Dangerous Ground: The Team Book Five

by David M. Salkin

  The USS John Warner had provided the location of the downed aircraft when it discovered the wreckage and detected the radiation, which is why the rig was placed at its current location. If all went well, Jon would find the jet directly beneath their platform. The mission for day one was to locate the wreck, see how easy or difficult it would be to get to the bombs, measure the radioactivity to make sure it was safe to handle, and then come up with a plan to retrieve them. Jon had trained with special tools that included underwater saws and a B3 oxygen-hydrogen torch capable of cutting through very heavy steel. Without knowing the actual condition of the wreck, it was hard to guess how he would best remove the two large bombs, assuming they were still affixed to the bottom of the wings.

  Ripper woke Moose, who had grabbed three hours of sleep when his watch ended. They let Hodges sleep since he had been up all night while they prepped Jon for his dive, but the rest of the team had assembled. Jon had put on his dry suit, including the hood, booties, and gloves, and climbed into the giant legs of the Newtsuit. Once he was standing in the legs, Ray Jensen and Ryan O’Conner lowered the top half of the suit, which was attached to the winch.

  Ray forced a nervous smile at Jon as he lowered the top half of the suit. “I’m pretty sure I know how to seal this up, so don’t you even worry.”

  “I’m pretty sure if I live, I’ll kick your ass when I get back to the surface.”

  Ray and Ryan joined the top and bottom halves of the suit as Pete monitored the air flow and communications. He checked all of the cameras and watched the pressure gauges as the suit was sealed and filled with air. Ryan and Ray checked and double-checked the seals and connections all over the suit—at six hundred feet, the margin of error was zero.

  “Comm check 1, 2, 3,” said Pete.

  “Got you loud and clear, Mr. McCoy,” said Jon. “Nice and cozy and ready to dive.”

  “Comm check good. Air flow good. Pressure steady. Ready to deploy,” said Pete. He was all business, partly out of professionalism, partly out of his own nerves and trying to reassure Jon.

  Ray and Ryan cranked the winch manually until Jon’s feet cleared the deck by a few inches. He hung by his helmet as the two men maneuvered him over the side of the deck, hanging by the arm of the winch. Once he was hanging over the water, they used the automatic controls to begin lowering him very slowly toward the clear blue ocean.

  Jon spun slowly in circles as he descended, until he touched the water. Then he slowly slipped beneath the surface.

  “How ya doing, Jon?” asked McCoy.

  “A-OK, Pete. Water’s clear and skin is dry.”

  Moose shook his head. “His skin better be dry. Jeez. Six hundred feet.”

  “You’re at one bar of pressure,” said Pete calmly.

  “Suit feels good,” said Jon, now moving his arms around a bit and testing his hand controls.

  “Two bars external. Internal pressure looks good at one bar.”

  “Check. Ears didn’t even pop. Internal pressure is perfect,” said Jon. He smiled as a school of snapper blew past him with amazing speed. The water changed color from bright Caribbean blue to deeper sapphire, and finally to sunless black. Like driving from the mountains to the desert, everything changed as he descended.

  It took almost four minutes to reach the black world at the bottom, where he was now operating by the light from his helmet and cameras. “Six hundred and six feet. I’m at the bottom.”

  “Roger. You’ll have slack on the wire to move around. If you get too much extra cable, let us know. Can’t have you getting snagged on the wreck. Do you have visual yet?”

  “Negative. Walking north. Cameras working?”

  “Affirmative. We can see you, too. Geiger counter readings slowly increasing. Stay on your heading.”

  “Am I gonna start cooking?” asked Jon, only half joking.

  “You’re less than point-one millisieverts and slowly rising. Maintain heading.”

  Jon kept walking. He knew the radiation detected by the submarine was extremely low, and was only detected at all because of the pristine environment and sheer luck of traveling right over the wreck. The submarine used its underwater cameras to locate and photograph the wreckage after it had stumbled upon it.

