Foreign and Domestic

by A. J Tata

  Gold.

  This was about gold. Mahegan fingered the gold coins in the inset pocket of his swim trunks. Miller Royes had a gold coin in his shoe. Locklear had talked about treasure hunters. She had a gold coin in her kayak.

  What did MVX-90s and gold have in common?

  Mahegan could not summon an immediate answer to that question, because something else had caught in the back of his mind.

  Ghosts.

  What were they talking about? Mahegan remembered his conversation with Locklear. Was Dare County haunted by the Lost Colony or were the crew members talking about something more tangible? General Bream had asked Mahegan if he had “ghosted” any prisoners of war. Were these men now talking about prisoners?

  The two men were now moving toward the cabin, discussing the merits of mutiny within Copperhead, Inc.

  “Nix is doing okay. He was rich, then broke, and now he’s rich again as soon as this stuff is legit,” Jimmy said.

  “But how do we make it legit?”

  “We’ll figure it out. Possession is nine-tenths, finders keepers, and all that good shit,” Jimmy said.

  “Probably harder than all of that if Copperhead Six is going through all this bullshit.”

  “We’ll find our own ship. . . .”

  Mahegan immediately recognized the unmistakable sound of rifle fire in the forest. The sharp zipping sound, the echo through the woods, the high-pitched whine, the two men falling to the deck of the landing craft, hit.

  Someone had initiated a perfect ambush or perhaps even an assassination. Regardless, Mahegan immediately began to calculate that if the assassin had seen Jimmy and his co-conspirator, then there was a good chance that he too had been spotted. At a minimum, the shooter would come to the landing craft to inspect the bodies. If he was lucky, there would be just one, but his military mind told him that there was a small chance of that.

  He began to think about what was at play.

  Gold. Apparently, a lot of it. Whoever was running the operation would want to keep people in the know to a bare minimum. So maybe just one shooter. If he was lucky.

  He waited until he thought the sniper might be moving. Worst case, he thought, was that one was keeping watch on the ship while another was moving. Classic over-watch.

  He heard the rustle of footsteps moving quickly through the forest toward the boat. Mahegan looked down at the two bodies not more than twenty feet from the entrance to the pilot’s cabin. Both were dead, he was sure. Headshots. Infrared scopes, close distance, and infrared aiming lights.

  Mahegan wished he had his night-vision goggles. Knowing he was at a disadvantage, he stayed in his protected corner until he heard footsteps board the landing craft. Looking above the rim again, he watched as a man pressed his hand against the neck of each corpse. He was carrying an M24 sniper rifle with mounted thermal scope and infrared aiming device.

  When done, he turned toward the bow of the vessel and spoke into a handheld microphone.

  “Copperhead Six, this is Copperhead Three. All secure.”

  “Roger, out.”

  Mahegan heard Copperhead Six’s voice through the microphone on the shooter’s radio. His first thought was, authoritative. Crisp and clear, the voice sounded like an Army commander. He was giving orders, monitoring the situation, and receiving the report he desired.

  Confident. No mistakes. Good to go.

  “Roger, out,” Copperhead Three said.

  The “Three” suffix was usually the operations officer, a worthy chess piece to remove from the board. Mahegan sprung from his hidden position and leapt onto the shooter’s back, striking him directly on the carotid artery. He felt the man buckle and loosen his grip on the rifle. Mahegan held the sniper, who was a big man, as he slid down onto the deck.

  For good measure, Mahegan struck him in the back of the head with his forearm, a concussive blow as opposed to anything lethal.

  Searching the man, Mahegan removed his radio, his weapon, and a knife.

  He pulled a small Maglite from the man’s tactical vest and searched the rest of his body, finding a handheld Garmin GPS Map and a Copperhead swipe card. The identification on the card read “Lars Olsen.” He had made the classic rookie mistake, carrying identification on a combat mission. Mahegan pocketed the high-tech GPS device and ID card as he quickly searched the two dead men. One of them had been carrying a duffel bag, which he unzipped, revealing an oxygen tank for scuba diving, a regulator, mask, fins, a yellow waterproof searchlight, and a block and pulley with rope already fed through the grooves. He also found a K-Bar knife, standard Marine fare to match the “Hoorah,” he had heard earlier in the evening. He secured the knife and scabbard.

