The 3rd Cycle of the Betrayed Series Collection: Extremely Controversial Historical Thrillers (Betrayed Series Boxed set)

by Carolyn McCray

  “Haven’t heard of it,” Van replied.

  “Good,” Doyle responded. “Neali is my interpreter and holds two degrees in nuclear science and fissionable materials.”

  Beauty and brains, Van had to be impressed. Most women would have skimmed along on her looks alone.

  “How many can fit in the chopper?” Doyle asked then continued before waiting on an answer. “I need that many of your men. Plus, whoever shot that driver.”

  The helo at base camp wasn’t a transport chopper. It was used mainly for recon so the vehicle was small but fast. Beyond the inspector, they could fit two maybe three more.

  “Jester and BQ, you will be joining me and the inspector’s team.”

  Both of them nodded without question. “The rest of you will stand guard until another unit arrives to relieve.”

  Despite that meaning hours in the heat, the rest of her men nodded without question. She had formed a solid team.

  She nodded to Jorge, her comm officer. “Make the call.”

  * * *

  Gol'tresshal pushed his thick black glasses up his nose. Okay, fine, his real name was Bao-Zhi Ling, but he went by his Vulcan name. It was so much cooler.

  Sure, he was the epitome of an Asian stereotype. He was good with computers, no, make that wicked good with them, he loved sci fi and fantasy. Give him Magic the Gathering or a collection of George RR Martin any day. His nickname was Vulcan. He wore his hair with straight bangs and had on a pair of black-rimmed glasses that he really didn’t need to read. So sue him.

  “And?” Commander Qanti asked from behind Gol.

  “Van’s looking clean. Like Silver Medal of Honor clean,” Gol responded. Qanti had him checking into this newest asset that Doyle had picked up in Afghanistan. “She’s got five brothers also with exemplary military records.”

  Qanti snorted. “Six soldiers and I get the girl.”

  Qanti was more than a little misogynistic, but when you are the ultimate authority in nuclear weapons, even the UN kind of turned a blind eye. Besides, with Qanti’s history a little verbal female bashing was the least of his sins. It was rumored that the Somali commander used to be a pirate back in his home country. Not that Gol could find any evidence of that in Qanti’s file, but who was going to actually write that down?

  Yes, the man charged with keeping the world safe from a nuclear winter was a vicious ex-pirate. Right, that wasn’t going to be anywhere official.

  “And the other truck?” Qanti pressed.

  “Luckily we’ve got a party pack of satellites covering that area so we had eyes on the second truck the entire way from Kabul to the southwest region, but I’m telling you that the truck isn’t low enough. It couldn’t possibly be carrying a full-sized nuclear weapon.”

  “And your suggestion?” Qanti asked, his eyes narrowing, making him look very much like an ex-pirate with his ceremonial scar running across his cheeks. “Did our nuke just poof and vanish?”

  “I don’t have an alternate theory, at least not yet, but that other truck is as much a red herring as the last.”

  “Please do not take offense, but I cannot just take your feeling into consideration.”

  Gol sighed. That was the problem with being the Vulcan tech support. Everyone expected you to be all logical with tangible proof. No one trusted his gut. Now, if Doyle said he didn’t think the truck was carrying a nuke, that would be a completely different story.

  Yulov stepped forward. “I am also concerned with the chatter. The CIA and MI6, I believe, are mistranslating the current communications between the lead players.”

  Qanti turned on the tall Russian. “And your translation indicates?”

  Yulov shrugged. “Perhaps not mistranslation, but missing the point entirely, sir. I believe they are speaking in code.”

  “Which has been deciphered to say?”

  Yulov looked down. “I haven’t broken it yet.”

  Qanti took in a deep breath, expanding his chest, making him look like a gorilla about to get super pissed off. Gol kind of felt sorry for Yulov even though for the most part he was a jerk.

  “Are we some kind of empath unit now?” Qanti asked, glaring at each of them in turn. “Are we ‘feeling’ our way through tracking down a nuclear weapon?”