  “Hey. I have something,” said Jon as he walked along the sandy bottom.

  The bomber was upside down and lightly encrusted with mineral deposits, but there was no mistaking it—it was an A4-E Skyhawk, complete with two very large hydrogen bombs still attached to its underwing bomb racks. Because of the depth and lack of sunlight, the metal wasn’t heavily encrusted with barnacles, shellfish, or coral—it was mainly just mineral deposits and some deep-water-dwelling animal activity.

  “Wow,” whispered Jon, without even realizing it.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Fine. Just walked into a time warp, though, you know? No one has laid eyes on this in decades. Geiger readings?”

  “Holding steady. They aren’t leaking. Get closer and record them visually.”

  “Roger. Moving closer.”

  Jon walked across the sand bottom until he was standing next to the wing tip. He thought about the pilot of the aircraft, perhaps still strapped in, upside down for decades in his dark, watery, unmarked grave. He pondered recovering the dog tags, at the very least.

  Jon tried to bend over and look under the wing, but the suit wasn’t flexible enough to allow him to bend that far. He wanted to see the cockpit.

  “You okay? Cameras went sideways.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Was trying to look under the wings for the pilot.”

  “Negative,” snapped Moose’s voice. “You are not to take any unnecessary risks. Do not get under that wreckage. You’re there to survey, come up with a plan, and surface. You get stuck under a wing, no one can get to you, you copy?”

  “I copy, skipper.”

  Jon took a breath and gave a salute, as best he could, to the pilot of the plane. Maybe there wasn’t anyone in there anyway. Moving slowly in his awkward suit, Jon got as close to the jet as he could. The two giant bombs looked like elongated eggs. He moved so that his floodlights were brightest at the bomb rack connections.

  “There’s room to run straps under the bombs and cut at the connection with the torch. Then we just hoist it straight up to the ship,” said Jon.

  “How much space between the bomb and where you have to make the cut?” asked Moose, standing over McCoy.

  “Maybe five inches.”

  “You comfortable with that?” he asked.

  “I’m not particularly comfortable even standing next to these things, but yeah. I can cut the connection without toasting the nuke.”

  “Okay. Take as long as you need to be ready for your next dive, then we’ll bring you back up,” said Moose.

  Chapter 24

  Beirut, Lebanon

  Carl Stone had been part of a secret MOP team that answered only to Wallace Holstrum. The MOP was used for “cleaning up messes” and didn’t bother with minor details like following the law. When Holstrum’s special operations team had needed help in Mexico on their last mission, Wallace had called the MOP in as reinforcements. Since that joint operation, the MOP unit and the team had remained loosely connected as part of the CIA’s special black-ops group.

  After the death of Carl’s partner Duane in Panama, Carl had taken some time off. He considered retiring, or at least taking an extended vacation, until he got the call from Darren Davis explaining that Director Holstrum had been set up. Although Carl was no choirboy, he was extremely loyal to his boss. He put off his vacation and took a flight to Beirut at Darren’s request.

  Carl was a wet-work mercenary, who spoke several languages and had no problem murdering targets deemed dangerous to the United States. Although he was unassuming looking, with thinning blond hair and pale blue eyes, he could kill
a person with his bare hands and then go eat a sandwich. The man was stone cold. This mission wasn’t a “hit,” however. This was going to require some finesse.

  For this mission, Carl dressed in Western attire, but wore a labbade and kaffiyeh on his head. He had dyed his hair dark brown and did some tanning as well as using bronzer to make himself several shades darker than usual. He hadn’t shaved since getting the call from Darren, and dyed his beard as well. With his new olive skin and excellent Arabic language skills, he could easily pass for an Arab.

  Setting up the meeting with Ali Sawaad had been a little difficult. The man was paranoid, which made sense for an international art smuggler, but also created problems when trying to set up a face-to-face. It was only Carl’s insistence that he had something worth millions that eventually appealed to Sawaad’s greed.

