Patriot Dream

by Stephen Templin

  Max shot Tom an annoyed glance.

  Chris didn’t say anything.

  Hannah worked for CIA on the same task force, recruiting spies. Max looked at her, but she was focused on Chris. Max suspected that he was more than simply a “teammate and good friend” to her, and he couldn’t help feeling a bit jealous.

  Chris looked at Max, who felt as if his private thoughts had been busted. Max cleared his throat and said to Hannah, “Have you heard from Sonny?”

  “Sonny’s leg recovered from that last op he did with you guys, and he was working with us over in Istanbul, but JSOC needed him for something.” The Joint Special Operations Command was in charge of Tier One units such as SEAL Team Six and Sonny’s unit, the Army’s Delta Force.

  “Did JSOC say why?” Max asked.

  Hannah shook her head. “Do they ever? I’m hoping he can join us soon.”

  “Kickass,” Max said.

  Tom was still excited: “A CIA tech wizard named Young Park was captured by terrorists, and you guys rescued him. Your call sign was Reverend. You were a legend.”

  “Is a legend,” Hannah said proudly.

  Chris shrugged his shoulders, as if uncomfortable with the praise.

  The wattage in Hannah’s smile dimmed and her eyes met Max’s, and she said, “I’m sorry about your dad. He was a real standup guy.”

  “He was,” Tom said.

  “The best,” Max said.

  Chris lowered his head. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  Willy spoke up: “Hank wasn’t the kind of man to let a good chair go to waste.” He plopped his keister in a stuffed chair. “And he had no troque with the sentimental.” Willy was partly right. Hank had no barter with the sentimental, but when it came to his wife, Hank was a sentimental idiot. After her death, he was never the same.

  Max and Tom sat in separate love seats, and Chris and Hannah returned to their perch on the sofa.

  Willy looked at Hannah as if to signal her to begin the brief.

  “Chris, Sonny, and I discovered an assassin,” she said. “He goes by the codename Falcon. We put him under surveillance to find out more about his next target and who he’s working for. Three nights ago, we followed him to a soccer game. Unknown to us, CIA’s Chief of Station in Turkey, Bill Hart, and some other VIPs were in attendance at the same game. When we spotted Bill and the others, I got word to him he might be the target of an assassination plot, and the assassin was in the stadium. Bill told me about a brush with a stranger who had scratched his arm with something. At the time of the incident, he thought it was an accident. I asked Bill to describe the stranger, and his description matched Falcon’s appearance—right down to the clothes he was wearing that night. Although we had Falcon under surveillance, we hadn’t watched him every second, and it was likely that he scratched Bill with an object dipped in some sort of poison.” Hannah turned to Willy.

  “The poison is called BK-16, but Max will get to that in minute,” Willy said, then picked up where Hannah left off: “Bill passed out before he made it to his car. His security guys rushed him to the hospital, where he remained unconscious. The hospital staff couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him, so he was flown to our regional military hospital in Landstuhl, Germany. After eight hours of unconsciousness, he came to, but we kept him in Landstuhl until we got the results of his blood and urine tests.”

  “The same night that Bill became ill, we rendered Falcon,” Hannah said. “Our techs unlocked his smartphone and found multiple phone calls to Bulgaria, which our people are still investigating. Russia has used Bulgaria as a cutout for its dirty work before, so it’s possible they were behind the plot to kill Bill. Falcon and his people are suspicious of the Russians, but if Falcon thought he was working for a radical Islamic organization, he could’ve easily become Russia’s puppet. Also on his phone, our techs found web searches for information about Bill. Currently, Falcon is being interrogated at one of our black sites, but he hasn’t given us anything significant yet.”

  Max knew that he and his brother might’ve been poisoned, but hearing Hannah’s report seemed to confirm it. He felt as if the floor had been pulled out from underneath him—not so much at his own impending death but more at the death of his brother.

  “Thanks, Hannah,” Willy said. “That same evening, in Damascus, Max and Tom ate at a local restaurant, and soon after, Max lost most of his consciousness and Tom passed out cold. We analyzed the blood and urine samples for Bill, Max, and Tom, but were unable to discover signs of poisoning, drugs, or any known virus.”

