The first and third helicopters raced north single file. Apo, Bruce, and Carl headed west toward Kampong Aht. The crew chief in their helicopter handed them headsets so they could speak without screaming at each other. He smiled at their two-day beards and dirty civilian-style clothes with Kevlar vests over their T-shirts.
“Y’all don’t exactly look like a SEAL team,” he said with a smile.
“You must have us mistaken for someone else,” said Apo dryly. “We’re insurance salesmen heading to a small sales conference in this little town called Aht.” He never smiled, which removed the crew chief’s smile as well.
“Whatever you say,” he replied with a shrug. “Time to target, fifteen minutes. You’re being dropped here,” he said, pointing to a small map. “Aht is here. Just follow along the river west.”
The three of them nodded, then sat back and closed their eyes for a few minutes’ rest. They’d just come from a firefight, and the post-combat rush had left them exhausted until the next adrenaline rush.
Further north, in the first helicopter, the medic tried to remove Kevin’s boot. He howled so loudly, the medic popped a syringe into his thigh to kill the pain. He waited and then pulled the laces out before opening the boot and sliding it off with Val’s help. When he slid the dirty wet sock off, the purple and black ankle showed the lump where it was broken. The medic wrapped a small ankle brace around it to immobilize it, as Kevin leaned his head back and groaned, now woozy from the pain meds.
“Looks broken,” said the corpsman.
“He ran on that for two days, almost nonstop,” said Val, rubbing his shoulder. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Never even complained, tough guy,” she said with a proud smile.
“Fear’s an amazing thing. Thanks for coming to get us,” Kevin said to the corpsman. “Hey Val . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Since we’re alive and all, you want to get married?”
She leaned over and kissed his sweaty, dirty face. “I do,” she said.
The corpsman laughed. “I’ve been in the navy six years. This is a first!”
The trailing helicopter banked hard left and stayed over the treetops racing at 150 knots toward the river near the coastline. Inside, the team quietly cleaned weapons as they prepared for their next little war.
Chapter 52
Langley
“Mr. Davis, Mr. Gallo is on line one,” said Susan.
Darren looked at Dex and smiled. “This should be interesting.” He punched the button on his phone so it went to speakerphone. He put his finger over his lips as he looked at Dex and said, “Good evening, Bill.”
“Hey, Darren. Returning your call, what’s up?”
“Your guys break the computer hack yet?”
Bill paused. “Investigation is ongoing. Hard to say where anything came from. The local guys who were swapping illegal picture files seemed to share through a Dropbox-type system, and we have them nailed down cold. Wallace’s file didn’t go through that Dropbox, so we have no idea how it ended up on his computer.”
“Well, I think we have hard answers for you. Maybe you can stop by.”
The FBI director paused, his anger building. “What do you mean, you have answers? You know the CIA isn’t allowed to be part of this investigation.”
“It’s high level, Bill. Involves foreign perps connected here at home. Pretty alarming stuff. You really need to come over. This isn’t for a phone. Even a secure one.”
Bill didn’t like being baited by the CIA, but he liked the CIA’s involvement even less. He needed to nip this in the bud. “I’m on my way,” he mumbled and hung up.
“Today’s the day?” asked Dex.
“Why not? Poor Wally is home wondering if he’s getting arrested or fired. This bullshit’s gone on long enough.”
The two of them continued to monitor the movements of their team for almost forty-five minutes until Susan called them by intercom. “Director Gallo is here to see you, sir.”
Bill entered the room, not particularly pleased to see Dex Murphy in the room with Darren.
“We all staying for this?” he asked.
“Yes. Have a seat, Bill. Dex and I have an interesting story to share with you.”
Bill sat down, looking annoyed.
Darren pulled a file from his desk and opened it, then handed a bundle of photographs to the director. Bill looked at picture after picture of statues, pottery, and ancient jewelry.
“What am I looking at?” he finally asked.
“Middle Eastern artifacts stolen from museums and parks all over Syria and Iraq. Some are Greek, some are Roman. All are basically priceless pieces of art. ISIS has been funding their war with the sales of art and oil.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Bill, now even more irritated.
“Well, it seems as though the secretary of state, your friend Danielle Reynaud, has been buying this art from a man named Ali Sawaad in Lebanon for almost two years.” He let that hang in the air for a minute. Bill glanced down at the pictures again.
“Where were these taken?” he asked.
Darren stifled a smile. “These pictures were taken in the secretary’s various homes. We have money transfers from her office to his bank in Lebanon.”
“And how would the CIA be able to get a search warrant to look inside the secretary’s home without me being notified, Darren?” His voice quivered with anger.
“Oh, we wouldn’t,” Darren replied softly.
The FBI director leaned into the table, his face now red. “Are you telling me that you broke into the homes of the goddamned secretary of state? Because if that’s what you’re saying, I’ll arrest you myself! What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Darren?”
