Stiletto #1: The Termination Protocol: Book One of the Scott Stiletto Thriller Series

by Brian Drake

  “Control to Boy Scout. Status update.”

  The voice startled Stiletto. He hadn’t communicated with his “guardian angel” in more than an hour and the voice was welcome. The “angel” in this case sat in a room at an air base somewhere in Nevada and controlled the Predator drone which would provide back-up when the fireworks started.

  “Boy Scout to Control, in position and freezing. Over.”

  “Hang in there.”

  Stiletto sat behind a cluster of rocks on the side of one of the mountains on either side of the target camp, approximately 150 yards away. The camp wasn’t much. Six large tents. Easy to set up when needed and take down when not needed. A batch of men armed with automatic weapons roamed the camp. Stiletto hadn’t counted their number.

  The cold bit with ferocity. His body and legs were warm enough, but his arms, feet, and part of his face not covered by his ski-mask (mouth, nose, eyes) felt the chill. If the directional microphone and recording equipment beside him had contained a built-in heater, it would have been a perfect night under the vast array of stars above.

  Stiletto had been there so long his rear end felt sore, on its way to numb. Outside what he thought was the command tent, which had a large truck beside it, sat a humming generator powering lights around the camp. Probably a heater, too. Bad guys always had the luxuries.

  The microphone, aimed at the main tent, hadn’t detected any chatter for almost an hour. The headphones he wore warmed his ears a little. The cover over his left ear allowed him to hear Control’s radio calls; the other let him hear the business inside the camp.

  A gust of wind kicked up debris above; bits of rock and dirt cluttered his hiding space. His attire consisted of black battle fatigues, 35-pound Kevlar body armor which squeezed his torso but did not make breathing difficult, boots and gloves. Some rock bits had wound up down his back; he could feel the small pieces rubbing against his skin every time he moved. Draped over the vest was his load-bearing harness, a pair of suspender-like straps connected to a pistol belt. Two fragmentation grenades hung on each strap. On the belt hung magazine pouches and the holster for his Colt Combat Commander .45 ACP pistol. The Heckler & Koch UMP submachine gun, also in .45-caliber, completed the ensemble.

  Two men approached the main tent. Stiletto grabbed his night vision goggles and zoomed in. Miller and another man filled the view finder. Miller was talking, his excited tone carrying up to the microphone.

  “You’ve done well but I’d like to see a little more security here. Can we get more men?”

  “There’s always somebody looking for work,” the other man said. “Another squad, maybe?”

  “Fine.”

  Stiletto turned down the volume and called Control.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Positive identification on Miller,” Stiletto said.

  “What do you want to do, Boy Scout?”

  “Send in the Predator. My trigger finger is itchy.”

  “Stand by.”

  Stiletto upped the volume on the microphone.

  “. . .truck gassed up?” Miller said.

  “All set.”

  “I’ll leave in ten minutes.”

  Miller’s companion left the tent and Stiletto listened to Miller pack up. He radioed Control and asked when the Predator drone would arrive.

  “E.T.A. fifteen minutes.”

  “We don’t have fifteen minutes.”

  Stiletto yanked off the headphones, grabbed the HK, and scooted from the rocks.

  Stiletto double-timed down the mountain.

  His boots crunched the rocks; he reached flat ground and charged ahead. If he could stow away on the truck. . .

  He neared the main tent.

  A spotlight snapped on to his left, followed by shouts of alarm. Stiletto pivoted left as the light, held by a trooper, bounced as the trooper closed in. Stiletto fired. The string of .45 ACP rounds sounded like firecrackers. The running gunman screamed and fell, but his compatriots weren’t far behind and their automatic weapons popped in response.

  Stiletto raced toward the truck only to stop as another gunman rounded the back end; Stiletto stitched the man’s chest with a blast pattern, flung a grenade at the closing troopers, and let the blast cover his dash back to the rocks at the base of the mountain.

