Sudden Threat

by A. J Tata

  “Gotta call Mick Jagger. If he can’t help, Ronnie Wood is the man. The man, you know what I’m saying? This is Mick’s doing, I know. You know? If not Mick, then for sure Ronnie. You know what I’m saying?”

  Matt walked across the slimy surface and stopped Rathburn by placing a hand on his shoulder. Rathburn spun wildly, which caused Matt to snatch his wrist and hold it.

  “Actually, no. I don’t know what you’re saying,” Matt said. He looked at Rathburn’s eyes, wild with fright. Flight-or-fight syndrome, Matt thought. This bureaucrat has no fight in him, for sure.

  “Jagger’s screwed up somehow. This wasn’t part of the plan,” he said to Matt, as if Matt should understand exactly what he was saying.

  “They took my iPod. I had some Stones,” Sturgeon said, providing a bit of levity to the scenario.

  “The Stones, man. We are the Rolling Stones, and this thing happened too soon,” Rathburn said.

  Matt noticed that the political appointee had the thousand-yard stare of a man who knew he was going to die soon. His vacant look indicated a man whose eyes were searching for reason but coming up empty. Imagining the worst and trying to find a plausible scenario to escape the treachery that surely waited, Rathburn was spiraling out of control.

  “What the hell are you talking about? You knew about this?” Matt growled.

  Rathburn stopped his pacing and stared at Matt, perhaps through him.

  “I’m Keith Richards, don’t you understand?”

  “You’re a whack job,” Matt replied.

  “Hey, Keith, gimme shelter,” the large man in the corner said. “Or shut the hell up.”

  Matt turned to the man who had been silent to that point, looked at him, and watched him stand. He was enormous, probably pushing seven feet, Matt guessed.

  “What’s your name?” Matt asked, still holding Rathburn’s trembling body.

  “Rod Stewart,” the man said, breaking into a wide grin. Matt noticed his teeth were white and straight, at odds with his disheveled appearance. “Let’s have a jam session.”

  “Don’t mock me, asshole,” Rathburn said, trying to point but unable to because Matt was restraining him.

  “I don’t know you, but I will kill you,” the stranger said. “But I would be doing you a favor, so I think I’ll let these guys do it.”

  As if on cue, four Abu Sayyaf guards barreled down the steps and opened the door, splashing a rectangular spotlight of sunshine across the floor.

  “Hey, Joe. You die,” one man said, as three gathered up Rathburn and took him up the stairs.

  “We’re going to see Jagger, right?” Rathburn shouted. “This is all a ruse. Make it real. No propagandists. It’s all real.” Then he pointed at Matt, and shouted, “He’s the one you’re supposed to take! That’s Matt Garrett. He’s your beast of burden! Let it bleed!”

  They listened at the incoherent ramblings as the guards escorted Rathburn out of earshot.

  “Looks like some wild horses dragged him away,” the man said.

  Matt watched the men drag Rathburn up the dusty concrete steps and said in a low whisper, “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Sounds like you were supposed to be set up,” Sturgeon said.

  Matt remained silent, then turned to the large Native American.

  “Name?”

  “I told you …”

  “Don’t even mess with me,” Matt said approaching the larger man. He leveled his jade laser like eyes into the man’s bloodshot brown pupils.

  “You don’t scare me. But just so you know, Johnny Barefoot’s the name.”

  “American?”

  “Yeah. Was here on assignment.”

  “You do CNN stuff, right?” Jack Sturgeon asked, moving toward the conversation.

  “That’s me. Was supposed to cover some deployment of an infantry company from Hawaii to here. CNN was getting all kinds of static from the Department of Defense as to why there were no embeds in the Philippines covering this ‘war.’” He made quotations marks around the term “war.”

  “So they sent one dude?”

  “That’s right. Not even my thing, you know. I do American West, Native-American issues, casinos, corruption, that kind of thing.”

  Huh, Matt thought. He turned away and walked toward the door, which he checked. It was secured, as he expected.

