Of Patriots and Tyrants

by Alex Ander

  Smiling, he poured a second drink, sat in his chair, “I couldn’t agree more, ma’am,” and downed half the liquor, neat as well. Setting the glass on the desk, he wiped his mouth. “Now what can you tell me about why you’re here?”

  After savoring a second taste, “First of all, please call me Dahlia,” she placed her beverage next to his, leaned back and crossed her legs. “And second, thank you for letting me board your vessel.”

  “It was an order.”

  “I understand that, sir, but still,” she paused, “I appreciate it.”

  Dahlia informed Captain Ellerby of the relevant details of her mission, including why she would be accompanying the Navy Seals.

  “I see.” Ellerby rocked back in the chair, fingers interlaced over his midsection. He pursed his lips and stared at a far corner for a few seconds before making a phone call. A few minutes later, a knock came at the door. “Come in.”

  A heavily muscled twenty-something blonde-haired Navy man entered and shut the door. “You wanted to see me, sir.”

  Pivoting in the chair, Dahlia glimpsed swollen biceps before her eyebrows went up, while she lingered at the man’s pectoral muscles. They’re bigger than mine. She took in a chiseled jaw and bright blue eyes. I think I’m in love.

  “Warner,” Ellerby motioned, “this is Special Agent Dahlia St. James of the FBI.”

  Standing at attention, Warner nodded at the woman. “Ma’am.”

  “You can dispense with the formalities. She’s okay with first names. Dahlia, this is Chief Petty Officer Warner. He’ll be leading the mission.” To the Seal: “Orders from on high have come down. She’ll be part of your team for this operation.”

  Dahlia stood and shook hands with the soldier. Strong grip too. “It’s nice to meet you, Chief Petty Officer Warner.”

  “The pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”

  “Warner, get our guest suited up and ready to go.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The captain got up and came around the desk, staring at his watch. “We’re still on pace to make it to the launching point by eighteen hundred hours.” He offered Dahlia a hand and, “It was nice sharing a drink with you,” tipped his head toward the Seal. “Warner will see to it you’re ready by the time the op is a go.”

  Dahlia shook Ellerby’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I enjoyed the drink as well.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 18: Island

  5:28 p.m.

  Washington, D.C.

  Pacing in front of her desk, arms folded over her chest, Charity stared at the floor. After making the hundredth pass by the desk, she stretched out on the sofa, and continued the staring, at the ceiling. Something’s just not adding up. She slipped two fingers under her eyeglasses and rubbed her eyes. These days last forever.

  Charity scolded herself. Whatever she felt paled in comparison to what her teammates were going through. Hardy and Cruz were alone, trapped on an island with no way of communicating. Add the possibility that Cruz’s alias had been compromised and Charity’s fatigue was a cakewalk.

  Island. Charity stopped the massage and gazed at the white tiles overhead, her fingers frozen in place and holding up the spectacles. Her eyes flicked left and right and back again, her brain working overtime. Island.

  She scrambled to her feet and darted to the laptop on the desk. Leaning forward, she pecked keys, clicked a wireless mouse and spread her thumb and forefinger outward over the touchpad’s surface. She squinted and got closer to the screen.

  Sitting, Charity brought up another window and typed as fast as a Fortune 500 executive secretary. She added new windows and worked the ‘Alt’ and ‘Tab’ keys, comparing the information on the screens. Minutes later, she grabbed the laptop, ripped out the power cord, jumped up and ran out of the office.

  … … … … …

  Seated behind his desk, down the hall from Charity’s office, Jameson made a face while reviewing what she had discovered. “Are you sure about this, Cherry?” He looked up at her. “We have an operation in play.”

  Pacing in front of her boss’s desk, Charity slid fingers into the back pockets of her jeans. “I understand that, sir, but,” she retracted a hand and pointed, “if that’s correct…”

  “Then,” Jameson went back to the laptop, “we have to scrub the mission.”

  Charity nodded. “How long will it take to plan another one?”