  The CIA had been busy in Syria as of late. They had been trying to identify the “good guys” in an area of the world where there were multiple fighting forces with varying interests. The enemy of your enemy was still your enemy in much of this part of the world. Eventually, the CIA had chosen a group of fighters that were both anti-Assad and anti-ISIS. That didn’t make them pro-American, but at least they were killing the same people we wanted dead. The CIA had provided arms, technical and operational support, and first aid. They had also taken a few statues from national landmarks, one of which was now in the back of Carl’s rented truck.

  Carl parked his truck outside of a small factory in an area that didn’t look like it had been repaired or repaved since the last war in Lebanon. Abandoned buildings and piles of garbage were outward signs of a country in decay. Eventually, a small car pulled up next to his truck, and a tall, thin Arab got out. Carl’s first thought was that the man’s knees must have been in his face when he drove that tiny car.

  The man greeted Carl by his assumed name, Hakim They exchanged brief pleasantries and quickly got down to business.

  “Not here,” said Ali. “We’ll go inside.”

  Ali unlocked the metal fence and opened the gate, and then walked into the factory parking lot with Carl following in the truck very slowly. Ali opened a garage door and threw on some floodlights, and Carl drove inside the large building. When Ali closed the garage, Carl cut the engine and got out of the truck. A quick glance revealed lots of statues, furniture, and pottery. Ali had been a busy boy.

  Carl walked to the rear of the truck and opened it. Inside was a Greek statue that had been stolen from Syria, the quality better than anything Ali had ever seen. It was a female god, holding a spear and shield, and she was magnificent.

  Ali’s face showed his excitement, but then he quickly tried to look disinterested. “It’s nice, but I have lots of statues,” he said.

  Carl began to close the rear doors of the truck.

  “What are you doing?” exclaimed Ali.

  “If you aren’t interested, I have several other players in this market. I was told you’re a serious man, but if you don’t know what you’re looking at, I’ve wasted my time.”

  Ali walked toward Carl with waving hands. “No, no! I’m interested. Very interested. Did you have an asking price?”

  “Half a million, US dollars.”

  Ali’s face fell. “Half a million US?”

  Carl made a show of starting to close the door again.

  “Wait! I didn’t say no. I just need to speak with a buyer I may have. That’s a large sum of money. I may need a few days.”

  Carl feigned being annoyed. “I can give you forty-eight hours. After that, I’ll have to go elsewhere.”

  “May I photograph it? For my buyer?” asked Ali.

  “That will require a bit of trust on my part,” said Carl, rubbing his chin. “But okay. You can take pictures for your buyer.”

  Ali grinned broadly and pulled his phone from his belt. He spent the next few minutes taking photos and even a video as he moved around the goddess. A powerful female figure in perfect white marble. He knew just the woman who would want this.

  Carl watched him taking pictures and tried not to smile. The statue had been drilled at the base and a tiny transponder installed before the hole was then refilled with cement. They’d be tracking the statue from Langley every step of the way.

  Chapter 25

  Kampong Pak Bin

  Zyy and Yin had run through the thick jungle all the way from Kampong Aht back to their own Kampong, Pak Bin. Pak Bin was a tiny hamlet at the edge of the brown river, upstream from Aht. Zyy spent a long time explaining everything they had seen to their ancient chief. The chief had seen guns before, and knew that these men weren’t people of the jungle.

  It was decided that Zyy and two men from the village would make the long trip west to the Labi Park Ranger Station and tell the Bruneian officials about the murders at Kampong Aht. The chief would take a small group back toward Aht to secretly keep an eye on its new inhabitants from the jungle.

  Yin begged his father to take him, but it was a long journey through harsh jungle, and he was made to stay home. Zyy and two adult villagers hugged their families, and then began their run through the thick green jungle. It would take two days to get to the ranger station

  ***

  Mohammed and Hamdi sat inside the chief’s hut they now claimed as their own. While the other soldiers had to live eight or ten to a hut, Mohammed and Hamdi had needed privacy for command discussions. They also needed more food than the others to stay sharp.

