by Unknown
"What kind?" Jones asked.
"International, domestic, political. We've got the potential for a world-class shitstorm, and right now we're missing our weatherman."
Payne deciphered the statement. "Does this weatherman have a name?"
"One you're familiar with: Captain Trevor Schmidt. I believe you trained him with the MANIACs."
Payne and Jones both nodded. They had run the unit for several years, and Schmidt was one of their favorites. A black-haired kid from Columbus, Ohio, who had a passion for war and a taste for revenge. Then again, that could have described anyone in the MANIACs. They were a special group with a unique assignment: Do anything necessary, but don't get caught.
"When was Schmidt last seen?" Jones asked.
"We aren't really sure."
"How about where?"
"We don't know that, either."
"Okay, Colonel, let's approach this from a different angle. What do you know?"
Harrington shrugged. "We know that he's missing. Him and his entire squad. Gone, like fucking ghosts."
Payne grimaced. "I don't believe in ghosts."
"Neither did I. At least not until recently. Now I'm not so sure."
Somehow the Department of Defense had managed to lose an entire squad, which was pretty tough to do with modern Combat Survivor/Evader Locator (CSEL) radios, technology that provided precise geoposition and navigation data to rescue parties. That meant Schmidt was running a classified black op, a covert operation that the Pentagon didn't want anyone-—not even Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR)—to know about.
"Tell me, how black was the mission?"
"Black as you can get," Harrington answered. "And it's my job to keep it that way."
"If that's the case, why bring us into it? Why go out of house?"
"Is it because I'm black?" Jones asked.
Harrington ignored him. "The reality is you trained Schmidt so you might be able to give us some insight into the way he thinks—where he'll go, what he'll do, who he'll rely on. The truth is you MANIACs are an interesting breed, one with a unique sense of warfare that no one fully understands but yourselves. Furthermore, two generals and an admiral assured me I'd be a fool if I didn't use you as a resource."
"Just a resource? Nothing more than that?"
"Actually, I'd welcome you aboard in any capacity. Whether that's here or in the field."
Payne glanced at Jones, who was nodding eagerly. That wasn't a surprise because Jones was always up for another mission. Upon his retirement from the military, he became a private detective, setting up shop in Payne's office building, a way for the best friends to grab lunch whenever possible. Unfortunately, the life of a Pittsburgh PI was not nearly as glamorous as Jones had imagined, especially compared to the missions he ran for the MANIACs. How could taking pictures of cheating spouses ever compare with killing terrorists or blowing up bridges?
Payne, on the other hand, was more reluctant. He wasn't fully comfortable in the corporate world, opting to donate most of his time to local charities instead of living at the office the way his grandfather had. But that didn't mean Payne was willing to risk it all. If he was killed without an heir, he knew Payne Industries would be dismantled, piece by piece, and sold to the highest bidder. And that was something he couldn't let happen. He loved his grandfather way too much to dishonor his life's work by doing something reckless.
Still, Payne felt a similar obligation to his military career, an unwavering devotion to his country and the men he trained. If one of them was in trouble, he knew it was his duty to help—whether that was as a behind-the-scenes resource or as an expert in the field. Hell, he couldn't live with himself if he opted to sit on the sidelines while one of his men needed him. In his mind, that would be far more irresponsible than risking his own life to help.
"Okay, Colonel. We're willing to lend you a hand. What do you need us to do?"
"I need you to come with me. We'll have plenty of time to talk en route."
"En route?" Jones asked. "To where?"
Harrington stood from his chair. "Korea."
Payne winced. He wasn't expecting such a long trip. "North or South?"
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters. I need to know how much ammo to pack."
Harrington smiled an all-knowing smile. "Don't worry, Payne. Packing won't be an issue. I already sent some men to your homes. Your clothes are waiting at the airport."