  Jameson picked up the desk phone. “That’s up to the sub commander.” He rocked backward in the chair and put a hand to his forehead before massaging temples. “This whole thing is going sideways and—” He closed his eyes. A second later, he opened them and barked into the receiver. “Get me the Minnesota.”

  … … … … …

  6:03 p.m.

  North Atlantic Ocean

  Standing in the dry deck shelter on the back of the USS Minnesota, wearing combat boots and dressed in camouflage—her face painted to match—Dahlia secured the boonie hat under her chin before making ready the suppressed HK MP5N rifle slung around her neck. Several Navy Seals prepared to launch two F470 Combat Rubber Raiding Crafts from the vessel. Chief Petty Officer Warner and his second in command stood on either side of her.

  “Ma’am,” said Warner, motioning, “this is Petty Officer First Class Thomason.”

  Thomason nodded. “Ma’am.”

  “For the duration of this mission,” continued Warner, “you’ll be physically operating between us.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” said Dahlia, “but—”

  “Do not,” the Seal steamrolled over her objection, “at any point, get outside of our perimeter. Do I make myself clear?”

  Dahlia studied the man’s face. The rugged good looks were still there; however, a steely deadpan glare overshadowed the handsomeness. “I can handle myself, thank you. I’ve been in many dangerous situations,” she glanced down, “and I’m still here.”

  Warner turned away for a moment before squaring his shoulders with her. “With all due respect, ma’am, this has nothing to do with you.”

  Dahlia glimpsed him. The streaks of green and black on his cheeks could not hide the growing redness underneath.

  The Seal jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is about them.” His voice went deeper and louder. “This is about making sure everyone gets back,” he pointed to the floor, “to this vessel…alive. We know what we’re doing. We anticipate each other’s moves.” He turned the finger on Dahlia. “Your presence on this op is an unknown. We don’t have the time, or the luxury, to conduct a second search-and-rescue if you get separated from us.”

  Dahlia eyed the men prepping the F470 Zodiacs. Having operated on her own for many years, she relied on herself for everything. She never had to care for another’s safety. Hardy, Cruz and Charity flashed across her mind. If anyone put them in harm’s way, I’d kill him myself.

  “Ma’am, I’m going to tell you one more time…”

  Dahlia held up a hand. “I get it, Warner. I get it. I’ll stay between the two of you and follow your orders. The last thing I want is to get one of your men—or my people—killed.”

  Warner nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.” He waited a beat. “Don’t worry. If your people are alive, they’ll make it back to this sub alive. You have my—” Warner’s hand shot to his ear. “Say again.” He got the attention of the men near the Zodiacs and sliced fingers across his neck.

  Seeing the Seals abandon their duties, Dahlia stood straight. “What is it? What’s going on?”

  “Copy that, sir…Warner, over and out.” He glanced at his team. “The mission’s been scrubbed.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 19: Corcoran & Tibbs

  6:13 p.m.

  Pence gave the basement area a long last look before shutting the stone door. “I don’t think I was followed, but we shouldn’t hang around too long.” Unzipping a small duffel bag, he handed Cruz a ball of clothing. “I found you some pan
ts and,” he dug out a pair of dirty, beat up high tops, “tennis shoes that should fit you.” He threw a black pair of pants at Hardy. “Get out of those white things, Corcoran.”

  Glimpsing Cruz, Hardy dropped his pants, “See, he gets it,” and stepped out of them, “the John Corcoran look.”

  Bent over, struggling to get the zipper all the way down the boot’s shaft, she looked at Pence. “Please don’t encourage him.”

  Focused on collecting supplies and filling the now empty duffel, Pence was oblivious to the banter. “The situation is tense on the surface. Isaac wants blood…your blood.” The former Ranger selected two Bushmaster XM15 MOE rifles with sixteen-inch barrels and laid them at Hardy’s feet. “And if he can’t get it from you, then he’s promised to take it from his men.”

  Hardy secured his new pants, took a knee and helped Cruz remove her boots before joining Pence at the makeshift armory. After shoving extra PMAG thirty-round magazines into his pockets, he reached for a Bushmaster ACR with a ten-inch barrel and red dot scope.

