Dangerous Ground: The Team Book Five

by David M. Salkin

  The first task was pulling the straps apart from the Velcro, which would be easy with two hands, but was complicated when operating two three-clawed robotic hands. It took him a few tries and a few minutes, with his teammates silently watching from their cameras topside. Once he had the straps freed, he then had to loop them under the bombs in three locations and snap them together using oversized carabiners. The carabiners would lock the straps in place, and when he was ready, the crew topside would turn on mechanical winches and slowly start to bring the bombs up. It was painfully slow work that required total focus and patience. Multiple tries for each strap had been required, as they would slip from his claws, or the hooks would miss when trying to snap everything together.

  Finally, after the two bombs were secured with the straps, it was time for Jon to turn on his cutting torch.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said out loud.

  “You got this,” said Moose quietly from the deck six hundred feet above his head. “Nice and slow, baby. You need a break, we’ll bring you up and finish tomorrow.”

  “I’m good.”

  Jon turned on the torch, and the flame lit the dark world in a purple-blue glow. He moved the torch toward the first bomb rack, careful not to aim it at the bomb, and began slowly cutting throw the aluminum, which melted easily.

  “Like a hot knife through butter,” said Jon as he worked.

  “Twenty megaton butter,” said Moose. “Nice and slow.”

  It took Jon forty minutes to cut through the bomb racks on each wing, after which time he let out a long, slow sigh of relief. He killed the torch and reported back to his team.

  “Bombs are clear, skipper.”

  “Outstanding,” said Moose. “We’ll bring them up and hold them beneath the rig until we get a ship here with EOD to take care of them. Stand by.”

  Ray Jensen pulled the handle on the winch, and the cables tightened, the straps stretched, and with a dull, underwater pop, the metal broke free and the bombs began to ascend, free of the wreck. Jon stood at the wing tip and watched nervously, then smiled and said, “Okay, skipper. Bombs are free.”

  The words had just left his lips when the jet shifted with the sudden weight change and slid hard, knocking Jon to his back as the jet wing slid over him, pinning him to the ocean floor and knocking out two of his lights.

  “Skipper!”

  His mic went dead.

  Chapter 27

  Washington, DC

  Secretary of State Danielle Reynaud was clicking through the series of photographs that had arrived in her e-mail. She was still in bed, checking e-mail on her home laptop computer. Ali Sawaad had written that he had for sale the finest statue he’d ever seen, and he wasn’t kidding. The secretary smiled as she looked at the warrior goddess. Of course, she saw herself in the beauty of the statue—its strength, beauty, and courage shined through the marble as if it was lit from within. She simply had to have it.

  Danielle clicked on the video link and got goose bumps as Ali walked around the statue filming it from every angle. She was perfect.

  The secretary called Ali on his cell phone, and he answered quickly. It was afternoon in Lebanon, and Ali was still in his warehouse of stolen art. He knew it was the secretary when he saw the number on his phone, and didn’t even bother with a “hello.”

  “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. I want her. How much?”

  Ali hesitated and cleared his throat. Danielle heard it in his voice and grew irritated. “Okay, Sawaad, don’t waste my time. Bottom line.”

  “There are several others interested in this piece. And it’s large, which makes transportation dangerous and difficult . . .”

  “How much?”

  “Eight hundred thousand US. Firm.”

  The secretary was fuming. “Eight hundred thousand? Are you fucking kidding me, you little weasel? I should just have you arrested by the Lebanese police!”

  Sawaad was not afraid of the secretary. As powerful and connected as she was in the United States, she was just some second-rate middle manager to him—and a woman, to boot. “If you do that, I’ll be happy to share my customer list with them and cut a deal. Perhaps CNN will be interested as well.”

  Her face was turning red. “Half a million.”

  “She’s costing me more than that,” he lied. “The price is firm. I have Saudis prepared to pay. I only offered to you first because I know your taste and thought you’d like her.”

  “Damn you, Ali. Okay. I’ll have the deposit wired later today. How long before you can get it here?”

  “A month. I’ll have it shipped to Port Elizabeth in New Jersey. I have people that will drive it down by truck wherever you want it. But it needs to be paid in full.”

  “In full? Ali, if you fuck me on this . . .”

  “You are a great customer! I won’t disappoint you. But I have to pay for this now myself, and it’s very expensive. I need the money right away.”

  “Fine. This one goes to my house in Massachusetts. I’ll e-mail you the instructions. Your money will arrive later today. Get it here as fast as you can.” She hung up, giddy with excitement, and got out of bed. She needed to get to her office and have the money wired quickly, lest some Saudi sheik beat her to the statue.

  Danielle popped on the television to catch some CNN, perhaps because Ali had planted the seed in her brain. She caught two pundits arguing over whether the CIA should be forced to comment on why the head of their organization was currently on leave. She smiled and texted Jeff Dennis:

  CNN. You getting this?

  Danielle sat on the edge of her bed smiling as she listened to one of the reporters drone on with great drama. “. . . and the American people have a right to know! They continually hide behind the veil of national security, when the rumors are that the director may have been involved in some very dark matters.”