  They opened their laptop and deployed their satellite antennae. Once they had a connection, they collected their e-mail. The laptop was only used once a week for both security reasons as well as battery life. It would be a long time before they could recharge the computer, and every minute of battery life counted.

  “Abu wants us to move up our timetables. The Americans have struck again in Afghanistan and Syria with their drones. They murdered four of our commanders. Abu wants revenge.”

  Hamdi smiled. “When?”

  “Within a week, he wants us operational. I’ll have to send a message to the sultan’s minister Abdul Ali and tell him we’ll need a ship. If we’re going to be ready in a week, we need to get upriver to the coast. That will take two days. Are the vests ready?”

  “Yes. The men have all been trained and are prepared for martyrdom and Paradise.”

  Mohammed nodded thoughtfully, and then sent a quick e-mail to the sultan’s minister. There were now logistics that needed to be handled quickly, sometimes easier said than done. Hazrol, their Bruneian guide, could take them up the river, northwest toward the port city of Kuala Belait. The river could get them within twenty kilometers of where they needed to go, but then they’d need a caravan of trucks to get them to the port. They’d also need some sort of escort to prevent anyone from questioning why a hundred foreign men with weapons were moving through Brunei. Once at the port, they needed a freighter that could get them to Singapore.

  Mohammed closed the laptop and patted Hamdi on the shoulder. “Tomorrow, God willing, we will find the good news from the minister, and begin our mission.”

  Chapter 26

  Oil Platform Sunrise

  The team was up early again, preparing for Jon’s second dive. Hodges looked at the team and smiled. He leaned over to McCoy and whispered, “We’re kinda like the Magnificent Seven.”

  McCoy made a face. “I think only three of them lived.”

  “Guess you’re fucked,” said Hodges. He smacked McCoy on the shoulder and went to get some breakfast.

  After the seven of them had eaten breakfast, Jon was fitted in his Newtsuit and once again lowered into the water. This time he carried the B3 torch cutter that he would use to free the nukes from the jet. The hand-piece for the torch was strapped to his wrist and wired to one finger of his suit’s claw. In this fashion, he could pull one finger inside his suit to ignite the high-powered flame. He smiled, thinking that h
e looked a bit like Spiderman shooting webs in much the same way.

  A set of nylon straps were also lowered with him, attached to long cables on the oil platform that would secure the nukes until they could be hoisted the six hundred feet to the surface.

  “How you feeling?” asked Moose.

  “I’m good to go,” said Jon.

  “You’re going to be down for hours. You hydrated?”

  “Yeah. And it’s not like peeing in a wetsuit,” said Jon, only half-kidding.

  “Don’t pee in a quarter-million-dollar diving suit.”

  “Bullshit. The first time I light that torch next to one of those nukes, I’m definitely going to pee myself.”

  Moose nodded. “Good point. You’re excused. Shit, I may pee myself up here watching you.”

  “The good news is, if I set one off, we won’t know it.”

  “Super. Good luck, brother. You got this.”

  Jon forced a smile. “Piece of cake. Yellow cake. That’s a nuke joke.”

  Moose shook his head.

  Jon shrugged. “Whatever. See you in a few hours.”

  Jon climbed into the bottom legs of the suit and went through his checklist. A few minutes later, weighted down with his torch and tanks, he began the journey down to the dark world below. The straps were bundled together with Velcro and attached to his upper arm so he didn’t have to hold on to them.

  When he reached the bottom, Jon began his slow walk back to the jet. A large fish swam by, reminding Jon that he was indeed in the ocean and not outer space, which is what it felt like. When his floodlights hit the jet, Jon’s skin got goose bumps. He was about to light a torch next to two nuclear bombs that could vaporize everything in the area.