  Pence’s hand struck like a snake, grabbing the rifle. “Sorry…that’s for me.” He slung the weapon around his neck. “It took great pains to get this one.” He motioned toward the XM15’s. “Those are yours.” He verified the ACR’s scope was operational and shut it off. “They only have iron sights, but they’re good guns, ready to shoot.”

  Cruz tied the second tennis shoe, grabbed her rifle and stood, the black mini dress pulled over her pants like a long shirt. She lifted the hem and jammed a couple PMAG’s into her back pockets.

  Pence threw a duffel bag over a shoulder. “Okay, each of you grab a go bag and let’s move out.” He picked up the lantern. “There should have been a flashlight in them. Did you—” a beam of light lit up the area for an instant when Hardy tapped his light. “Good, you found them.”

  Pence took a step, stopped and turned around. “It goes without saying that we can’t get into a firefight. We’re outnumbered seven or eight to one, and our best chance to get off this island will require stealth if we are to steal that boat.” He showed them a pair of night vision goggles. “I’ll be able to see our enemies before you will, so stay behind me and stay silent when we get topside.”

  “About that…” Hardy settled a go bag over Cruz’s shoulders, “do you think you know the way out of here?” before shrugging into his own.

  “As I said,” Pence started down the main passageway, “I’ve explored half and made calculated guesses on most of the rest. There’s a path that I’ve been wanting to take, but haven’t had the time. We’re starting with that one.” He waited a beat. “Besides, we have no choice.” He pointed. “There are too many eyes up there.”

  … … … … …

  Fifteen minutes later, they came to a dead end, backtracked for ten minutes and took an offshoot. For another ten minutes, they walked a path that smelled of mold and seawater, Pence leading, Hardy the rearguard. Drops pelted their heads and crossed the beams of their flashlights. Their footwear slapped shallow puddles.

  “Thomas Pence,” said Hardy.

  “Yeah,” the other man responded.

  “Do you go by your full name or just Tom?”

  His back to the younger man, Pence flashed a smile, knowing the direction this was headed. “Okay, get it out. I usually give people one dispensation,” he cocked his head to see around a bend, “before I start throwing punches. So let’s have it.”

  Realizing where Hardy’s line of questioning was going, Cruz stretched out an arm and swatted whatever part of her man she could reach. “Knock it off.”

  “No, no, I’ve been fielding Tom Pence jokes my whole life.” Pence had the same name as a rock and roll legend from thirty-five years ago. “I insist. Please go ahead, Mr. Hardy. Just remember though…you only get one.”

  Hardy chuckled. “In that case, I’m going to wait and save mine for later.”

  Cruz swung another arm his way. “Stop it.”

  He saw the strike coming and ducked out of the way. “That’ll give me more time to come up with a good one.”

  Pence laughed. “Don’t wait too long. The OpFor,” — Opposing Force — “has a seven-to-one advantage when we reach the surface.”

  “With your sense of direction,” Hardy shot back, “you’re probably leading us right into the ocean anyway…so those odds mean nothing.”

  The leader laughed again, louder. “Dang…I miss this, the back and forth. I’ve been here too long with a bunch of guys with sticks up their butts; absolutely no sense of humor.” The trio trudged a few more steps. “Maybe when you’re safely off the island, I’ll…” Pence rounded a sharp curve and halted. “Bingo.” He regarded his male companion. “Sense of direction my hairy—” his eyes dropped to Cruz before coming back to Hardy. “There’s nothing wrong with my internal compass.”

  Hardy squeezed past Cruz and approached a wooden door, rotted and split from years of exposure to constant moisture. He shined his light around the edges before studying the hinges. “Do we try to open it?” He pushed on the wood. “Or just…” his fingers sunk into the soft wood, “go through it.”

  Pence pulled on a metal ring, the only visible way to open the door. A second later, he held up his hand, and the ring. “Does that answer your question?”

  Hardy put an ear to the wood.

  Thirty seconds went by before Pence dropped the ring. “Well?”

  Hardy pulled back. “I don’t hear anything on the other side.”