  Matt’s mind spun. I get pulled out of Pakistan when I’m about to kill Al Qaeda senior leadership. My team is broken up, and I’m sent to China and the Philippines pursuing teaser leads on Predators. I’m told to jump into a plane wreck only to find an American body I wasn’t told about. I find Japanese tanks on Mindanao and a Japanese man flying in a float plane to Palau, where, coincidentally, perhaps not, Rathburn is cooling his heels. Then I run across a second-tier journalist who was sent to “embed” with a rifle company in the Philippines, where a Muslim uprising has suddenly taken root. And Rathburn is giving up my name to Abu Sayyaf.

  None of it made sense separately, but there were some threads he could see that created a fabric. With Barefoot standing there, he was reminded of a Bev Doolittle painting The Haunted Ground. At first glance, the painting was simply a cowboy atop his steed looking over his shoulder as he fled through an aspen forest pulling his galloping supply horse. When he stared at it long enough, the knotty trees dissolved into an image of three Native-American faces and an eagle watching the intruder.

  What was he seeing when he stepped away from the individual threads and put the mosaic together?

  As his mind spun to wide field of view, he stopped, like a gear catching.

  “Who were you supposed to interview?”

  “That’s the thing. The company was in a hell of a fight, a couple of guys were killed, and they bugged out to the jungle.”

  “Who?” Matt asked, approaching Barefoot.

  “Some company commander named Captain Zachary Garrett.”

  CHAPTER 62

  Schofield Barracks, Island of Oahu, Hawaii

  Private Pitts had waited an hour after the lieutenant at the division operations center just up the road from his quad on Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, had told him and his good friend, Slick, to get off the radio. They had changed frequencies, and it would be appropriate for him to conduct a communications check with his old buddy. He lifted the black handset to his mouth and spoke.

  “Bravo six romeo, this is Knight six romeo, over”

  “This is Bravo six romeo, go ahead, over.”

  Pitts smiled wide as he heard Slick’s voice beam down from the satellite. He was amazed, but glad, that they could talk even though they were 8900 kilometers away.

  “Sitrep, over.” He had heard the battalion com-mander and operations officer say it often. His intent was to convey to his friend that the conversation would not degenerate to the level it had earlier when the lieutenant at division had admonished them.

  “This is Bravo six romeo. Currently holding in position. No enemy contact. Anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

  “This is Knight six romeo. Roger. Say again SALUTE report given to higher earlier this morning, over,” Pitts said. SALUTE was a standard reporting acronym that stood for Size, Activity, Location, Unit, Time, and Equipment. The acronym provided a simple format for reporting enemy dispositions.

  As Pitts waited for the response, he realized his exhaustion. He had been awake all night, helping the unit prepare to fly to Guam later that day. Most of the soldiers were already at Hickam Air Force Base near Pearl Harbor preparing to board C-17 aircraft and a variety of commercial charter planes. As members of the communications platoon, they would be the last to travel to the airfield. He saw the battalion adjutant wander aimlessly into his office, obviously tired.

  “Hey, Pitts, what’s going on?”

  “Not much, sir. Got a commo check on our new satcom here with Captain Garrett and the boys.”

  “No shit?” Captain Glenn Bush responded, awakening. “How’re they doing?” The entire battalion wanted desperately to go
to the rescue of their isolated comrades.

  “Slick says they’re holding in position without enemy contact,” said Pitts.

  “That’s good,” said Bush, sounding relieved.

  “This is Bravo six romeo. I say again last SALUTE. Size: one Japanese executive. Activity: producing weapons for Abu Sayyaf attack to include tanks, helicopters, and small arms. Location: island of Mindanao. Uniform: orange running suit. Time of capture: unknown. Equipment: four large weapons-construction plants. Informant captured by friendly elements operating in the area, over.”

  Pitts’s hand dropped the microphone as if it had suddenly scalded him. Captain Bush looked at Pitts and said, “Is that for real, or just some game you guys are playing?”

  Pitts, his mind reeling, looked at the captain.

  “Sir, we’ve got to get this information to division. They think that Bravo Company found some old Japanese weapons from World War II. That division TOC officer must have been asleep to miss that shit.”