  Enemy rounds pecked at the rocks, shards peppering Stiletto’s face; the rock bits that had fallen down the back of his shirt once again dug into his skin. He stifled a grunt. Stiletto tossed another grenade, followed up with a left-to-right pattern of controlled bursts. Troops approached, crawling along the ground and blasting back when they could. Stiletto could not tell their shadows from the others on the ground. He fired at what he thought was a man but heard no scream in response.

  A grenade sailed overhead. Stiletto heard it smack the incline behind him. He dropped flat, covering his ears; the blast shook the ground, a wave of searing heat burning the exposed skin of his neck. Stiletto rose and fired some more, the HK UMP snapping dry. He ducked back to reload as return fire careened off the rocks and geysered dirt.

  The roar of a rocket engine stretched across the night sky. Stiletto glanced up to see a Predator drone swooping between the mountains. Control had come through much sooner than 15 minutes! He had seen the unmanned drones in action before. The sleek, small aircraft looked like something a large-scale model builder might assemble in his garage; the firepower they packed made even the biggest skeptic a believer in their capabilities.

  Spotlights exploded to life, searching the sky. The long-winged Predator with its bulbous front end zoomed closer. The troopers aimed their fire at the drone and Stiletto fired at their muzzle flashes.

  The drone dipped into a dive and missiles flashed from pods underneath the fuselage. The salvo trailed lines of thick white smoke. The missiles struck. The ground shook from multiple explosions around every tent but the main tent. Troopers scattered and ran, Stiletto firing at some, but now he saw his chance. He bolted for the main tent. As Stiletto neared the truck a second time, Liam Miller raced around the front end, clutching a case in one hand. He had the driver’s side door open when Stiletto reached him. Miller snapped his head around to lock eyes with Stiletto and the case hit the floor as Miller went for a gun on his hip.

  Stiletto smashed the butt stock of his weapon into Miller’s temple. Miller slumped against the door. Stiletto started the engine and floored the throttle.

  Headlights Glared in the rearview mirror.

  The truck jostled along the rough terrain as Stiletto closed in on his extraction point. He stopped near some trees. Jumping out with the HK UMP freshly loaded, he dropped prone against a mound and pulled the pin on a grenade, holding the handle down as the other truck neared.

  The truck’s brakes let out a squeal as the vehicle slowed; Stiletto tossed his grenade. The explosion ripped into the cab, blowing out the front tires, and making the forward end of the truck sink a little. Armed men jumped out of the back. Stiletto grabbed the HK. He fired once. A trooper dropped. He fired again and killed another. Return fire split the air and gouged the dirt. Stiletto let another burst go, but none of the rounds connected, and the HK clicked empty. The troopers let out a loud cry and sprinted for his position with blazing weapons. Stiletto grabbed his last grenade, pulled the pin and let it fly with an overhand pitch. The grenade flew over the troopers and exploded behind them. The row of armed and angry men looked like a wave. Stiletto snapped out his .45 and worked the trigger. One trooper dropped. Stiletto fired until the slide locked back. He ejected the empty mag and slapped another in place.

  The enemy continued rushing toward him.

  One trooper leaped over the mound, Stiletto falling back; he brought up the pistol as the trooper leveled his rifle and the .45 auto barked twice. Stiletto rolled, the trooper striking the ground where Stiletto had been. Coming on up on his back, Stiletto fired another pair of rounds at the three remaining troopers now reaching the mound.

  Whipping rotor blades joined the f
ray. The Pave Low chopper, Stiletto’s ride, flew over a nearby rise and machine gun fire from the side-mounted cannons cut down the troopers before they could find cover. The helicopter touched down, the wind from the rotor blades tossing plants and trees to-and-fro as Stiletto ran for the truck Miller still slept in. He hauled out the unconscious man, hoisted him over his shoulders, and ran for the helicopter. The ski mask clung to his sweaty face. Stiletto let a crewman take Miller and climbed into the cabin. The chopper soared into the night sky.

  Stiletto slumped back against the cabin. His chest pumped up and down. He yanked off his wet ski mask, wiped his face with the back of a gloved hand.