  If he’d had any doubt before, Mahegan was now convinced that these men had discovered gold somewhere nearby, most likely in the water, and the bodies littering the deck of the landing craft had clashed over its ownership.

  In addition to three sets of PVS-16 night-vision monocles, Mahegan also found a military officer’s Beretta pistol on one of the dead men. He handled it, popped the magazine, saw the hollow points packed inside, then jacked the bolt open, catching the expelled round. He replaced the shell in the chamber, slid the magazine back into the well, charged the weapon, slipped the safety to “on,” and moved toward the sniper rifle.

  This weapon was more interesting. But not wanting to spend any more time on the landing craft, he simply snatched it, and removed the black backpack from Lars Olsen, who was moaning now and trying to roll over. Mahegan lifted the pistol and prepared to forcefully strike Olsen near the base of his skull. But before he completed the downward arc, he thought about Colgate and the MVX-90s and stopped.

  Instead, he stuffed two of the night-vision devices, the handheld GPS, K-Bar knife, block and tackle, lat-long cardboard, and Beretta pistol in the backpack, loosened the straps to full length, slung it over his shoulders, grabbed the rifle, and high-kicked over the gunwale onto a well-worn path in the dense forest. He leaned the rifle against a thick cypress tree, its roots jutting upward in sharp edges. He returned to the landing craft, deadlifted Olsen, and dumped him over the rim of the boat on the forest side. The big man landed half in the muck and half on the roots. Mahegan heard Olsen groan as he leaned over and lifted him into a fireman’s carry.

  He secured the night-vision monocle to his head, flipped the switch, picked up the rifle, and followed an obvious trail, now displayed in the vivid green hues of infrared imagery through his night-vision goggles.

  Mahegan moved about a hundred meters before stopping. Olsen was wakening, the trail was well worn, and he wanted to get away from the certain inbound traffic. The morning sun was now making it light enough so that he did not need the goggle, so he removed it, held it in his free hand, and carefully picked his way through dense underbrush to a minor opening about thirty meters off the trail.

  He dumped Olsen onto the edge of the opening and knelt next to the man. Shards of light were knifing their way through the canopied forest, just enough for him to clearly see Olsen’s face.

  He had a tight haircut, military style. Even in the relative darkness, Olsen’s hair looked blond. The man was probably over six feet tall, almost as big as Mahegan. He was wearing black cargo pants and a long-sleeve polypro shirt.

  Mahegan used the flashlight to inspect the remainder of the backpack’s contents, revealing little of interest other than some rags that smelled of gun oil and a secure, handheld Motorola personal mobile radio. Mahegan had used similar devices in Afghanistan and as he looked into the bag with the pistol, knife, night-vision goggles, GPS, and radio, and the rifle lying across his lap, he couldn’t help but think about the raid he’d led a year ago to capture a key bomb maker in Afghanistan. He had carried much of the same equipment into that fight. But now, why did his attempted retreat from that world refuse to take hold? He looked at the thick, partially broken canopy above him, shut his eyes, and tried to think. He heard the rhythmic sounds of millions of insects, the frequent rustle of smal
l animals, and the occasional growl of what had to be a black bear. Now that he knew his location to be just south of where he had been swimming just a few days before, he wondered if the red wolves were nearby.

  He had tossed away his career, his passion, his life, but he’d simply been throwing a boomerang, as here in his lap had returned the means of war, the tools of his trade. A warrior’s arsenal.

  He thought about the MVX-90s and the gold and how they could intersect, if at all. He replayed in his mind Locklear’s words about the Teach’s Pet and about Copperhead, Inc. There in the forest he pieced together what he knew, what he believed, and what he was going to do about it. What he knew: Colgate was dead. Someone had used an MVX-90 to defeat US jamming capability. The MVX-90 was a uniquely American invention, tested at the Dare County Bombing and Electronic Warfare Range. Copperhead, Inc. had lost tens of millions of dollars’ worth of contracts in Afghanistan and Iraq. They had also been sued by the foreign governments of Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, Iran, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia for their harsh treatment of detainees and indiscriminate shooting of civilians. Fort Brackett had been attacked and Adham was claiming responsibility. Adham was promising more attacks and beheadings as well as implicating him, Mahegan, in the plot. And Copperhead was moving gold and MVX-90s on a deep-sea fishing boat.