“Wait. It gets even better,” he said, now smiling. He turned his computer monitor around so Bill could see it. It was a GPS map showing Chestnut Hill, near Boston. He pointed to a glowing dot. “That’s a GPS transponder, Bill. It was planted in an ancient Roman statue stolen from the country of Syria by ISIS, who then sold it to an illegal art dealer who was really CIA, who sold it to Ali Sawaad, who then sold it to Danielle Reynaud. So basically, the secretary paid a half million to ISIS to fund terrorism. But wait! It gets even better, Bill.” Darren was now on a roll and getting wound up and angry. “That piece of shit didn’t even have the decency to fund ISIS with her own money—no, she used a government account that’s supposed to fund confidential informants to help us in the war on terror, not fund it, Bill!”
Bill’s face fell. He was so stunned he was dizzy. While he wasn’t particularly a fan of the secretary’s ego or attitude either, he had hitched his wagon to her rising star and now felt sick to his stomach.
“Your people put the transponder in that statue?” he asked.
“Bingo. And you know what? A day after that statue was given to Ali Sawaad, Sawaad knew exactly who would pay a half million US to buy it. Go figure. He called his best customer, immediately. A few weeks later it’s in New Jersey from Lebanon, then trucked to her place in Chestnut Hill. And while the pictures I showed you are inadmissible in a court of law, you’re pretty damned compelled to get a search warrant for that statue now, aren’t you?”
Bill sat and stared at the photos, speechless.
“Of course, this country has already had a pretty big embarrassment, hasn’t it, Bill. Imagine, the director of the CIA being investigated for kiddy porn charges—just about the worst accusation on the planet. Hell, you don’t even have to be guilty, you just have to be accused and your best friends go running for the hills. You’d have a better chance of your friends coming over to your house to visit you if you had Ebola.”
Bill looked back up at Darren. He was ashen.
“I think maybe the country would be better off if it was spared these two embarrassments. Don’t you?”
Bill cleared h
is throat ever so slightly. A tell, to a poker player. “We had a name come up in the investigation. Wallace’s investigation.” He stared at Darren trying to read his face. The CIA had moles everywhere—did Darren already know or not? Bill continued, his voice now quieter. “If someone was to be arrested for planting those files on the director’s computer, the public would be satisfied that an arrest was made, the culprit was found, and the director would be cleared. The bureau would have a successful investigation, and the CIA would have a director back to work.”
“This is what I call interagency cooperation, Bill. What’s the name?”
Bill looked at him, still unsure if Darren already knew. “Jeff Dennis.”
Darren’s face told Bill he hadn’t known. “The secretary’s campaign manager?”
“Well, ‘political advisor.’ But, yeah. Future campaign manager. The hack went from his office to Holstrum’s home computer. Dennis wouldn’t have done it himself—he’s no IT guy, but you can be sure he ordered it done. It’s a conspiracy charge. He’s done.”
Darren glanced at Dex, then back at Bill. “Like I said, the country doesn’t need a long string of embarrassments. The director can return to work after you make the announcement about your successful apprehension of the suspect. I’m sure the secretary of state knew nothing about it. It may hurt her politically, but she’ll most likely avoid any official problems.”
Director Gallo cleared his throat again. “It would seem to be in the best interests of the country to make it all go away quietly. Director Holstrum is officially cleared. I’ll call him personally.”
“Thanks, Bill, but just the same, I’ll call him myself.” They locked eyes for a second.
“Sure. That’s fine. We done here?”
“Almost. Reynaud is in possession of artwork that doesn’t belong to her. The taxpayers own it. She’s going to donate it to the Smithsonian Museum. All of it.”
“I’m sure when she realizes it’s stolen artwork and her art dealer was operating illegally, she’ll want all of it out of her house,” said Gallo. He stood, silently looking at Darren.
Darren Davis extended his hand and shook it firmly. “Always good to work with you, Bill.”
Bill left the office and Darren and Dex exchanged a satisfied smile. “I should have had Chris bug her houses. I’d give anything to listen in on the next few phone calls between her, Jeff Dennis, her attorneys, and the FBI.”
“A part of me wants to jump up and high-five you,” said Dex. “But mostly I just want to puke in your trash can.”
“Use your own,” replied Darren. “And when you’re done, we’ll check in on our boys. I have a very happy phone call to make, first.”
Chapter 53
Charlie Mike
Apo, Bruce, and Carl moved silently through the jungle toward Kampong Aht. Their helicopter had dropped them far enough away to avoid the sound of the aircraft reaching the tiny village, leaving them with a pretty good hike toward the village.
They were the “anti-team.” While Moose and his original team looked every bit like SEALs or some type of elite special operations commandos with their gear, uniforms, buzz cuts, and shaved faces, Apo, Bruce, and Carl moved through the jungle in civilian-looking cargo pants and hiking boots, with their Kevlar vests simply put on over T-shirts. They did wear web belts with plenty of weapons and ammo, but with longer hair and Apo’s beard, they looked more like cartel hit men than US spec ops. They could have also cared less what anyone thought of their looks. They were professional, fearless, and quite lethal.
Carl, the oldest of the group, spoke quietly as they jogged down the slope toward the village. “Bruce, you’re lucky. Back when I was your age, out in the field, killing terrorists, we had to run uphill in both directions . . .”