  Willy turned to Max, who took his turn. “We captured a man who calls himself the Surgeon. He’d been experimenting with BK-16 on anti-Assad militants and recently expanded his victim pool to others. The Surgeon told us that BK-16 is a virus engineered specifically for assassination. Like Hannah reported, after the target is infected, he loses consciousness, but then he seems normal again. Approximately five days after the infection, the virus dies in the bloodstream and decomposes into a poison called kuznetsovine, which is what kills the target.”

  “Are all three of their poisonings related?” Chris asked.

  “Because of the Bulgaria connection, Langley suspects that the Russians are behind the plot to kill Bill Hart,” Willy said. “The poisoning of Max and Tom seems to be Syrian—someone didn’t like them snooping around in their neighborhood or wanted to get rid of them for whatever other reason. We’re still working on it, but this is our best theory so far.”

  “Is there a cure?” Hannah asked.

  “The Surgeon didn’t know,” Max said.

  Tom chimed in. “The Surgeon told us that a Dr. Kuznetsov would know if there’s a cure—he created BK-16. He lives in a house in Italy run by Russian mafia.”

  Willy took the floor: “When Max and Tom sent in that piece of intel, we ran it down. The leader of that gang of Russian mobsters is Nestor Orlav. He works for FSB and owns some legitimate business in construction and waste management, but he and his men have been suspected of murder, kidnapping, torture, extortion, drug trafficking, hijacking, and other crimes. We believe that Orlav and his men have intimidated and bribed witnesses and the courts to avoid prosecution. One of his men was arrested for killing his pregnant wife, which made the news, but now he’s only serving time on a reduced sentence for loan sharking.”

  Willy looked around the room, stood up with an iPhone in his hand, looked down at it for a moment and tapped on it. Then he looked at everyone again. “Your mission is to capture Dr. Kuznetsov alive. He’s our link to find a cure for Bill, Max, and Tom. And to prevent future assassinations. I’ve sent an encrypted file to each of your phones with photos of Orlav and his crew. If they threaten you or the mission, kill them. There may be innocent civilians in that house, so be careful not to harm them, unless they become a threat.”

  “All four of us on this mission?” Max asked.

  Willy snarled like a wolf protecting his territory. “The more the merrier. The four of you will fly directly from Turkey to Naval Support Activity, Naples, Italy. Time ain’t exactly on our side.”

  Max stood. “Let’s do it.”

  Tom rose to his feet, too. “Yeah.”

  Chris and Hannah got on their feet, too.

  Max and the others loaded their kit into the SUV. Max and Tom finished first, and Willy called them to his room. There they waited to see what he wanted.

  Willy handed out his hand to Tom. “Your pistol.”

  Tom seemed confused. “Huh?”

  Max didn’t understand either.

  Willy gave them both looks like they were stupid, and he spoke louder: “The CZ 75 that Gus lent you.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Tom handed over the pistol, ammo, hip holster, and pouches he’d received at the US Interests Section in the Czech Embassy in Damascus.

  “And the phone,” Willy said.

  Tom gave him that, too.

  Willy set them aside and pulled out a Glock from a d
iplomatic bag. He handed it to Tom along with ammo, holster, ammo pouches, and a phone, which were also in the pouch. “Don’t lose these.”

  “I won’t.”

  Willy put the Czech weapon and kit in the dip bag, closed it, and locked it.

  “Hear anything on Dad’s killer?” Max asked.

  “Still working on it,” Willy said. “That’s the main reason I wanted a minute with you two alone. Have either of you heard the phrase ‘Cruel Odysseus’?”

  It sounded familiar—Max thought hard. “In Berlin.”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “Heard it or read it there.”

  “Why?” Max asked.

  “Before your dad was killed,” Willy said, “that phrase kept popping up in intel reports. Now it’s popping up again.”

  “In what context has it been popping up?” Max asked.

  “The context of just before someone important is killed,” Willy said.

  “Can you tell us more?” Tom asked.