* * *
3
The plane departed from a cargo hangar at Pittsburgh International Airport, far away from the main terminal. It was a nonstop flight to Los Angeles followed by trips to Hawaii, the Marshall Islands, and Japan. Harrington would accompany them to California, briefing them on the way. After that, Payne and Jones would travel overseas on their own, which was the Pentagon's way of ensuring deniability.
Payne got comfortable for the long trip, changing into a gray Naval Academy sweatsuit that accommodated his 6-4, 240-pound frame. He had played two sports (football and basketball) at Annapolis, yet made his name in a different arena: kicking ass. It didn't matter if he was facing ninjas or Nazis, Payne had the innate ability to isolate his opponent's weakness and exploit it, using a combination of strength, quickness, and leverage. He had refined his skills over the years, training at Fort Bragg, Naval Base Coronado, and several dojos around the world. Yet none of them could take full credit for turning Payne into a warrior. That particular gift was a blessing from God. A part of his DNA, just like his brown hair or hazel eyes.
He made his way to the back of the plane, where a conference area had been assembled. Four first-class chairs surrounded a wooden table, cluttered with three laptop computers, several manila folders, and a thermos full of coffee. Harrington sat on the left, growling into his cell phone, telling someone to do something ASAP or he was going to kill the guy's mother. Meanwhile, Jones sat on the right, staring at his computer screen.
"Anything interesting?" Payne asked as he buckled himself into his seat.
"Not really. The colonel blocked every porn site on the Internet."
Harrington hung up at the mention of his name. "What was that, Jones?"
"I told Jon that you've been keeping important details to yourself."
He knew Jones was lying but wasn't going to press it. "So, Payne, now that you're in your jammies, are you ready to begin?"
Payne gave him a mock salute. "I'm comfy and accounted for."
"Oh, goody." Harrington opened the top folder and removed a single photograph. "Captain Trevor Schmidt, thirty-five, served as a MANIAC until three years ago. Based on your recommendation, he was selected to lead his own crew, one that did special projects in the Persian Gulf."
"Meaning what?" Jones asked.
"Meaning they're none of your goddamned business."
"Great! Thanks for clearing that up."
Harrington stared at him, unaccustomed to backtalk. "As I was saying, Schmidt kicked a lot of ass during his first year. No matter what we asked—and we asked a lot— he got it done. We were thrilled with his results and quickly increased his workload. That is, until the incident."
Payne arched an eyebrow. "The incident?"
"You know how it goes. We got some piss-poor intel and dropped his crew into a zone that was much hotter than we expected. Of course, he kept his composure and handled himself brilliantly. I don't know how he did it, but the bastard managed to fight his way out. Several injuries to his crew but no deaths."
Jones beamed. "That doesn't sound like an incident. That sounds like a MANIAC."
"Actually, that wasn't the incident. The incident came later." Harrington opened one of his folders and slid it across the table. Neither Payne nor Jones looked at it. They knew that what Harrington was about to say was far more important than what was written in the report.
Reports were written in black and white. They were more interested in color.
"As you know, our military has a strong presence in the Persian Gulf. Iraq, Iran
, Kuwait. Every Arab nation in that godforsaken desert. We've been there for years and we'll be there for years—even places the president doesn't know about. Unfortunately, when you're talking about thousands of soldiers, you can't keep everything a secret. Bases are sitting targets. Troop movements are constantly monitored. So are our warships in the gulf and the Red Sea. We do our best to protect our men, but let's face it: war is war. There are going to be casualties."
Harrington tapped his folder for emphasis. "Your boy Schmidt did everything right. He protected his wounded, secured transportation, and got the hell out without announcing his position. He avoided the hostiles for several hours, waiting until he was far from the hot zone before calling in air support. Eventually, his crew was picked up, patched up, and taken to Taif."
