by Isaac Stormm
“This. Between my teeth,” he said. The girl reached over and picked it up, dipped it in the bowl and dried it. He opened his mouth a little as she inserted it tail first and he bit down. He just sensed a finger touching the tip of the wound, pressing against the shell of the clot. The pliers bore in again and tore the dried blood away. A quick thrust entered it below the skin and he felt its mass driving toward his stomach. There the scream bellowed, racing through his throat. He bit down as hard as he could, taming it as it spewed between his teeth. Pain exploded from every nerve ending in his body, destroying the numbness. The girl’s hands pressed again as he convulsed under the pliers’ jaws, opening wide under the force of both the old man’s hands, spreading his innards. Thoughts smashed within his pounding mind. How cruel this world was that it punished him for staying. Or perhaps Allah for rejecting him. Surely not, he repeated over and over again through his pounding mind. Surely not. Allah wills it that I stay. I have unfinished work. More enemies must be killed before He will accept me. So be it.
Foxmann stopped the car outside the hangar. Its massive door remained closed and he entered through a door on the side, carrying a briefcase. Walking through a small janitorial room smelling of dirty mops and cleaner then out into the yawning space, he saw the enormous white Airbus 330 gleaming under the many ceiling lights, wings reaching almost to each wall. Moving under one, he noticed David gathered under the center of the fuselage, leaning against the many tires that comprised the landing gear. He passed the Rolls Royce Trent turbofan, one of two the plane had and the size of a delivery truck, smiled and said, “We look like savages.” He heard, chuckling respond to his smile. “Pilot’s here?”
“In the cockpit going over the checklist.” David replied. “Say what kind of crap are we trading with Azerbaijan?”
“Anything that has a wire, transistor or microprocessor. In return, we get a few things. Like access to the region, among others. I’ll brief you on the plans when we’re in the air.” He gave the briefcase a little shake. “Now let’s look each other over before we board.”
David stood straight at attention. Foxmann walked by slow as if on parade review. They each wore a mix of loose fitting attire, mostly different shades of brown and stained of grass and dirt. He noticed the depth of the masquerade when he looked at his own boots, ankle high and brown, of Iranian origin, that was wrinkled and held together by fraying shoelaces. On the heads of both sat tan Pakols, round flat hats made of wool and seen often in Afghanistan and parts of Iran. He slapped the top of his, producing a small cloud of dust. Perfect. The men needed to look like they belonged to the land. Nobody there ever had clean clothes. Anything that provoked curiosity would lead to suspicion. Anything beyond that involved a bullet.
Everything seemed perfect. “Damn good,” he said. “We’re as ready as can be expected. Weapons and gear are already aboard. Time to go.”
The two men walked under the wing toward the air stair. Foxmann noticed the words ‘JSC CARGO’ in dark blue lettering at mid-fuselage, before entering into the lighted passenger cabin. A front row of eight seats, separated by what was once two aisles, awaited. Behind them, rows of wooden crates, all equal size and stacked two-high to just below the ceiling, and separated by a single aisle, were secured to the floor with nylon straps and steel anchors.
They sat down, and David asked, “Does this thing have a bathroom?”
Foxmann pointed toward what looked like a closet with a narrow door.
“Good. I didn’t want to have to hold it.” He undid his coat and draped it over the back of the chair. Off came the Pakol into his lap.
The loadmaster came up behind them.
“Where’s the gear?” Foxmann asked.
“These two.” David pointed to the ones stacked behind his seat.
“I hope they didn’t leave anything out.” Foxmann looked at the two as the loadmaster passed them and entered the cockpit. They watched him give a reassuring tap to the shoulder of the pilot then turnaround and come back.
“Fasten your seatbelts, please.” He headed back toward the tail.
The huge doors began to part in the middle and a spray of light from inside grew on the tarmac before them. A buzzing sound filled the immediate area as the doors widened like the spreading of giant wings, giving way to another sound winding faster each second as the turbo fans spooled up.
A man underneath ran from each set of wheels, pulling away yellow chocks. He ran off to the side and the flagman walked to position in front of the nose, raising two bright orange marshalling wands into an ‘x’ position over his head. He then uncrossed them and begin waving the plane toward him.
The taxiway lit up in a blaze of light when the taxi lights on the wheels shot a blinding white over and around the flagman. The turbofans, by now a constant shriek, added a little more scream under the slight thrust to move the aircraft forward. The flagman eased back and the plane’s nose poked into the night air. Its beacon lights pulsed red and green, illuminating the exterior of the hangar as some more of the 193-foot length followed before the 197-foot wingspan cleared the confines and the 57-foot-high tail bade it goodbye. A right wave of the wands veered it off the apron to the service tarmac, taking it to one of the three main runways, in this case, number 03 to take off north.