  Willy put a hand on each of their shoulders. “I don’t have anything more, but when I do, you two will be the first to know.” He led Max and Tom out of the house, and they piled into the van with Chris and Hannah.

  “What was that about?” Hannah asked.

  “I needed to account for some lost equipment and give them replacements,” Willy said nonchalantly.

  She seemed satisfied with his answer, or at least, she didn’t pry further.

  More black clouds gathered, and the sky grew darker. Willy made a phone call, something about a helo pickup, and he started up the engine. He was still on the phone as he pulled away from the gray house and continued down the street.

  Max turned to Chris and said, “Heard you went off to a monastery or something.”

  “Went to college and became a pastor,” Chris said.

  Max scratched his head. “You’re here now; does that mean you quit being a preacher?”

  “I’m a pastor full time. And I do contract work for the Agency part time.”

  Max wasn’t moved by Chris’s words.

  Tom leaned forward. “I’m a student full time, and I do this part time, too.”

  “Good,” Chris said. “Which school?”

  “Georgetown,” Tom said.

  Chris raised his eyebrows. “Outstanding.”

  “Where’d you study to be a pastor?” Tom asked.

  “Harvard.”

  “Harvard—wow—Harvard. Didn’t know they had a college for being a pastor.”

  Chris smiled. “Harvard has been training ministers since its beginning. The divinity school was established in the early 1800s.”

  Max wasn’t feeling the love. “You were great in the day, but how do we know you haven’t lost your fighting edge? Being a preacher and all, how do we know you won’t hesitate to pull the trigger?”

  Chris didn’t seem fazed. “Being a preacher hasn’t stopped me from killing or capturing bad men. As for fighting edge, I guess Langley thinks I’m good enough.”

  “If good enough gets my brother or me killed, then good enough ain’t good enough.”

  “When the bullets start flying, you can be the judge of whether I still have what it takes.”

  “By then it’s too late,” Max said. “And don’t count on God to drop down from the sky and save us from evil.”

  “Give it a rest, Max,” Tom said.

  Chris remained unperturbed. “I understand. You have an issue with God, not me. I don’t take it personally. Good things really do happen, Max.”

  Max shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Not in my world. Why are you really here?”

  Chris looked him in the eye. “Because the Lord has work for us to do.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Willy led Max, Tom, Chris, and Hannah onto a ghost-white Lockheed L-100, the civilian version of the military’s C-130. On it was painted the logo for a cover company, L3 Technologies, masking the espionage and paramilitary nature of their mission. They took their seats and buckled up, and soon the plane lifted off. Over the speakers, Willy played “Highwayman,” performed by outlaw country musicians Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, and Kris Kristofferson. Although Max was more into classic rock than country, every time Willy played “Highwayman,” it felt like the beginning of something epic.

  When the song finished, Willy spoke in a loud voice so everyone could hear him clearly over the sound of the plane’s engines. “Hannah will be in charge of this mission, and she’ll answer to me. Any objections?” It didn’t seem like a real question because he didn’t wait for a real answer. “I didn’t think so.” Willy disappeared into the galley, and soon the scent of food floated into the cabin.

  Half an hour later, Willy returned with grub: hot blueberry pancakes, bacon, and eggs. Max, Chris, and Willy wolfed them down. Hannah ate like a civilized person, and Tom nibbled like a rabbit. They drank coffee, except for Chris, who had orange juice. The world slowed down, and everyone seemed to be dozing off except Willy.

  Max woke to the smell of lunch and a dark cabin. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. He pressed the light on his watch: he’d fallen asleep for five hours. The cabin lights came on, and Tom and the others woke, too.

  “Aren’t you going to tell Tom?” Willy asked.

  Max rubbed the sleepy out of his eyes. “Tell him what?”

  “About school,” Willy said.

  “What?” Tom asked.

  Max didn’t say anything.

  Willy gave him a look that said, Tell him.

  Max gave in. “I’m graduating from college.”

  Willy left and disappeared into the galley.

  “I knew you were taking some classes,” Tom said, “but I didn’t know you were graduating. Why all the secrecy?”