  What he believed: Copperhead, Inc. was a business that had either gone bankrupt or was about to file Chapter 11. They had started out selling the MVX-90s to the highest bidder and somewhere along the way found the gold after securing the bomb-clearing contract, a decidedly unsexy contract for a bunch of folks who considered themselves trained killers. Last, Mullah Adham, aka Adam Wilhoyt, wanted to duel with him, and was taunting him from afar.

  What he was going to do: Find out if Copperhead, Inc. was responsible for Colgate’s death and, if so, then make every last son of a bitch pay.

  And then find Adham and give him what he wanted: a duel.

  He looked at Olsen, who was rubbing the back of his head.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  Mahegan put his knee into Olsen’s sternum, pushed the rag into his mouth, rolled him, tied his hands behind his back using the rope from the pulley, and then winched the rope around a sturdy oak tree. He looped the rope around Olsen’s waist, positioning him so that he was sitting with his back against the tree. Then Mahegan used the pulley to severely tighten the rope until Olsen’s eyes began to bug out.

  Tight enough, he thought.

  “Okay, Lars, here’s the deal.” Mahegan retrieved the pistol and knife from the backpack and thumbed the safety to the “off” position. He laid the pistol in his lap and stuck the knife in the ground next to him as he sat in the center of the clearing about five feet from his captive.

  “I’m going to take that greasy rag out of your mouth, but I will stick this knife in your heart if you try to scream for help. We’re going to use quiet voices here and I want you to nod that you understand me.”

  He waited and watched Olsen, whose eyes were still popping from his face like some kind of Amazonian tree frog. His cheeks were red and Mahegan knew that the oil-soaked rag probably impaired his breathing. When Olsen didn’t respond, Mahegan took the knife from the ground, sharp tip up, and rested it beneath Olsen’s chin, pushing slightly upward without drawing blood.

  “You guys need to sharpen your knives, wild man. Now let me know if you’re hearing me.” Mahegan removed the knife and Olsen nodded, eyes shut, probably fearing the future more than the present.

  “Okay, now before I remove the gag, I’ve got one of your buddies on the other side of the trail and he’s already starting to talk. I’m a crazy son of a bitch and so what I’ve decided is I’m going to ask you both the same questions and figure out what reality is here. I’m going to know who’s lying. It’s a game called ‘prisoner’s dilemma.’ I’m sure you used it on some of your detainees in the sandbox. Whoever talks the most wins. It’s that simple. You’re going to wonder how I know all this, but don’t waste your time. You can’t even figure out how I got here or why you’re cinched up with this pulley. So, keep it simple and keep it real. You got it?”

  Olsen nodded.

  Mahegan lifted the pistol, stood, and walked toward Olsen, who tried to kick him, but missed. Mahegan sidestepped the lame effort and stopped.

  “Listen, asshole. I can assume the other guy is telling the truth. The one who lived. You got his buddy pretty good in the head, but the other guy came to before you did. He’s talking. He’s talking about gold and MVX-90s and all kind of shit. Hell, he’s even giving me grid coordinates, asking me to split it with him. He’s told me about the Lucky Lindy, too. All that sounds pretty real to me. So what am I going to do? I’ve got three options. Leave you here for animals to eat. Shoot you dead, which is really a subset of the first option. Or let your ass go. Your call. Give me a sign, because I’m losing momentum here.”

  Deflated, Olsen nodded as if to say, “Okay.”

  Mahegan removed the gag, aiming the pistol directly at the man.

  “This is going to be quick. In what building are the MVX-90s located?”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Mahegan cocked the hammer to the Beretta, a largely meaningless move, but one that got Olsen’s attention.