Foxmann held the briefcase in his lap ready to open it as soon as they were airborne. He held the thought when he looked over at David already yawning, having to open his eyes wide every other blink to stave off sleep. He could wait. They’re going to need it. Instead, his thoughts drifted to Anna and Sarah, having missed this important day with them. He had to make it up to them somehow. Maybe, after another year of this, he could resign and just retire. What did he just think of? He never thought that before and he wiped such inklings of that from his mind. He was hand-picked for this job, and he’d be damned if he was going to let family, even as much as he cared about them, pull him away. He chastised himself again for thinking that, too. No way would he look at his family like that again. He felt so conflicted. The wrong time at the worst hour for such emotions. He must suppress them. The faint voice of the pilots confirming takeoff clearance offered the only distraction.
The A330 revved up to maximum power, 95,000 pounds of thrust from each engine pushing the airspeed indicator past 100 knots then 150. A slight pullback on the joystick lifted the nose skyward, landing gear retracting in the fuselage. The plane turned right slightly, heading toward a cloud layer. The navigation beacons grew ever smaller until the aircraft disappeared into a gray cumulus.
He really wasn’t tired. He knew if he wanted to he could catnap like David. He refrained because the flight was not long, about two and half hours maximum. He needed to give him the briefing about an hour in. He felt the slight tug of gravity to the right dissipate back to normal when the jet’s gentle turn leveled off and it continued climbing to cruising altitude, which he expected to be above 35,000 feet. Once it reached it, he planned to unbuckle his seatbelt and look at his tablet for a dry run of the mission details before he woke the team.
Washington, D.C
The White House
6:22 P.M.
“We have one bird headed over. A C-5 carrying the chopper. I’ve been told they’ll need at least four hours to get the chopper in flying condition.”
“Thank you, Mitchell,” Anderson replied. “Contact me if anything unexpected pops up.” He put the phone into his pocket and continued reclining in the plush black leather chair. He glanced at his watch. He almost felt like he needed to go do something but his duties for the day ended after the situation room. Tomorrow morning, an aide would read off a list of people he had to see and speeches he may have to give in places he might have to go just like he heard every day except on the weekend. He had to keep going. Look presidential. Pretend half a world away, Americans weren’t about to violate the airspace and land on the ground in the most belligerent nation it faced since the Cold War. He knew they could do it. He also had a longing, for some
reason, to be one of those men, something he never found himself interested in doing when he was younger. That of being a soldier. Not that he had anything against the service just like ninety-nine point 9% of the rest of America, he placed his education in front. And a good education it was, teaching him about the world with an ideological slant, one that was willing to spare no nation, including America, criticism of their sins. Most of his professors were liberal to the point of being radical, even hostile to the very country that employed them. He never considered himself that way. He always tried to have an open mind. He learned as time went on that in many cases loyalty to party must trump loyalty to country as blasphemous as that may sound. The halls of Congress were a battlefield. Partisanship reigned. Yes, he tried to reach across the aisle, only to have his hand slapped because he thought differently. He believed in supporting the poor through entitlements. The other side supported the poor but believed there were less costly ways to achieve the same thing. This is where the argument started, while bills died in committee, and why every year of his presidency, he had to sign a belated budget full of earmarks and his ideas watered down by people who he thought were his allies.
He folded his hands behind his head. Then she walked in.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Here.” He motioned her over and got up, offering the chair. She kind of shook her head like she was being asked to do something forbidden.
“No. No. It’s all right,” he reassured her, holding her tenderly by the shoulders as if to steady her descent. Once she seated, she leaned her head back and he moved behind her and applied his fingers to her temples, rubbing them in a circular motion. “You’ve never sat here, have you?”
“No. Feels good. The thick leather and all.” She took hold of both of his wrists, giving them a gentle squeeze as the massage continued.
“It gets warm after a while. If you’re just wearing a dress shirt, it’s hot and sticky.” A small price to pay, he mused, given the power it held. He thought back to the Cuban missile crisis for a second, how Kennedy must’ve felt with those endless meetings trying to control every minute of the situation. He hoped he was up to the job should a calamity arise again. Deep in the pit of his stomach, fear suddenly unleashed and shot through him causing him a brief shiver. Julie stopped talking. The reflex startled her.
She slowly pulled away from his arms and stood up to face him. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
“Huh? Of course, I did.”
She moved her hands down past his wrists into his palms. She closed hers tight and he didn’t, not willing to show the emotion he felt. How could he tell her that he just started feeling afraid?
“Paul. In all the years we’ve been together, I’ve learned to read you by how you phrase words, the tone of your voice, even your body language. Yet not once have I seen you so confused and tense. I understand that’s expected given what you told me this morning. But I sense you’re holding something in. And I think I know what it is.” She led him away from the chair, giving her more space when she circled her arms around his neck to pull him close. Just an inch from his ear, she whispered, “You’re afraid. Aren’t you?”