“Yeah? But still, your age has its advantages. Your AARP card gets you discounts on ammo, and if we get stuck out here, you probably know how to make stone tools and fire and shit.”
“True. All true.”
Apo was out on point and held up a hand. They stopped their banter and squatted down into the ferns. Apo signaled them forward, and they moved up until they saw what had stopped Apo in his racks. The body of a Penan tribesman was in the trail. The man had been machine gunned and left to rot, and the jungle’s janitors had already gone to work on the body, feeding on the corpse so as to make its appearance disgusting.
They exchanged glances. They were now officially in “Injun Territory” and switched the safeties off and laser gun sights on. They fanned out and moved off the trail, now moving slowly and quietly in combat mode. The fun and games were over.
***
Mohammed and Hamdi paced angrily around the catwalks of the elevated village. They’d been unable to reach Hazrol and had no idea what was taking them so long. Interior Minister Abdul Ali had been emphatic about killing the two reporters, and failure to do so could mean the end of their mission. They needed those trucks and a ship at the ready.
Down below, the dozen men left behind to train the next group of martyrs performed daily chores. They fetched fresh fish from the Penan traps in the river, gathered firewood, cleaned weapons, and generally tried to kill time.
***
Apo held up two fingers and pointed. Apo and Bruce fanned out and snuck forward through the wet, soft moss and ferns. The three of them scanned the area to see who else was around. Apparently, it was just two low-level flunkies, gathering wood. They walked and chatted loudly, confident of their ownership of all around them. One of them had a machete, which he used to chop off branches. The other man was carrying a load of deadwood he had gathered.
Apo and Carl were the closest to the two men and circled so slowly they barely appeared to be moving. They maintained visual contact with each other as they moved through the ferns and grew closer to their quarry, waiting patiently for the right second. When both enemy soldiers had their backs turned and were focused on gathering more wood, Apo and Carl leapt out like jungle panthers, armed with KA-BAR knives. Each of them stabbed and slashed their targets so many times, both ISIS fighters were dead before they hit the ground.
The three of them moved forward, scanning in every direction and listening to the sounds of the jungle. Monkeys and birds chattered and insects buzzed. They were still undetected. When they reached the edge of the jungle, they could see the village in a small clearing. Perhaps twenty or so huts were built on stilts just above the water, with bamboo ladders leading to the primitive canoes below. The huts were also made from bamboo, with thatched walls and roofs. The design probably hadn’t changed in a thousand years.
Apo pointed to a satellite dish placed on top of a thatched roof. Okay, perhaps that was a new addition. The three of them all instantly concluded the hut with the dish was the command center, or at the very least, the communications center. It would have to be hit before any alert went out. The problem was, it was situated across open ground from the jungle.
Bruce signaled to the others. He pointed to himself, then the river, then made a signal of swimming. He’d swim to the ladder and attack from the water. Apo and Carl nodded. They’d move around in the jungle and attack from the rear of the village once Bruce was in position. If they were detected, at least it would draw attention from Bruce’s assault.
Bruce crept left toward the river as Apo and Carl moved to the right to circle behind the hamlet. Apo and Carl hadn’t gone more than forty yards when they came to another clearing. The fighters had made a rifle range in the back of the village by clearing the woods and constructing a few earthen berms. Crossing the opening would be a problem, but four of the ISIS fighters were preparing to take some shooting practice, which might offer a solution. Apo whispered into his throat mic to Bruce, so softly it was barely audible.
“Batman, four tangos about to take rifle practice. When you hear shooting, it isn’t an assault, but will mean four less tangos. Hoping their buddie
s will think it’s just them shooting. Charlie Mike. We’re kinetic in a minute.”
“Roger. Out.” Bruce kept crawling toward the river.
Apo and Carl knelt at the edge of the jungle, not more than twenty yards from where the four men pushed magazines into their AK-47s. As Apo and Carl examined their battle space more carefully, they realized that the fighters in front of them had taken bodies from the village and tied them to poles out in the berms. They weren’t shooting at silhouette targets, they were shooting at dead civilians. Seeing their animal behavior made killing them that much easier.
Carl and Apo sat patiently and waited for the four men to take firing positions. The ISIS fighters laughed with each other and made jokes, and then the four of them raised their weapons. The instant they began firing, Carl and Apo also fired, hitting the four men twice each before they raced forward to make sure they were dead. Three of the four were already dead; the last man was gasping until Apo slit his throat. They ran across the clearing and made it behind the village on the other side of the rifle range.
“Batman. Four tangos down. In position. Over.”
“Roger. Heading into the river. Out.”
Carl and Apo moved into their assault position at the edge of the forest and waited for Bruce.
Chapter 54
Downstream
The team sat on the edge of the helicopter’s floor, feet on the rails, as the gray bird roared north over the river, below the tree line. The crew chief was watching a tablet with real-time satellite images of the flotilla further north. The copilot had the same information up front. When the helicopter was within two kilometers of their target, it swung up and out away from the river and made a large loop to get ahead of the boats.
Dangerous Ground: The Team Book Five Page 17