircraft designs. What’ll you do next?”
“What do you mean, what’ll I do next? Isn't it what will we do next? Call ops and tell them we’re ten minutes out.”
“Roger. Connie wants me to retire. I’m surprised she hasn’t pushed you to kick me out the door. We’ve got plenty of money and that huge sailboat, but we rarely use it. I’ve been thinking it’s time to call it quits. If I go, what will you do?”
“Besides race my ‘Vette? Fly the jet? Play some racquetball? I’m getting a bit thick in the waist.”
“I’m serious.”
“OK. Let me tell you a little story. I think we have enough time.”
“Uh-oh. Is this a new story?”
“I was attending the Aviation Supply Officer’s Course in Athens, Georgia, a few years before I retired. I played racquetball after class at the college or town. When I got back to officer’s quarters, I found the walkways and walls of the building covered in cockroaches. I took my racquetball shoe out of my bag and started popping roaches, as many as I could until they heard the screams of their buddies being smashed and ran off.
“By the time I left Athens three or four months later, guess what? No roaches. That’s what liberals and these Islamofascists are like. They hide during the day or from the light and come out in the dark to do all sorts of mischief and mayhem.”
“I’m wondering where this is going.”
“Sir, I’m awake to the seriousness and lethality of the left and the fascists in Africa and the Middle East. I’m fully aware of that and will never forget their ultimate goal is to overthrow our government and kill us. Everything the left does or embraces is bad, wrong, evil, or stupid. Wherever there are liberals and Islamofascists, something bad is happening or soon will be. It’s in their DNA."
“All liberals are not bad.”
“Real libs and radicals are. There needs to be a counterforce of good. Where we can make a difference isn’t in the open but in the dark. To be a warrior for good means you go into the belly of the beast and fight them where they work, shining a light on them. You expose them and illuminate the others in the area. Then you pop them like roaches."
“To fight evil is to fight liberalism, socialism, communism, Nazism, and Islamo-fascism, like those roaches I killed. We have to keep at it until they’re gone, and we need the right tools for the job. 007 is one of the best tools in the world. I want to continue using her to fight that special kind of evil. Landing checklist complete.”
Lynche ignored the speech. “I’m all set. We’re clear to land.”
Hunter rushed to finish his thought before touchdown. The yellow light still shone brightly. “The only people capable of fighting that kind of evil, mischief, and mayhem are in the intelligence community. To play in that special sandbox, you need the right tickets and Special Access.”
“I think I’m done.” As the landing gear touched the runway, safe on deck, Lynche felt re—energized. A giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “This was my last flight.”
“So maybe the answer is for you to retire and start being a job finder.” Hunter taxied off the runway and headed to the inflatable hangar at the end of the tarmac.
“I don’t think so. There comes a time when you have to say, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ One of these days, you won’t be able to play racquetball anymore.”
“Bite your friggin' liberal tongue!”
“My time has come. I’m through. It was a great ride, Sir.”
Hunter didn’t know what to say. Feeling emotional, he was glad Lynche couldn’t see his eyes were welling.
After a minute passed, Lynche saved Hunter by asking, “So what else will you do?”
It took Hunter a moment to compose himself. “What do you mean?”
“Maverick, you basically deposed the President of the United States, and you didn’t go to jail. Liberals will hunt you down and kill you if they ever found out what you did to their leader—so don’t piss me off. No one knows you killed the two top terrorists in the world, and the Islamofascists will be after your ass in a microminute if they ever figure that you were responsible. Your nemesis from Border Patrol is dead, as is the DCI. Someone will start to wonder how shit like that happens when you’re around. Then the real Prince of Darkness falls overboard under suspicious circumstances. Be glad you weren’t anywhere near it when it happened.”
“I swear I wasn’t anywhere near him!” Hunter suppressed a smirk. He unsnapped the chinstrap from his helmet.
The yellow chip light remained on.
“What else is there, Mav? All the bad guys are dead, or you ran them out of office. What else will you do?”
“Greg, Marx spent his life living off other people’s money and finding fault with just about everything and everybody. The Left has a penchant for selecting life’s losers as their heroes. I’ll continue to fight the Dr. Evils of the world wherever they are. I’ll shine a light on them and pop ‘em like bugs. There are plenty of roaches out there. I’m not even talking about the leaders of the Democratic Party. You mean something like that?”
“No.”
As they taxied to the end of the ramp, Hunter saw there was too much light in the hangar and debated whether he should stop.
“Um, ah, what the hell’s that?” he asked. “Grinch, we may have a problem. It looks like we’ve got a welcoming committee.”
“What?”
“There’s a small crowd with the twins. First glance, it looks like SOCOM thought it would be nice to welcome us home. Maybe you really got al-Zawahiri, Mr. Lynche. That you’re a hero is good, but this is bad.”