Taif Air Base is in the foothills of Saudi Arabia, approximately an hour's drive to Mecca and a two-hour drive to Jeddah, a historic Muslim city near the Red Sea. Taif is home to the U.S. Military Training Mission (USMTM), a joint training program between the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and U.S. Central Command from MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida. The goal is to provide military advisers to the Royal Saudi Air and Land Forces while providing protection to U.S. Department of Defense personnel stationed in Taif. More than three hundred Westerners, working for companies such as McDonnell Douglas and Pratt & Whitney, live in the Al-Gaim Compound, a modern community with an American feel. Al-Hada Hospital, a Saudi facility staffed mostly by Westerners, provides basic medical and dental care. But in emergencies, USAF flight surgeon support was available from Prince Sultan Hospital and other neighboring bases.
"Obviously, we didn't admit our fuckup. We rarely do. But we knew we couldn't send Schmidt's crew right back into action. Half his men were hospitalized; the other half were pissed. So we decided to give them some extended downtime in the plush confines of Al-Gaim."
Jones smirked. "Not exactly a trip to the Ritz. Yet better than Baghdad."
Payne ignored his partner, focusing on the missing details of Harrington's explanation. "Unless I'm mistaken, you still haven't mentioned the incident."
Harrington nodded. "Schmidt and his men were valuable assets, and we tried to smooth things over by flying in the families of the wounded. Some of them were in intensive care, so we figured it was the least we could for morale purposes. Turns out it made things worse."
"How so?"
"Just look at the report. Everything's in there."
Payne shook his head. "I'd rather hear it from you."
Harrington stared at Payne, still trying to figure him out. Payne's credentials were impeccable, yet he still didn't have a feel for the man. Who was he? The decorated soldier who captained one of the finest fighting units in modern warfare, or a burned-out officer who retired from the military in his midthirties for a cushy desk job in a penthouse office? Until he figured that out, Harrington was going to analyze Payne's every move and second-guess his every action.
But for the time being, he decided to play along and answer his questions.
"As I mentioned, we brought in their families. I'm talking parents, wives, kids, girlfriends. We even flew in a dog. We had extra housing at Al-Gaim, so we figured what the fuck." Harrington paused, garnering his thoughts. "The third morning we bused them over to the hospital for visiting hours, just like we'd done the previous two days. Schmidt actually drove them himself, making sure his wounded men and their families were as comfortable as possible before he left for a briefing back at Taif Air Base."
Jones smiled. "That sounds like Trevor. He was a top-notch soldier but a better person."
"Maybe back then. But after the incident, the Schmidt you knew ceased to exist."
* * *
Middle East
* * *
4
Friday, December 29
Taif, Saudi Arabia
(Forty-one miles southeast of Mecca)
A cloud of sand followed the car as it turned off the main highway and bounced across the rough road that led to the compound. Fred Nasir was a tanned middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses, and casual clothes. He grinned as he parked his Toyota Camry, the most popular car in Saudi Arabia, near the front gate. Thrilled to finally be there.
A team of American soldiers, wearing desert camouflage and carrying assault rifles, swarmed the car before Nasir had a chance to open his door. Some looked under his vehicle with mirrors attached to long poles, while others probed his trunk for explosives. The men moved in unison, like a NASCAR pit crew, doing their designated task without getting in each other's way. Finally, after thirty seconds, an all clear was given.
But instead of returning to their posts, the soldiers took five steps back and aimed their weapons at the car. Suddenly Nasir was in their crosshairs, a split second away from death. Certainly not the greeting he was expecting.
His heart leaped into his throat.
The lead guard moved forward, raised his handgun, and aimed it at Nasir's face. He held it there. Silent. Poised and ready to shoot. He did not smile. He did not blink. He simply waited for Nasir to do something stupid. A flinch. A twitch. Even a sneeze would have resulted in a nasty scene. But Nasir remained frozen. Calm. At least on the outside. Internally, he was having a far different reaction. His heart was racing, his stomach was churning, adrenaline was surging like a tsunami. Yet what could he do? At this moment he had to play by their rules.
Seconds ticked like minutes while the tension continued to mount. Finally the guard tilted the angle of his gun upward and used its muzzle to tap on the glass. The click, click, click was a welcome sound to the driver, who took a deep breath and slowly lowered his window. A rush of hot desert air surged into the car, returning the color to Nasir's cheeks.