  No one would match his glare.

  “I do not want to hear another word until you are certain, is that clear?”

  A unanimous affirmative murmur filled the room.

  The commander turned on his heel to face their transport specialist, Revor. “Get them to that truck.”

  “Yes, sir,” Revor barked back.

  Qanti waved his hand toward the Belgium. “See? Revor knows how to behave.”

  Gol frowned.

  Revor wasn’t going to be wearing that Cheshire grin when Gol’s gut was confirmed, now was he?

  * * *

  Van held onto the helo’s railing as the pilot tipped them forward, really pushing the speed as they approached the truck. Van could see the dust trail now. They had caught up pretty quickly.

  The roads in this region were more like glorified goat trails. Very slow going.

  Doyle had a pair of binoculars which he snapped down. “We’ve got to catch them before they make that village.”

  “Village?” Van asked, frowning. This area was outside her range, but this far out, away from any major thoroughfare? This wasn’t any village. She took the binoculars and searched the surrounding hills. Everything seemed fine, but that’s what it was supposed to look from the air.

  “There,” Van said, pointing to the ridgeline. A metal fastener flashed in the afternoon light. “Those are poppy fields covered by camo,” she explained.

  “And that means?” Doyle asked.

  “They are leading us into an ambush,” Jester replied. “Those aren’t goat farmers down there but an army of paramilitary troops.”

  Doyle frowned. “Well, that’s what I have you for.”

  “I wouldn’t go up against an entrenched drug lord camp with my entire unit,” Van clarified. “They’ve got ground to air missiles and --”

  To prove her point the helo swerved and dipped as a missile came streaking toward them. It flew past, exploding behind them, rocking the entire helicopter.

  “Like I said,” Van said, righting herself.

  Doyle didn’t answer, he just held his finger to his ear. Neali did the same.

  “Gol’s picking up their radio transmission,” Doyle explained. “Neali what are they saying.”

  “It is a lot of chaos down there. They weren’t expecting the truck until tomorrow and they are angered that it has attracted an American helicopter to them.”

  These tribal lords liked to keep their poppy fields on the down low. They might have enough manpower to stop an all-out raid, however they knew that they couldn’t hold off a high altitude herbicide drop in a few days that would kill off their entire crop, losing hundreds of millions of American dollars in the process.

  “Can I speak with them?” Van asked

  Doyle’s lips turned down. “Why?”

  “Because I have experience with tribes like these. I might be able to solve two problems at once.”

  Doyle handed her the radio handset. “Do you need Neali to translate?”

  Van shook her head. “Tribes like this always have someone who speaks English.”

  She had to shout into the mic over the rotor wash.

  “Turn away the truck and there will be no retaliation against your crop.”

  Neali drew her eyebrows together, listening to her earpiece. “They do not believe you.”

  “The truck is high value, much higher value than your fields. Turn the truck away and we won’t come back.”

  Van waited as the helo held its position at the edge of the camp. Would another missile find its way to them?

  The truck rushed to the gates to find them closed.

  “Fire at them, forcing them back into the desert and we have a deal,” Van stated.

  She
was pleased when guards at the compound’s gates shot at the truck. The vehicle skid to a halt, then put the engine into reverse, streaking away from the compound.

  “Chase them about a click away, then we can land and search the truck,” Van said, handing the mic back to Doyle.

  “Nicely done,” the sub-commander said.

  Van only nodded politely, it was her job after all.

  They followed the truck for a few moments, then the pilot put the helo down. Van, Jester, and Lori jumped out first, approaching the truck cautiously. If they did have a nuke back there, who knew how the men inside would react.

  A shot went off. Van hit the dirt along with the rest of her team. She scanned Jester and BQ, neither seemed injured and the helo was intact. Was it just a warning shot? None other followed.

  Van scrambled back to her feet and approached the truck, her gun up. “Get out of the truck!” she yelled. Then Jester yelled it in Afghani. There was no response.

  Finally she made it to the driver’s side window. The driver had shot himself.

  What the hell was going on?