“This is bad?�
�� Consternation filled Lynche's voice.
“Sir, some asshole blew our cover. There’s your answer.”
“What?”
“Some asshole blew our cover, and my partner just quit. Therefore, no cover, no partner, which means no airplane, no enemies to kill, no bad guys to find. No more Special Access Programs. Sounds to me like I’m now probably unemployed.”
EPILOGUE
0430L July 6, 2011
The Spirit of Memphis C-17
41,000 Feet MSL over the Atlantic Ocean
Hunter, Lynche, and the two Bobs stretched out along troop seats with sound suppressors over their ears and sleep masks over their eyes. They were sound asleep in military, olive-drab-green sleeping bags.
A US Air Force air crewman in a NOMEX flight suit bespeckled with colorful patches on her shoulders and chest walked past the snoring men into the middle of the big jet’s cargo area to the shipping container placed strategically in the middle of the aircraft. The petite African-American woman with hair pulled back into a tight bun checked the container’s security by testing the tension of the heavy chains between the container’s turnbuckles and the thick lashing rings mounted on the aircraft decking.
She kicked and stood on each chain with enough force to ensure the chains hadn’t gained any slack, as the jet climbed to altitude. She climbed off the last chain in rotation and turned to look at the container, then back at the men sprawled across the seats. The unusual cargo and passengers that weren’t to be manifested didn’t pique her interest, but she gave them a snort.
“Nasty old spooks,” she mumbled. “Don’t have to play by any rules and get any damn thing they want.”
Her cargo-security mission accomplished, the loadmaster turned and walked back to the cockpit.
Hunter lifted one side of his sleep mask as the woman walked by. As she moved out of visual range, he lifted a lazy eyelid toward the blue shipping container where the greatest little airplane no one ever heard about was nestled inside.
He rolled over on his side and fell back asleep.
*
Hunter woke with a start when Lynche kicked the troop seat. “Get up, Sunshine. We land in thirty minutes.”
Duncan rolled over, peeled the sleep mask from his face, and scowled at Lynche, who was perfectly groomed and shaved. The Grinch’s sound suppressors covered his ears, but the head strap hung down under his chin to avoid interfering with this coiffure. Hunter crawled out of his bag, looked around the C-17’s cargo area, scowled at Lynche again, and checked his Rolex. They’d been airborne for fifteen hours and should be landing at Andrews Air Force Base soon.
Lynche sat beside Hunter, lifted the sound suppressor from his ear, and said, “That’s not a pretty sight, Mr. Jones.”
Greg Lynche removed his sound suppressors, and Hunter copied him before leaning close to his ear to say, “Be nice to me. You know I get gas on these flights, and you’re in the frag zone.”
Lynche leaned closer and said, “Hold your guns, Mav. Something’s up.”
Hunter looked at his friend in concern and confusion. For fifteen years, Lynche rarely uttered a cautionary line. It was usually Hunter’s job to express random thoughts of concern or ask questions for clarification. The expression on Duncan’s sleep-lined face changed.
“What do you mean, Mr. Smith?”
“I was in the cockpit when the aircrew was told they have to park in a different location and not to let us off the jet. We have a greeting party. I think we’re going to jail.”
“Maybe I’ll go to jail for disseminating formerly classified documents, but not you. I'm the traitor. You’re a hero, good Sir.”
“We’ll know in a few minutes.”
The fifteen-year running joke continued. Hunter and Lynche operated extracurricular of dozens of legal systems. They broke laws with indifference. When a condition of success for a black program meant straying over the lines with every mission, the Special Access Program Wraith just quietly flew over local judiciaries. They smuggled their aircraft onto airports and conducted flight operations with no clearances, often penetrating another country’s airspace without permission. They flew low to stay under radar systems to perform their mission, making nearly every time they flew a potential major international incident.
They operated a single-engine airplane over some of the most hostile territory imaginable, where the smallest incident meant the difference between having the aircraft or engine fail, which could result in the crew’s being killed, captured, and tried as spies.
When someone broke the law for fifteen years, breaking a new one was considered “ops normal.” The developing situation in front of the big jet concerned Lynche and intrigued Hunter.
Hunter’s laissez-faire attitude sometimes infuriated Lynche, but this time, it was Lynche caught in the no-man’s land of saying something, or sitting still and letting events unfold. Lynche nodded toward the front of the aircraft, as Bob and Bob departed the cockpit. Hunter saw real concern on his friend’s face, as the crew closed the cockpit door once the old mechanics stepped off the ladder.
Hunter shook his head.
Hydraulic systems screamed and thumped, as landing gear went down, followed by flaps.
“Lowest price, technically acceptable!” Hunter shouted with a grin, pulling the sound suppressors over his ears again.