"Papers?" the guard asked. It was more of an order than a question.
Nasir obliged, careful not to move too quickly. Still conscious of the crosshairs.
"Nationality?"
"I'm an American."
"Really? You look foreign to me."
"Yet I'm an American. Look at my passport."
The guard sneered and leaned closer. "Are you telling me what to do?"
"No! Of course not. I would never do that. I'm just—"
"You're just what?"
Nasir took a deep breath. He couldn't believe he had been talked into this. It was going all wrong. "I'm just an American. That's all I'm saying."
The guard stared at Nasir's face, then glanced at his passport. It looked valid. So did his travel visa and the rest of his paperwork. He lowered his weapon and signaled the on-duty officer in the security booth. "State your business."
"I'm here to meet a friend in the main dining hall."
He glanced at a list of visitors and noticed Nasir's name. His visit had been preapproved. "Good choice. The delivery truck just rolled in from our commissary over in Riyadh. Those guys hook us up whenever they can. Rumor has it they brought in a case of Oreos today."
Another security guard, who heard the tail end of the conversation, approached with Nasir's parking pass. "Double Stuf Oreos. That means twice the cream."
Nasir tried to look enthused but had more important things to worry about than cookies.
"Put this on your dash and park your car in the guest lot." The guard pointed to a row of cars just inside the compound walls. Flashing his gun, he added, "And don't worry about it being stolen. It's the safest parking lot in the world."
If not for the snipers and the barbed-wire fence, Al-Gaim would have felt like Main Street, U.S.A. Nasir was surrounded by dozens of American-style homes of all shapes and sizes, each of them furnished with televisions, dishwashers, microwaves, washers, and dryers. An Olympic-size swimming pool graced the community, as did racquetball, tennis, and basketball courts. Farther down, there was a movie theater and a four-lane bowling alley.
All in all, it wasn't a bad place to live—as long as the first axiom of real estate was ignored. The one that stressed the importance of location, location, location. Desp
ite having all the charms of suburbia, Al-Gaim was nestled in the volatile foothills of Saudi Arabia, deep in the heart of Islam. Where the average daytime temperature was pretty close to hell's.
Thankfully, Nasir's walk to the rendezvous point was a short one. He strolled quickly, trying to ignore all the snipers who were watching him. His only concern was getting to the dining hall, where he had to follow the strict orders he'd been given over the phone.
Take a seat. Pour a glass of water. Try to remain calm.
But the truth was, Nasir was petrified. If he were caught, he would be killed. It was as simple as that. There wouldn't be a trial. There wouldn't be a jury. There would simply be an execution, one where his body wouldn't be found and his family wouldn't be notified. He would simply disappear into the desert, a mystery that would never be solved.
Today's number one goal was to prevent that from happening.
His contact walked across the dining hall like he had worked there for years. He certainly looked the part, wearing the same greasy white apron as the kitchen staff while doing all the things that a good worker should. He pushed in chairs. He rearranged condiments. He stacked dirty dishes in a plastic bin. All of this seemed ordinary—even to Nasir, who was looking for him. Yet none of his actions seemed out of place. Even his approach to his table was normal.
He pointed to the glass of water. "You done with that, or will you be eating something?"
It took a moment for the question to register. When it did, Nasir's heart skipped a beat. It was the code they had agreed upon. This was his contact, for a moment, he forgot how he was supposed to respond. Then it came to him. "I don't know. Is it safe eating here?"
"I eat here every clay and I'm still breathing." A huge smile filled his face. "Our food ain't fancy, but it's better than eating camel."
The man reached into his apron's pouch and pulled out a take-out menu, which he casually handed to Nasir. At least that's how it appeared to the guards who were monitoring the dining hall via security cameras. This was the twelfth menu he had handed out during his shift, so his action appeared innocuous. No reason for any alarm or concern.