  “He’s dead,” she shouted back to the helo.

  “Dead?” Doyle questioned as he hopped out of the helicopter.

  “Killed himself,” Van confirmed, touching the still hot blood on the truck door.

  The sub-commander opened the flap to the back of the truck.

  “Sweet mother of God,” he said before dropping to his knees.

  CHAPTER 2

  Gol really, really, really wanted to say, “I told you so,” but with the look on Qanti’s face, he wasn’t willing to risk the pirate coming out of the Somali.

  “Review all of the footage,” the commander ordered. “Where the hell is that spear?”

  Gol gulped. Since being scolded earlier he had formed a theory, although it would not be a very popular one.

  Ever since the unanimous call had come into the UN hotline suggesting that they perform an unscheduled inspection at the Trombay Nuclear Energy Plant in India, his team had been on a Code Red. Sure enough, the inspectors had found a missile missing. A huge, two ton missile just gone.

  His team had back-tracked a large unscheduled truck leaving the facility the night before. They had traced that truck’s path north through China then west threading the eye of the needle between Pakistan and Tajikistan into Afghanistan to Kabul. From there they monitored large enough vehicles to carry a covered nuke and found these two trucks. The first, the one that crashed into the Army camp, had been the heaviest, so that was why Doyle had chased that one down.

  “Well?” Qanti asked, towering over Gol. He hadn’t realized the commander had snuck up on him. “I can see those wheels turning, Bao, spit it out.”

  “What if that original truck wasn’t carrying a nuke?”

  “Then how did the missile get out of the Trombay facility?” They had done a head count just the day before and had it countersigned by three employees.

  Yes, it was because of that tight timeline they had concentrated on that unscheduled truck.

  “What if they snuck it out on a scheduled truck? One left the afternoon before carrying trash out, but look at how low that garbage truck is sitting,” Gol stated, pulling up the footage. “And they had to call for another garbage pick-up two days later because they filled up. Why would they be so heavy if they hadn’t picked up all the garbage?”

  “I don’t know, but I am sure you are going to tell me in great and excruciating detail.”

  Gol gulped. An unhappy Qanti was an unhappy team. He could feel his teammates’ glares and their unspoken warning, “Don’t piss him off.”

  “That garbage truck did not take its normal route to New Delhi. It went south and actually boarded a boat headed to Sri Lanka.”

  That got Qanti’s attention. A communiqué had been flagged by France’s CIA equivalent, the DGSE, that a summit of sorts was being held by Southeast Asian terrorist groups such as the Jemaah Anshorut Tauhid and even the Jemaah Islamiya. Some major heavy hitters in that part of the world. This “summit” was being held in Sri Lanka.

  They had been so focused on the fact that a Middle East organization such as the Taliban or Al Qaeda had ordered the nuke stolen that they hadn’t considered the possibility it had been their south Asian cousins.

  “Get me an exact location of that truck,” Qanti demanded. “Do we have anything in the area?”

  Gol flipped through a few screens. “No, but the American’s have a black ops rapid response team in the Maldives.”

  Qanti didn’t even bother to ask how Gol knew this information. The NMRT had the full UNs backing. Gol could hack whomever he wished with no repercussions.

  “Get them to Jaffna, now,” Qanti stated. “Have them rendezvous with Doyle’s team then, united, head after the truck.”

  Gol shook his head. “To get Doyle and the rest back to Kabul is going to take hours, even by helicopter.”

  “Then send them through Quetta.”

  “Pakistan?” Gol said with a gulp. Even the NMRT tried to avoid that hotbed.

  “Have Doyle use his Scottish journalist cover,” Qanti stated.

  “And the Americans?” Gol asked.

  “Jesus, who is my savior, get them some civilian clothes and get on with it,” Qanti barked

  Sure, Gol thought. Just try to get an international team of military members through Pakistani customs who were on high alert due to multiple car bombs in Islamabad. No problem, sir.