  “And have you been able to substantiate any of the allegations?” asked the other talking head.

  “Not yet, and of course it’s very difficult because he is, in fact, the director of the CIA. But unnamed sources have leaked allegations of child pornography on the director’s computer . . .”

  “What?” exclaimed the other reporter. “Child pornography? When did this surface? This would be the most scandalous event in American history!”

  The other reporter sat back smugly and tried to look like she had all of the answers but couldn’t share it quite yet. “As I said, these are unnamed sources, but said to be very high up.”

  “High up where? Listen—you just dropped a bombshell that’ll be talked about all day and night. Viewers are going to want to know more about this. Has he been charged with an actual crime? When did this become public?”

  “Well obviously, it isn’t public yet. I don’t believe he’s been formally charged yet, either. As I said, these are still considered rumors until we can substantiate the charges, but what we do know is that the director of CIA has been put on leave, and neighbors do confirm that FBI agents were seen at the house, perhaps to seize the director’s computers.”

  The TV flashed to a neighbor’s cell phone video of FBI SUVs and agents in front of the director’s Virginia home.

  Danielle cackled. “Jeff, you evil bastard! How’s that feel, Wally?” she screamed at the television.

  Her cell phone buzzed. It was a text from Jeff.

  Saw the news Quite shocking!

  There were too many smiley faces to count.

  ***

  Back in their home, Director Holstrum held his wife as she cried against his shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Chapter 28

  Oil Platform Sunrise

  The corporate helicopter roared over the ocean toward the oil platform. Off in the distance, Apo and Bruce could see
the ships, cranes, and dredgers that were building yet another new island in the South China Sea. Apo and Bruce sat in the rear seats behind the Bruneian pilot and copilot, having just come from the national airport in the capital.

  It was loud inside the helicopter, but they didn’t want their voices being heard over the internal radio system, so they took off their headsets, leaned close, and spoke loud enough to hear each other, but low enough that the pilots were out of earshot. Speaking against the Bruneian government or sultan was illegal, and neither of them wanted their pilot-babysitters taking issue with their conversation.

  “Just what the South China Sea needs—another island claiming a twelve-mile international boundary,” said Apo.

  Bruce nodded. “If I had to guess where World War III was going to start, it’s a toss-up between the Middle East and right here.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d rather we were fighting the Iranians before they get nukes than millions of well-armed Chinese with plenty of them.”

  “The Russians opening airbases in Iran will make it interesting, though. Can you imagine if Israel were to bomb the Iranian nuclear facility now? The Russians scramble MiGs, Israel shoots one down, Russia and Iran declare war, the US and NATO defend Israel . . . would make for an interesting few weeks.”

  “Just a few weeks?” asked Apo with a grin.

  “Yeah. First nuke from Iran hits Israel, it’s all over. They respond and take out some Russians, Russia fires, we fire . . . Hell, these new islands may be the only things left on the planet with life on them.”

  “Maybe we should buy some beachfront property while we’re here.”

  “I’m in! But I want a fishing boat. And we better plant some banana and palm trees now, so they’re mature when we come back.”

  Apo pointed to the oil platform. “There she is. Damn, that thing is bigger in real life, huh?”

  “Yeah, no kidding.”

  The pilot slowed and banked, and the helicopter descended to the platform. The pilot looked at his passengers and pointed to his headphones. Apo and Bruce put theirs on. In hard-to-decipher English, the pilot said, “No one answer radio. We land anyway.”

  “Okay, take us down, thanks,” said Apo.

  They landed on the helipad and slid their doors open. One of the members of the team was running toward them as they landed, looking extremely animated. They thanks the pilots and got out with their duffle bags, and the helicopter took off for the mainland again.

  “Hey!” shouted Eric Hodges over the wash of the rotor blades. “Glad you’re here, we have a big fucking problem!”

  “What’s up?” asked Apo.

  “Jon went down to secure the nukes for recovery. When the bombs started coming up, the weight shifted and the jet moved. Jon went down and we lost audio.”

  “Jesus! Are you still monitoring his suit?” asked Apo.

  They all started jogging toward the elevator to bring them down to the lowest deck where the team was assembled around the monitors.

  “Affirmative,” said Hodges as they ran. “Pressure is perfect—no suit breach, thank God. The rebreather is working fine. A few of the floodlights are broken, but we can still see a little, and we can see Jon’s face. He’s alive, but we think he’s pinned under the wing.”

  The three of them ran off the elevator as soon as they hit the bottom deck of the semi-submersible. They found the team huddled over the monitors. Moose looked back and yelled at Apo and Bruce, “Hey. Hodges fill you in?”

  “Yeah. No comms?”

  “Not yet. Hang on.”

  Moose spoke into the headset. “Jon, we lost audio, but we can see you. If you can hear me, blink twice.”

  Jon blinked twice and the team gave a quick shout.

  “Your pressure and air supply are both perfect. You can last down there for days. Can you move at all?”

  Jon mouthed the words “my arms” very carefully. Moose confirmed it. “You can move your arms?”