A thousand things he wanted to say, all garbled, flooded his mind. He mustered up his courage, rubbing his cheek against hers, eyes closed. “There’s a lot about today I’d like to tell you. Someday I will, I promise.” He rubbed her hair and looked into her eyes, the ones he’d fallen for decades ago. Deep brown. Understanding. Forgiving.
She tightened her grip and pressed her lips to his. For the next few seconds, it provided him with the bliss he knew he needed. When she stopped, she lay her head against his chest and he cuddled her, tracing his fingertips over her back. “It’ll be all right.”
“All things must pass, Paul. No matter how bad, they will eventually go away.”
“I know.” God, let her be right.
Chapter Seven
May16
6:27 A.M.
The C-5 Galaxian maintained altitude at a firm 25,000 feet. It was somewhere over Europe, above a smattering of clouds, far below patching the dark landscape. The journey had been uneventful, and aboard the aircraft the chopper crews and maintenance personnel passed the time playing cards or games on tablets. Talk was somewhat muted due to the sound of the four engines while just forward of the crew seating, a makeshift curtain in the form of a parachute spanned the cabin.
“A hell of a way to conduct a briefing,” Carlson said, pointing to the draped ‘chute. It was used to keep he and Quinn secret from the rest of the crew except for the pilots. They were the last aboard and no one from the back was permitted to pass. Over the last hour and a half, he‘d used the space getting to know his DEVGRU counterpart better. He’d answered every question asked and gave as much information as he knew, all the while making sure to speak in soft tones so no curious airman with a hot ear might deduce what was up. Of course, Carlson had wanted more privacy but he knew such luxuries were nonexistent in most military planes, least of all these massive transports. He completed folding a large map, which he used to show everything pertinent, until it was wallet size. He placed it in a pocket in his shirt and noticed Quinn with a finger up.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that I’m speaking for both of us when I say if anything should happen that puts me into a position that I might be captured, I plan on killing myself. And if I can’t do it, I want someone else to do it for me. I ain’t gonna let the bastards torture me.”
Carlson nodded. “We’re in agreement then. I think even the bigwigs in Washington and Tel Aviv wouldn’t expect us to do anything less,” Carlson said.
“If we find something out there,” Quinn explained, “it’s going to be a shit storm.”
“I know.” Carlson leaned back against the thin webbing of the chair, which seemed like nothing more than a protrusion from the fuselage with a straight up back. “We can expect a lot more combat time once we get back to our units.”
“Indefinite combat time. Let’s not kid ourselves. It’ll be World War III,” Quinn said. “The Israelis, even if we don’t, will go hot with this thing. We’ll have no choice but to join them because we’re the great Satan.”
“Most probably. You know we soldiers don’t get to pick and choose what kind of wars we fight or how long they might last. Excuse me,” he caught himself, “sailors too.”
“We’ll make history then.” Quinn shot an impish grin at him. “The catalyst for the great calamity.”
Carlson liked the gallows humor. Such things provided a little respite for missions. He’d seen it break the ice in places like Sadr City, Iraq, where they conducted innumerable capture/kill missions. The area was part of Baghdad in known with a few other places as the ‘Triangle of Death.’ Everyone understood they had to traverse by vehicle over IED-planted roads before they assaulted, and inevitably some men died or were grievously injured. Whichever it was, it was still a loss felt by all. Yet, there they were, the next night making silly jokes and ready to lay it all on the line once again.
They heard a hand wrapping in front of them. It was the co-pilot. They figured he was just out of his seat or they would’ve seen him listening.
He moved forward. “I got to go to the can.” They parted so he could pull the edge of the chute away and disappear into the small closet just behind it.
Quinn nodded toward the cockpit. “Think they can hear us up there?”
“Don’t think so,” Carlson said. He waited for the copilot to return to his seat before he began talking again. “I realize we haven’t had the proper time to get acquainted. Such teams like this are often assembled at the last minute and have to go into action without the bond we enjoyed with our friends so please keep this in mind. In every conflict, there’s been groups like ours with nothing in common but the mission. Most succeeded. In our case, we have to succeed. Failure is not an option. This is on par with discovering the Japanese fleet on its way to Hawaii i
n ’41. If we find them, we can expose their shit for the whole world to see. Sure, they’ll have their usual defenders: Russia, China, North Korea and whoever else is in bed with them. But their objections will carry no weight this time. Everyone will know military action must be taken after they start to deny they got caught red-handed. What comes next and I hope they go all the way with this one, is they take out the leaders of the government, cut off the head and let it flop around awhile. No one could blame us and call it an assassination. The future of the world’s at stake now.”