  “You’re telling me this is real? Ask him to repeat it.” Bush directed, leaning over the desk and staring at the young private.

  “No sir—I mean—sir, I know Slick. He wouldn’t bullshit about something like that.” Looking at the captain, he said, “We need to find Colonel Buck and let him know.”

  The two soldiers ran quickly to the commander’s office and knocked, then entered. The colonel was working on some last-minute plans before traveling to the airfield. Dressed in his Army combat uniform, he looked worried, almost overwhelmed by the recent developments.

  “Sir, Pitts has something he wants to tell you,” Bush said, playing adjutant and not stealing the young soldier’s thunder. Pitts looked at the captain as if to thank him. He was proud of his discovery. It was like being handed a rock and washing the dirt away to find gold. No one at division had treated the information with any concern.

  “Sir, I just set up our SCAMP—uh—it’s a new tactical satellite—”

  “Get on with it, Pitts, we’re leaving soon,” Buck said.

  “I talked to Bravo Company.” The colonel looked surprised. “That spot report about the Japanese weapons I brought into you earlier was bogus.”

  “I sort of figured that,” Buck said.

  “It’s worse.”

  Pitts went on to explain the report, and Buck, like Bush, questioned its validity. Pitts’s insistence convinced the battalion commander to radio the brigade commander with the information, who promptly located the division chief of staff. The division chief of staff informed the division commander, who asked that the spot report be verified. The division operations center confirmed the spot report with Captain Garrett’s company in Luzon. When asked why they had not picked up on the report earlier, the division staff officer blamed the reporting unit for faulty reporting procedures.

  The division commander then informed the U.S. Army Forces, Pacific, Commander, who called the Commander Pacific Command, a Navy admiral. The commander then promptly called over a secure red-switch telephone to the chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff. The CJCS received the message with alarm and skepticism, but nonetheless reported it to the secretary of defense. Stone immediately asked Vice President Hellerman for an audience.

  “There has been a new development,” he told the seasoned politician. What Stone was really wondering was: Four plants? There was only supposed to be one. There’s just one glider, right?

  As the information ascended from the muddy operating levels into the upper reaches of national strategy, it remained relatively unchanged in content. In fact, the number of plants grew from four up to six, but the message did not change in meaning.

  As Matt Garrett wondered if Zachary was alive; as Chuck Ramsey’s men clawed their way to safety up the jagged edges of the rain forest; as Zachary Garrett and his men huddled in the highlands above Subic Bay; as Karen Garrett knelt and prayed for her brothers; as Meredith Morris fondled the thumb drive and wondered about the Rolling Stones; and as “Mick Jagger,” Robert Stone, played out the possibilities in his mind, the simple endeavors of two privates brought unmistakable clarity to the situation.

  CHAPTER 63

  Pentagon, Washington, DC

  Stone placed the secure phone in the cradle and leaned back in his leather chair. This is good, he thought. We’re definitely going to have to commit some resources to the Philippines. But what do the Japanese have up their sleeves? Ten ships that young lady mentioned. Four, not one, weapons-manufacturing plants on Mindanao. Keith Richards is possibly dead. Hmm. What kinds of chess moves were being made?

  Fox and Diamond entered the room via the side door. Each man had removed his suit coat and had the sleeves on their respective Egyptian cotton shirts rolled up just below the forearm. We are working hard, their appearances screamed.

  “This is out of control,” Fox said.

  “Out of control,” Diamond reiterated.

  “I’m busy, guys. You just may be right,” Stone agreed.

  “We are getting off track here,” Fox said.

  “We have some ideas to get back on course,” Diamond said.

  “I’m thinking we’ll have to wait until next year to do Iraq,” Stone said.

  “That’s unacceptable. The window of opportunity is now. The American people want to kick some ass,” Fox said.

  “And now,” Diamond seconded.

  Stone, tiring of the tag-team duo, said, “Well, how about we kick some Filipino ass?”

  “Not enough targets. We need more targets,” Fox said.