  “What building?”

  Olsen’s lip was trembling and Mahegan didn’t know if he was going to cry, shit his pants, or both.

  “Warehouse near the tower.”

  “Okay, your buddy on the other side of the trail gave me that plus a direction. From the tower, what cardinal direction?”

  Lars paused and said, “Screw it. Only a few left anyway. Northeast.”

  “My man across the trail said, ‘North by northeast,’ but I’m going to accept your imprecision this time.”

  Olsen shook his head. “Screw him. I’m telling the truth, man. It’s about fifty meters northeast of the tower.”

  “Okay, now how about the gold?”

  “What gold?”

  “My man across the trail tells me that you assholes found a shitpot full of gold and are using the landing craft and the Lucky Lindy to move it around.”

  Olsen stared at Mahegan, struggled against his binds, and then sighed.

  “Don’t know anything about that.”

  Mahegan said, “Fine, I’ll ask him again. If he gives me the same information twice, I’m going to assume you’re lying and come back here and kill you. Pretty simple.”

  Mahegan started to walk and Olsen said, “Okay. Okay.”

  “I’m still moving. What’s the deal?” Mahegan stepped over a log in the direction of the trail.

  “The gold is gone.”

  “I thought there was one more shipment?”

  “How do you know—?”

  Mahegan smiled.

  “I’m inside your head. I’m inside Copperhead, Incorporated. So the only thing you need to understand is that if you don’t tell me the truth, you die.”

  Olsen shrugged. “You’re going to kill me anyway, so go screw yourself.”

  Mahegan walked back over the log, lifted the pistol, and swatted Olsen across the face using the back of his hand.

  “Next time you get a bullet. I’m tired of wasting my time and your partner has far more information than you. He figures he’s dying anyway. Told him you shot him so he’s talking.”

  Olsen looked up at Mahegan. The sun was beginning to burn away the early morning fog allowing some light to seep through the high canopy.

  “One more shipment. The way it works is that we pull it up from the river, take the landing craft to any number of locations, conduct a transfer, and then the Lindy takes it offshore. Not sure where.”

  “Offshore?”

  “Yeah, asshole, like out to sea.”

  “Two more questions.”

  “I ever get out of this I will personally hunt you down and cut open your guts and use them for fishing bait,” Olsen croaked.

  “Cool. Now tell me about the
ghosts.”

  Olsen’s face went white, but remained impassive. “No ghosts around here, man. Just wolves howling all the time.”

  “Okay, try something easy. Is the Lucky Lindy named after Lindy Locklear?”

  Olsen smiled.

  “You tapping that shit? That’s Nix’s girl.”

  “Lindy Locklear is Nix’s girlfriend?”

  “Thought you were inside my head, douche bag?” Olsen mocked.

  Mahegan considered the information. Why would she come on to him? It had to do with the gold. Some kind of falling-out over the gold?

  Mahegan retrieved Olsen’s GPS and scrolled through its stored grid coordinates. Like the Loran navigation device on the landing craft, the Garmin had a “my favorites” option. He punched the screen and saw several of the images appeared the same as the one on the Loran. A few were different. One was an anomaly: It was in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean about 150 miles due east, offshore.

  The very first image was what he believed to be the landing craft docking point on Long Shoal Creek. The second was about a mile away through the forest and across Route 264 in the middle of what looked like a swamp surrounded by rectangular moats. The alternating light green and blue lines gave way to a piece of land that appeared to have a few dirt roads and some buildings scattered in a tight area.

  The bold letters next to the buildings read: DARE COUNTY BOMBING AND ELECTRONIC WARFARE RANGE.

  Mahegan punched the “navigate” function, watched the device triangulate the satellites and then point in the direction he needed to walk.

  He repacked the rucksack, ran a strip of duct tape over Olsen’s mouth, and with soldierly skill carried the sniper rifle at the ready as he followed the GPS arrow.

  Chapter 17

  Samuel Nix turned to Vinny Falco and said, “Something’s wrong with Lars. He took care of the two defectors but he hasn’t called in or returned.” He paused and said again, “Something’s wrong.”