  * * *

  Van tried to act casual as the Pakistani agent surveyed her. She tried to be as “journalisty” as possible. How did journalists act? Van forced her shoulders down and relaxed her “at attention” posture. Which was hard as her silk blouse itched the heck out of her arms. She was used to her Army cotton.

  Glancing over, Neali looked the picture of serene, heck there wasn’t even a spot of sweat on her blouse. The agent waved the translator through without question, however, he glared at Van, Jester, and Lori a little longer. He then let Lori though. She did look completely harmless, which of course was an illusion.

  “Is there a problem?” Doyle asked in that thick brogue of his.

  “Not many stamps for a journalist crew,” the agent mumbled in broken English. They hadn’t had time for a lengthy legend. For each stamp they added, the more chance it could be spotted as a forgery.

  “They just joined,” Doyle rumbled. “We’ve got a plane to catch to Jaffna.”

  “Sri Lanka?” The agent asked. “What are you covering there?”

  “There is supposed to be a meeting of the minds of the Southeast Asian Jihadists,” Doyle stated, using the truth to cover their ruse.

  The agent grunted, then stamped her and Jester’s visas, waving them through.

  That had been close. Doyle urged them forward, then stumbled.

  “You okay?” Van asked, helping to support the man.

  “Yah,” Doyle stated, pushing off of her. “Must have eaten something for breakfast that didn’t agree with me is all.”

  From his breath it appeared to be malt whiskey.

  Van didn’t say anything though. That was Doyle’s problem and his mind seemed sharp as he hurried them all through the small airport to the furthest gate. A freight airplane sat on the tarmac. So much for luxury.

  Doyle pushed open the door, allowing the desert air to blast them all in the face. The heat baked off the black asphalt, threatening to melt her rubber treads. They all rushed to the back of the plane that was open.

  The cargo hold was bursting full with crates of linens. Van had been around enough to know this was more than likely a CIA or MI6 front. More than likely there were guns or ammunition in those crates.

  But where to sit? There weren’t any seats, not even jump seats.

  “Best we could do on such short notice,” Doyle commented. “Just hang on,”

  Van wedged herself between two crates and wrapped her arm around the rope straps.

  This was going to be an interesting flight.
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  * * *

  Gol watched the two planes on the screen. Even though Doyle’s team was nearly five hundred miles further away, they were going to make Sri Lanka before the American strike team leaving from the Maldives. There just weren’t a whole heck of a lot of planes leaving the small island country.

  They had lucked out that there was a WHO plane there, helping provide relief medicine to the Maldives after an especially harsh monsoon last week.

  Gol had co-opted the plane, promising the WHO a hundred grand for the inconvenience. The UN general fund would cover it, because what was more important than stopping a nuclear weapon from falling into the hands of a terrorist organization? The NMRT had no budget limit.

  Still, it had taken a few hours to negotiate the plane, so the American team was landing a few minutes after Doyle. Gol had arranged a four-wheel drive SUV convoy to carry them deep into the Sri Lanka jungle where the truck currently resided.

  He didn’t like this many moving pieces on the chessboard. Each one carried a variable with it, that when multiplied together spelled disaster. How in the hell had India lost a nuke? India?

  Morons. Everyone was so all about high tech security, but with the right hacker, that security was about as good as an open vault. Didn’t anyone hear the wench that the terrorist must have used to lift the nuke? Didn’t anyone think it was odd that garbage men were inside the restricted area?

  Let’s just say India was about to get the largest bill ever from the UN. This mission was already costing in the tens of millions. Gol wouldn’t be surprised if they topped out in the hundreds of millions. All because some security guard couldn’t bother to watch his monitors.

  “I think I was right,” Yulov stated from behind Gol. Jeez, how did people keep sneaking up on him?

  “You decoded it?”

  Yulov nodded. Gol would have asked why the Russian was coming to him instead of Qanti, except he knew the reason. Before risking the Somali’s ire, Yulov wanted to pass it by Gol first. Gol probably should have been proud that Yulov chose him, but after the guy’s “chinks, slant-eyed” jokes, not so much.