  “I didn’t think it was important,” Max said. “Willy told me to finish my degree, or CIA would boot me out. I don’t know if it was true or not, but I did it.”

  “Which college?”

  “University of Maryland University College.”

  “That’s a great school,” Tom said.

  “People say ‘it’s a great school’ when they mean ‘it’s not a great school.’”

  “I really mean it.”

  “It’s not like your Georgetown.” Then Max pointed his nose at Chris. “Or Mr. Harvard over there.”

  “You could’ve gone to either of those schools,” Tom said. “Why didn’t you?”

  “I’d already done some distance learning with UMUC when I was in the Navy, and it’s one of the top online colleges for vets—so I could continue working at CIA while attending college. It just made sense.”

  “You’ve always been smarter than me, but you like to hide it.”

  “I’ve always had to work at learning,” Max said. “You were always the smart one.”

  “Growing up, Dad wasn’t around much, and you had to raise me and stay on top of your schoolwork, too. You’re the hardest worker I know. When’s the graduation ceremony?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “Not going.”

  “Why not?” Tom asked.

  “I got my diploma to keep working for the government, not for some dog-and-pony show.”

  “Congratulations, you’re graduating before me.”

  Max smiled.

  After half an hour, everyone except Tom had finished eating, and the plane made its descent. Off the port side appeared Mount Vesuvius—the infamous volcano that unleashed a hundred thousand times the thermal energy of a nuclear bomb and destroyed Pompeii and other cities of the Roman Empire. Now the volcano was a lush green, its cities resurrected from the ashes and lava rock.

  The Gulf of Naples glistened in the sunlight. Their plane landed hard and spunky and came to a screeching halt on the runway of US Naval Support Activity Naples, forcing Max hard against his seatbelt. It reminded him of military landings when the pilots were all about getting it done tout de suite. It was hell for the plane, but Max liked it.

&nbs
p; The Italian military owned the base, but the US managed its day-to-day activities. A similar arrangement had been at the center of the Sigonella Crisis in 1985. Four Palestinian terrorists had hijacked the cruise ship MS Achille Lauro and killed Jewish American Leon Klinghoffer. The terrorists escaped to Egypt, where their mastermind, Abu Abbas, joined them, and they attempted to escape by airliner. American F-14 fighter jets forced the terrorists to land at Naval Air Station Sigonella in Italy. Max knew of the eighty SEAL Team Six and Delta Force operators who surrounded the terrorists’ plane, but three hundred Italian military police surrounded the operators. Italian Prime Minister Bettino Craxi got his way, and the terrorists were turned over to his government, which released mastermind Abbas but convicted the four terrorists. Six years later, two of the terrorists were released on parole. Max fully understood that the Italian government could take charge of this base at any time, and that Italy had a history of being soft on terrorists.

  Max’s plane taxied to a halt where a van was parked near the runway. Beside the van stood a man who looked like a young Bradley Cooper wearing sunglasses.

  A ground crew promptly positioned air stairs in front of the plane’s hatch. Willy opened the hatch and said, “The guy with the van, his name is Angelo Figus. He’s an asset of ours who will take you to the yacht—your safe house for this mission.”

  Max, Tom, Chris, and Hannah grabbed their bags and descended the air stairs.

  The van was a gray Fiat Ducato, its engine running. “I’m Angelo. Welcome to Naples.”

  “Grazie,” Tom and Hannah said.

  “Thank you,” Chris said.

  Max didn’t frown. Nor did he smile. He just said, “Thanks.” Italy’s behavior after the Achille Lauro hijacking didn’t endear the country to Max, and although he liked Bradley Cooper’s performance in The Hangover and American Sniper, he didn’t like Cooper’s Hollywood liberalism. Angelo’s nationality and appearance were already two strikes against him; one more strike and Angelo was out.

  They loaded into the van. Angelo took the wheel, and they spun away. The Italian gate guards checked the IDs of military personnel entering the base, but they didn’t check the IDs of people leaving. Max’s team rolled through the gates and entered town, where they passed a sign that read: MMP Ristorante & Pizzeria.