  “More ass,” Diamond added. “The more targets, the more ass we can kick. Who wants to kill a bunch of zipperheads?”

  Stone looked at Diamond and gave him a disapproving look for using a derogatory term to describe the Filipino people.

  “We don’t go to war with the theories we wish we had; we go to war with the theories we’ve got,” Stone said. That ought to clear it up for these twits.

  Fox and Diamond stopped, looked at one another, and seemed to ponder this pearl of wisdom.

  “Yes, but what the hell is in the Philippines?” Fox continued. “I’ve got CENTCOM’s troop list right here. If we keep pouring troops into the Philippines, this plan becomes no good.” Fox shook a thick stack of papers at Stone.”

  “World peace will suffer,” Diamond added.

  “We need to destroy Iraq so that we can rebuild it as a shining beacon of democracy on a hill in the heart of the Middle East,” Fox said.

  The two men were machine-gunning Stone. They sensed that they needed to close him the way a real-estate agent gets a skittish buyer to sign the contract.

  “Baghdad’s in a valley; the Euphrates River Valley. You guys aren’t even making any sense. Do you have any idea of what is happening in the world? Democracy in the Middle East is important, but can’t we wait a year? Develop a plan, maybe?”

  “CIA says it’s a slam dunk. We need to go,” Fox said.

  “What is a slam dunk is that Al Qaeda is still on the loose. We’ve captured or killed a few midlevel functionaries, but the big fish have just changed streams,” Stone said.

  “Al Qaeda is incapacitated,” Fox said.

  “Out of commission,” Diamond reiterated.

  “Is this how you really feel?” Fox asked Stone. “Are you jumping ship?”

  Stone sighed. Where were the Rolling Stones when he needed them? One might be dead; another was half a world away. Maybe Ronnie Wood would come to his rescue. He was really the most powerful of them all, but had asked for the Wood pseudonym to further disguise his participation. If Wood was ever found out, well, the whole thing might come tumbling down. That left Stone to carry the weight of the counterplan on his own shoulders.

  “You guys are killing me,” Stone said, ignoring the question. “I’ve just ordered a Navy SEAL team to check out the ships the Japanese have supposedly loaded with tanks and helicopters.”

  “All conventional weapons. Iraq’s got nukes,” Diamond said. “And, we’ll need the SEALS to get into Basra
and other port areas immediately.”

  “Yellow cake, aluminum tubes and rockets,” Fox sang.

  Stone thought he might hear Fox mutter an “Oh my” à la The Wizard of Oz. He turned away and looked out of his window. He could see the Washington Monument standing erect in the middle of the Mall.

  Yes, as soon as he could shake his leg loose from these two terriers, he would call Ronnie Wood and talk things through.

  Indeed, it was rock and roll, but he sure didn’t like it just then.

  Stone watched Diamond and Fox depart, then ordered Meredith to report to his office immediately. He was going to see Ronnie Wood, and she could come in handy.

  As the last person to see Rathburn alive, Meredith could be valuable to him, Stone figured. First, he didn’t know what, if anything, she knew about the Rolling Stones. Second, she would deflect attention from him. He had been concerned lately about being too obvious. And, if nothing else, she was beautiful, and that would cheer him up.

  They made the quick trip to the Old Executive Office Building adjacent to the White House. It was an overly ornate structure, almost a medieval eyesore amidst the modern office buildings.

  There they met Vice President Hellerman, who deemed it necessary to give the briefing personally to President Davis. He ordered the National Command Authority to convene in the White House Situation Room, a small room with a cherry conference table and a white phone where the president sits.

  Eventually, the service chiefs of staff, the CJCS, SecDef, vice president, Central Intelligence Agency director, and Meredith all huddled around the table. The secretary of state was already on his way to Japan to discuss regional security issues and possible economic sanctions against the Philippines.

  Meredith was dumbstruck. In her inexpensive dress, not a women’s power suit, with a stack of papers and books tucked in her arms, she looked like a schoolgirl. She felt like the country bumpkin that she was. She was clearly much younger than every other person in the room.