  Pence fished around inside Cruz’s go bag and came up with a collapsible shovel. “Then step aside.” He took the shovel to the door, gouging out chunks of wood and making a hole the size of a softball. Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he backed away.

  Having attached a red filter to his flashlight, Hardy shined the beam around the area on the other side of the door. “I can’t see much, but what I can is clear.” He lifted a canvas shoe.

  Pence raised a hand before pointing at Hardy’s foot. “Tell me, Corcoran. Do you really think that’s a good idea with those?”

  Regretting his choice of attire for the first time, Hardy put two feet on the ground and swung an open hand toward the door. “Be my guest,” he waited a beat, “Tibbs.” Tibbs was Corcoran’s levelheaded partner on the television crime drama.

  “That’s right.” Pence slammed a boot into the door. “Because everyone knows who did the real work,” he kicked again and a bigger hole opened, “on that show, and who skated by on his looks.”

  Snickering, Hardy lowered and shook his head. He thought of Dahlia. If she were here, she’d be joining in…two against one. He chuckled again. And I’d be the one.

  Cruz rolled her eyes, while her former drill sergeant destroyed the barrier. Men. Can’t live with them. Can’t—

  Pence’s combat boot connected and the right half of the door disappeared. Ripping the other half from the hinges and tossing the wood, the man passed through the opening.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 20: First Try

  Stepping inside a small chamber, Hardy lit up the area with a red beam; nothing but jagged rock walls on four sides. “I don’t get it. There’s nothing here. Why make an escape route that leads to a dead end?”

  Cruz joined the men. “To throw off your pursuers?”

  Pence found his light. “I thought for sure this would get us up top.”

  “Listen.” Hardy cocked his head and looked up before focusing the beam upward. “Do you hear that?”

  Cruz moved to a corner. “It sounds like water...it’s raining.”

  “No…it’s waves.” He put his back against the far corner. “I think I see,” he pointed, “a ledge up there.”

  She squatted and dug around in the dirt, “That would explain this,” before standing and holding up the remains of a ladder. She tugged on a section of the twine; it split in two. “Not much good anymore.”

  Drawing alongside Cruz, Hardy tipped his head back. “How far would you say that is?�
� He tried to get handholds on the sharp rocks protruding from the wall. “Think we can climb up there?”

  On one knee, Pence opened his duffel bag and, “Only one way to find out,” produced a rope. He stood, extended the foldable claws on the grappling hook and undid a generous portion of the heavy line. “Stand aside and learn.”

  Hardy led Cruz to the opposite corner and shielded her from an errant toss.

  “Give me a bulls-eye, Hardy.” Pence swung his arm a few times before heaving the shiny metal toward the red circle above. Hearing a clang, he tugged on the rope. A scraping sound preceded the appearance of the hook falling to the floor, missing the man’s head by a foot.

  “I believe this is where the director yells ‘cut’ and a,” Hardy took a step, “real professional does the hard work.”

  Pence readied for another throw. “It’s my rope. I’m doing this.” He took practice swings.

  “If this was third grade, and you wanted to take your ball and go home, I’d be okay with that, but…”

  “Shine your light up there,” Pence growled.

  Hardy did as instructed. “…we’re talking about four steel spikes coming back at us if you—”

  Pence hurled the hook. The same thing happened, a clang and scraping. He yanked, but the claws held. “Ha! Got it on the first try.”

  While Pence slipped the duffel bag around his neck, Hardy found a foothold and tested the climbing device’s integrity.

  “Get away from that.” The older man pushed the younger one aside. “My rope—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

  After a last check, Pence dug a toe into the rock face and hoisted his body. Three-quarters of the way up, he crashed into the wall when a boot slipped. Sharp granite points dug into his side. He screwed up his face and grunted.

  Hardy lunged forward, arms outstretched. Not sure what good I’ll do if he falls. “You okay?”

  Pence rolled right, swung a foot and caught a narrow outcropping. “I’m good.” After struggling to find a spot for his second foot, he scaled the remaining distance and flopped over the ledge. Lying on his back, he sucked wind. “Piece of,” more breaths, “cake.”