  Jon blinked twice.

  “Look around you as far as your suit will allow so your cameras will show us what you see,” said Moose.

  It wasn’t much of a view. Jon was pinned on his back and his range of motion was limited. The team above could see the wing over his legs, but that was it. It was dark outside the weak lighting.

  “Where are the nukes?” asked Apo.

  “Hanging maybe a hundred feet over him. We had started hoisting them up when he got pinned.”

  Apo stared at the screen.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Moose.

  “What if you drop the nukes back down close enough for him to grab a strap, and try and pull him out?”

  “He’s pinned under a ton of rusty metal. He grabs hold of that line and we start pulling—what if the suit breaches?” asked Moose.

  Apo made a face. “Think he’d rather die in an un-breached suit?”

  “Let’s not go to last resort just yet. McCoy, get the strobe lights on the tower. We’ll signal the John Warner. Maybe they can help us out.”

  Apo looked at Moose inquisitively.

  Moose caught him up to speed. “Their skipper sent me a message. They’re patrolling this sector. That sub’s got all the latest bells and whistles. Maybe they can save our ass.”

  “At six hundred feet?”

  “Who knows what they’re capable of? But let’s try before we just start tugging on him from way up here and pull his suit apart.”

  McCoy jogged off to get the lights on while Moose began talking to Jon again to keep him calm and let him know they were working on a rescue plan.

  Chapter 29

  Ranger Station, Labi Forest Reserve

  Zyy and two of his clan had traveled through thick steamy jungle on and off for two days. They had stopped overnight only when it was too dark to travel. A torrential rain that night had prevented them from starting a fire, and it had been a wet, cold night that offered little sleep.

  On the morning of the second day, the rain subsided and they ate the fish balls they had brought with them and drank rainwater from collectors they had fashioned from giant leaves. They continued their journey, winding up and down hills, following a stream they knew would lead them to the ranger station.

  When they arrived at the small cabin that served as an outpost for the Labi rangers, they found “outsiders”—a term they used for anyone not living in the jungle. These outsiders were white photojournalists and spoke a language they didn’t understand. When a ranger walked into the cabin, they excitedly began telling him the story of what they had seen. The ranger in turn was telling the people in the cabin with him.

  The two outsiders were from Auckland and had been traveling Southeast Asia for almost a year, covering remote regions of the planet for NatGeo. Kevin and Valerie Jean were both twenty-six, and had met at St. Cuthbert’s College. They’d been traveling the world together ever since.

  “Quite a tale,” said the young New Zealander, scratching his beard.

  “Kevin, we could go with them, yeah? Not the story we thought we’d get, but it might be something huge,” said his partner and girlfriend Valerie Jean. Her big blue eyes lit up with excitement at the idea of covering something akin to combat.

  “Val, the poisonous snakes, spiders, and tigers are dangerous enough, no? Now you want to go traipse around a war zone?”

  “Oh come on!” she goaded. “When have we ever covered anything like this? We can end up on the cover of Time!”

  “We can end up dead,” said Kevin glumly. “Fine. Fine. We’ll tag along. But let’s be smart about it, yeah?”

  The ranger, an older man named Wie, spoke with Zyy and the two villagers for a while, and then used a satellite phone to call into the government office back in the capital, Bandar Seri Begawan. The minister of the interior’s office, under the direction of Abdul Ali, had direct oversight of the park
system.

  Wie was informed that the minister of the interior wasn’t in the office, but would get back to him with instructions on how to proceed. When Wie explained this to the New Zealanders and the villagers, none of them wanted to wait. Wie radioed his two other rangers, who were traveling within the park to check on campsites, and told them to return to the base immediately.

  While they waited for the rangers, Wie began preparing for the trip. They had a speedboat that could get them to Kampong Aht in a few hours, although Wie planned on stopping the boat short of Aht and proceeding on foot to observe the village from a safe distance. With the help of the villagers and two journalists, Wie loaded the boat with supplies.

  By the time they were finishing, the two other rangers returned from the forest. Wie reiterated the story that Zyy had told them, much to the horror of the two other rangers.

  “If there are as many as they say, and they’re heavily armed, we should wait for help,” said one of the rangers.

  “We aren’t going to try and arrest all of them. We just need to confirm this first-hand, and then call in with our own report. We’ll remain hidden, just like the villagers did,” said Wie. “Let’s go.”

  Reluctantly, the other two rangers followed the group to their speedboat. They exchanged nervous glances, but had no choice but to follow their boss. Between the three of them, they had three pistols. Not exactly an arsenal.

  Once seated, they fired up the engine and roared off through the brown water heading upstream, south toward the unknown.

  ***

  Jeff Dennis lived in a lovely brick house in an upscale suburb not far from Arlington, Virginia. The house was a four bedroom, although Jeff, on marriage number three, didn’t have any children living in the home. Children one and two from marriage one, and child three, from marriage two, all avoided their estranged father at all costs. The man had never been around when they grew up anyway, spending all of his time in Washington, DC, around powerful people who could further his career.