Lynche, appreciating the diversion, nodded with a grin. Their Gulfstream’s hydraulic systems didn’t squeal when activated. Corporate and commercial aviation could afford to pay for quiet hydraulic pumps and actuators. Noiselessness wasn’t a priority for Uncle Sam’s massive lowest-priced fleet.
After a landing that both men agreed was “very nice,” the jet kept moving for an extended period, as the hydraulic systems screamed again when the flaps were raised. The auxiliary power plant’s little jet turbine lit off, adding more high frequency to the cabin before they were jostled around, as the pilot heavily applied the brakes, adding more low frequency and high vibrations to the mix.
After taxiing for sixty seconds, the jet stopped, and the engines shut down, two at a time.
“Watch your head, as you depart the ride,” the tall Bob said, as the four-man Wraith team huddled briefly to exchange handshakes and grab their rollerboards.
“Do you know this was our hundredth mission?” Lynche asked.
The aircrew opened the side door. Normally, they also opened the cargo door and leveled the ramp to expedite offloading, but they didn’t.
Something’s up, Hunter thought. “Seriously? I had no idea. I hadn’t kept track. I thought it was the ninety-ninth?” He gave Lynche an impish grin.
The four men faced toward the front of the aircraft to depart when eight heavily armed Secret Service agents in black BDUs and clear earpieces poured through the door and hustled toward the four civilians. Hunter felt that the men’s lack of drawn weapons was a good sign.
“Mister…?” one agent asked, looking at Greg.
“Aboard the plane,” Lynche said quickly, “we’re Smith and Jones, Jones and Jones, Smith and Smith.”
Old intelligence agents knew the drill of properly addressing someone under cover to law enforcement and how to maintain their cover.
“Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith, do you have any weapons on your person?” the agent asked.
“I have a revolver and two knives in my rollerboard.” Hunter offered his flight bag to the nearest agent.
Four agents stepped in and relived the civilians of their bags. “Assume the position, gentlemen.”
Hunter spread his feet and placed his hands over his head in a coordinated, continuous motion. Lynche, Bob, and Bob copied him.
“Anything on you that can hurt me?” the agents asked, as they frisked the men.
The US Air Force aircrew stepped out of the cockpit and watched as eight men in black frisked their Code Twos. It wasn’t every day a troopie got to witness the equivalent of a general officer being frisked. After sixty seconds of being touched, prodded, groped, and otherwise mo
lested, it was over.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” the lead agent said. “Please come with me.”
The four men followed the agent from the aircraft. Hunter thanked the bewildered aircrew for a great ride and nice landing, as he passed the cockpit. As the men stepped down from the jet, they were guided into the back seats of two black Suburbans.
Hunter saw the Follow Me truck leading the caravan of black vehicles. No one spoke until the line of trucks entered a hangar and stopped.
“Follow me,” the agent in charge uttered with intrigue.
Hunter followed Lynche out the open door. He would’ve had to be blind not to recognize the six Marine Corps F/A-18s parked in the hangar in various stages of repair and readiness.
The men hurried through double doors and down a long, well-lit passageway before reaching another agent in black, who gave the lead agent a nod. He turned into a conference room. As the men gathered around chairs, a voice boomed behind them, “Gentlemen, the President of the United States.”
All heads turned. Chills coursed through the bodies of the four flight-weary men, as the newly sworn-in President entered the conference room, followed by the Secretary of Defense, the Secret Service Director, and a man introduced as the Acting Director of Central Intelligence.
The three former military men knew what to do and formed a line abreast. Greg stood in the line-up between Hunter and the shorter Bob.
The President first stepped in front of the taller Bob and shook his hand, exchanging a few words before the booming voice announced, “Attention to Orders! The President of the United States takes great pleasure in awarding the Intelligence Star to Robert J. Smith and William Robert Jones for outstanding achievements and services rendered, with the highest distinction, under conditions of grave risk.”
After the short Bob received his medal, the President stepped in front of Greg and shook his head.
“Attention to Orders!” the voice booked again. “The President of the United States takes extremely great pleasure in awarding the Distinguished Intelligence Cross to Gregory Michael Lynche and Drew Duncan Hunter. Over a period of fifteen years, you performed one hundred of the most-challenging and sensitive national-security missions, as the pilot and copilot team under Special Access Program Wraith. Time and again, you demonstrated uncommon and extraordinary acts of heroism during the most-hazardous flying conditions possible, accepting existing dangers with exemplary courage. Your intrepidity and conspicuous fortitude were once again on display, as you wrestled with a severely damaged airplane over hostile territory and completed the mission, which culminated with the identifying, targeting, and destruction of key leaders of the terrorist group al-Qaeda.”
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