  The crew chief handed Stiletto a canteen and he took a long drink of the warm water, letting some of the liquid dribble down his chin. He handed back the canteen.

  “Thanks,” he told the crew chief. “For a few minutes, I thought I was a goner.”

  As the chopper banked left, Stiletto glanced at Miller, who lay stretched out on the cabin floor. The crew chief had tied Miller’s hands behind his back.

  THE PAVE Low stayed at one thousand feet above the ocean.

  There was no sense of movement as Stiletto looked out the window. The ocean below appeared flat black. Only the stars in the night sky separated the two, otherwise the outside environment might have look like deep space.

  The Pave Low slowed, rose a little, and began a descent. When the helicopter touched down on the rear deck of the U.S.S. Bataan, the crew chief opened the side door. Stiletto unstrapped from the wall seat. A security team grabbed Miller and took him below. Scott took his time as he exited, lugging his gear. The cold ocean wind screamed across the deck, much worse than back in the desert. Stiletto clamped his mouth shut to keep teeth from chattering and crossed the hard steel deck to the hatch leading below. The masthead light flashed against the night sky, the larger radar antenna and smaller air-warning radar spun in their endless rotation. They weren’t out of hostile territory yet, and as Stiletto bent to slip through the hatch, he hoped the early-warning systems would keep them out of trouble. He’d joined the Army in his younger days because he hated swimming and got seasick, but the job required him to go on the water, so on the water he went. Whether or not he liked it didn’t matter; the mission mattered more.

  Following a set of steps to the passageway, banging his gear on the wall, he squeezed by passing sailors who paid no attention to him. Their assignment to the Bataan meant they saw all types of “special guests” who didn’t fit normal navy spec.

  Stiletto entered the small cabin he’d been assigned, locked the door, and unloaded his gear on the cot. He tossed the dirty fatigues in a corner and pulled on the standard ship’s uniform of tan shirt and slacks. No insignia on the shirt. He left the cabin.

  Presently he found the captain on the bridge, seated on the starboard side of the control room. The bridge wasn’t anything like on Star Trek, to Stiletto’s steady disappointment no matter how many ships he spent time on, but was instead circular and crammed with crew and machinery and barely any space to move let alone occupy a post. Radar stations, fire control, navigation, too much packed into a small space but somehow the crew of the Bataan made it work and made the job look easy.

  “Five days till home,” Captain Gordon said. His starboard bridge seat was close to the forward window, but there wasn’t anything outside but plain black.

  The crew didn’t call the captain “Flash” behind his back, as one would expect. Tall, trim, white-haired and pushing 60, Captain Gordon had served long enough not to ask questions of his special guests but to let them do their thing.

  “Thanks for your help, Captain,” Stiletto said. “I’d like to keep the prisoner isolated tonight. Talk to him in the morning.”

  “Want to make him sweat?”

  “No, I want a night’s sleep.”

  The Captain laughed.

  Stiletto nodded good-bye and returned to his cabin. The cot wasn’t a pillow-top bed but the purpose was served. Scott moved his weapons and gear to the floor and stretched out. He didn’t bother to turn out the exposed light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Through the walls, the ship groaned. Something clanked. Normal ship sounds he’d heard a hundred times before on other boats during his career. He quickly dozed off.

  AFTER A shower in a too-small bathroom the next morning, where it was almost impossible to move and he kept bashing his elbows, Stiletto wandered to the crowded galley for breakfast.

  Scrambled eggs, toast, double-portion of crispy bacon. He sat at a corner table, alone, and tried not to dwell on the lifeless steel walls surrounding him. If he hated being on the water, he didn’t like being on a ship any better. The lifeless steel walls were too much, closing in on him as if he were trapped in a coffin. He took a deep breath. It was the job. It was only temporary. Stay focused. The other sailors, who ate and talked loudly, didn’t seem to mind, but the sooner he could get back on solid land, the better.

  An armed Marine escorted him into the bowels of the ship where the security team had placed Miller. Hardly a dream post, a narrow hallway lined with cells, creaky and cold with bare bulbs hanging from above. No bars for the cells; instead more solid steel doors with small plastic windows. Miller’s cell waited at the end of the hallway.

  The Marine unlocked the cell and closed and locked the door once Stiletto stepped inside. He carried a folder in his left hand.

  Miller lay on a cot not unlike the one Stiletto had in his cabin.

  He looked around the cell. “I think your cell is bigger than my cabin.”

  Miller didn’t move. “Are you trying to be funny?”

  Stiletto moved to the small table and chairs in the center of the cell, the only other pieces of furniture. The chair scraped the metal floor as Stiletto sat.

  “Come on over and talk, Miller.”

  “About what?”

  “Things and stuff, you know.”

  “No.”

  “Miller—”

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re on a boat. I suppose the navy would like me to call it a ship.”

  “One of your floating C.I.A. prisons?”

  “Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet,” Stiletto said.

  “How silly of me, all ships have cells like this one.”

  “Usually it’s called a brig.”

  “This is no brig,” Miller said. He finally sat up. “I want water.”

  “You had something to drink with your breakfast.”

  “Hard case, aren’t you.”

  “No, just a poor working man. Come on, sit down.”

  Miller remained still.

  “Do me this favor and I’ll get you a pitcher of ice water.”

  “From the ocean?”

  “From the tap. Jesus. Now come over and sit down.”

  Liam Miller finally rose and sat across from Stiletto. He said, “Who are you?”

  “Mr. Cooper to you. You and I are going to talk about a few things.”

  “You are not an official interrogator.”

  “You’re right. That means you won’t be water-boarded today.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So you’re a commando, an assassin, C.I.A., right?”

  “Depends on what day it is. You’ve met me on one of my commando days.”

  “When do I meet the assassin?”

  “Soon enough, unless you cooperate.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Let’s not make this hard. Somebody is offering for sale a nerve gas called Delta Nine. The Russians made it in the ‘70s. We want to know who has it, or who wants to buy it, and we want to know right now.”

  “No.”

  “You’re going to be with us the rest of your life. You have no friends to come rescue you, and if they know by now that you’ve been taken, they also know you are toast and their only concern is dividing up your stuff. Let’s talk and maybe we can make it comfortable for you.”

  Miller sank a l
ittle in his chair. “I used to fight for ideals.”

  “Didn’t we all,” Stiletto said.

  “And then people became important, and then they went away and money became the priority.”

  Stiletto tapped a finger on the folder.

  Miller said, “You may indeed have me, but I’m not going to talk to you. I still have some ideals.”

  Stiletto grinned. “I thought as much.”

  “Are you an orphan?”

  “Nope.”

  “I am. My mother abandoned my sister and me on the steps of a convent. We’re twins. A package deal with various foster parents. I had a chance to run away when I was sixteen, but I stayed because of her.”

  “Cool story, bro. Now tell me—”

  “And maybe you understand when I tell you I didn’t have a lot of friends. It was mostly me and my sister. I still don’t have a lot of friends. The ones I do have, I protect. So go to hell.”

  “Well,” Stiletto said, “I appreciate your little code of silence. But here’s the thing.” He opened the folder. Inside were three glossy black-and-white photos. Miller’s eyes widened and he sat forward as Scott set the pictures before him side-by-side.

  The photos showed a young woman going about her day. Loading groceries into the trunk of her car; watering flowers in the front yard; leaving an elementary school.

  “Looks familiar, doesn’t she?” Stiletto said.

  Miller looked up with hot eyes.

  “You’re going to tell us what we want to know,” Stiletto said, “or I’m flying to Ireland to shoot the twin sister you’re apparently so close to.”

  “Not even you—”

  “Oh, try me.” Stiletto sat back with folded arms. “You’ll be in a room like this till you die with a picture of your dead twin on the wall. I’ll hang it myself.”

  Miller didn’t try to hide his shaking hands. A red flush crawled up his neck.

  “That’s the problem with having a weakness, Miller.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I suppose I have one, but I forgot what it was.”