The Team

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The Team Page 3

by David M. Salkin


  The General and his staff shook hands with Coach Mackey and his players and welcomed them to Saudi Arabia. He had one of his staff escort the team to a blue Air Force bus, where they stowed their gear and hopped aboard the air-conditioned bus to escape the desert heat. It had to be at least ninety-five degrees, and this was still spring. In another two months, it would be well over a hundred. The team politely listened to an Air Force sergeant tell them about the base, local customs, and where to find basic necessities. The bus pulled up in front of a four-story apartment building, which was immaculate and freshly painted in desert colors. The team unloaded and headed to their rooms, which were private—a nice surprise. They were VIPs, after all.

  After they had unloaded, the team assembled in a small meeting room that had been reserved especially for them. Once there, the team helped Cascaes, Hodges, Jones, and Perez assemble their weapons and check their radios and gear. The game was to be played tomorrow morning, which meant the foursome working on the truck interception would be heading out tonight. It was already fifteen hundred hours, having lost a few in the air, and the men needed time to plan and then rest before heading out.

  Once the weapons and radios were assembled, they were put back into their packs along with night vision equipment, body armor, Ghillie suits, some MREs, and water to last two days. The men changed into desert camos and pulled out maps to recheck their routes. In the meantime, Mackey arranged for a civilian truck to be brought to their apartment building, which would be the mode of transportation from Riyadh to the ambush point.

  The team went back to their rooms, each with their own equipment, and tried to grab a couple of hours of sleep. At oh-three hundred, Cascaes and his crew headed down to the truck and took off for a small desert road to the north. At oh-six hundred, the rest of the team woke up and headed over to the chow hall to grab breakfast, now dressed in their brand new blue and white uniforms. They carried duffle bags that now held only baseball gloves, hats, and helmets, cleats, and batting gloves, and bats. (And micro-sized radios to communicate with their team.)

  They were treated like star athletes in the dining hall, with other base personnel wishing them luck in ‘kicking some Saudi ass.’ The team smiled and shook hands with everyone, realizing that their uniforms did make them look like a team right out of the Majors. It was their first real game, and the men on the team where actually starting to get psyched about playing now that the crowd was egging them on. They had beaten every team they had played in Hawaii, most of them badly, but they had yet to play a real team.

  None of them had really mentally prepared for baseball stardom. It was fun, but at the same time, they were trying to appear serious about the upcoming game. They did, in fact, want to win—it was their natural competitive spirit, but of course, they were all distracted by the mission that had started while they slept. They finished breakfast with lots of additional backslaps and high-signs, and they were happy to get out of there to a round of applause by the entire dining facility.

  Coach Mackey smiled and waved as they left, and then quietly told his team to get their asses on the bus. They had a forty-minute drive by bus to the prince’s private stadium.

  While they all knew the man was stupid-rich, nothing could have prepared them for what they saw when they pulled into the stadium parking lot. It was a scaled down version of the Houston Astrodome. The stadium could hold five thousand fans, although it was a private facility that rarely held more than three hundred. The stadium was domed and climate controlled, and the Astroturf field was as nice as anything in the Majors back home.

  When the team arrived, their bus was greeted by a full staff of the prince’s, who, they were told, was waiting for them inside. As they headed inside, a few of the players whistled quietly at the enormity of the stadium. Only a couple of the guys on the team had ever played college ball, and even those stadiums were nothing like this. There were electronic scoreboards and enormous replay screens—nicer than those found in most professional American stadiums.

  The team followed their coach into the stadium and were greeted by Prince Abdul bin-Mustafa Awadi, their host. He was one of a few thousand billionaires in Saudi Arabia who smiled and did business with the west, while privately holding no love for the Americans outside of their one common interest—oil money. They went through the formalities and introductions but were surprised when an assistant came to the team and asked for each player’s name, so they could be announced at the start of the game. That brought a few nervous chuckles.

  When that business was settled, the team headed to their dugout by third base. They could see the opposing team enter their dugout from an inner door, and they watched them trot out onto the field where they began a formal warm up routine. Moose was the first to notice two of the players on the Saudi team. He grabbed Ripper, his catcher.

  “Hey, Rip—you see who that is over there? That’s Jose Torrez, man. Doesn’t he play for the Mets?”

  Ripper looked over and squinted. “Holy shit, man. You ain’t kidding. Look who he’s talking to.”

  Moose couldn’t believe it. “Christ. That’s Fernandez from Los Angeles. He hit like...three forty last year. You gotta be shittin’ me.”

  “I guess when you’re a billionaire, you can hire a guy to play one game,” said Ripper. He looked back to Moose, but Moose was already trotting over to Mackey.

  “Hey, Coach. We got problems with our little exhibition game,” he said.

  Mackey looked up from his roster. “What’s up?”

  “They’ve brought in ringers. That’s Fernandez and Torrez over there.”

  Mackey raised his eyebrows. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Damn straight. Those guys are pros. They each made like a boatload of dough last year playing at home. Torrez throws like a hundred miles an hour, and Fernandez will be bouncing the ball off the lights. Lord knows what Prince Raghead paid these guys to play one game.”

  Mackey looked over at the Saudi team, in neat rows, stretching in pre-game warm-ups. Their white uniforms were immaculate. Only the beards on some of the players gave away their nationality—otherwise, they looked like a professional American team.

  “Quit your bitching and get the guys out to do warm-ups like those guys. Try and look like a baseball team.”

  Smitty walked up to his Coach and whispered in his ear. “Problem, Coach.”

  “Yeah, I know about the ringers.”

  “Ringers?” asked Smitty.

  “What’s your problem, Smitty?”

  “It’s the radios. They are getting almost no signal in here. Must be the steel dome. I haven’t been able to reach our team at all. Been trying since we walked in.”

  “Shit. Okay, keep at it. Oh, and be ready to play today. We may need your bat. The prince was kind enough to hire professional baseball players. Apparently, he takes this shit as seriously as I do.”

  Smitty looked across the field. “Holy crap. Isn’t that Jose Torrez from the Mets?”

  Chapter 7

  Saudi Desert Road

  Cascaes and his team had left in the dark, stopping only once at the front gate of Eskan to show papers and head off into the night. An hour outside of Riyadh, they turned off the main highway and headed off onto a narrow two-lane road that stretched through the flat dead earth. A few centuries of baking had turned everything the same shade of brown, although they couldn’t see it in the dark.

  Hodges was driving, his cheek full of chewing tobacco, while Cascaes watched their position on a laptop that sat where the name implied. Jones and Perez sat in the back and tried to catch a few Z’s. Their truck, an unmarked, nondescript delivery box truck, rumbled along the dusty road alone in the Arabian night, following a path that had been used for a few centuries, but sometime during this one had finally gotten some asphalt. After about an hour on the narrow road, they climbed a small rise between two large rocky cliffs, a
pass of sorts, and slowed down. As soon as they were over the rise, the truck slowly pulled off the road onto ground that was no softer than the asphalt.

  “Wake up, sleeping beauties,” said Cascaes to his rear seat passengers. “It’s almost sunup. Time to start making ready for an armed robbery.”

  Jones stretched his legs and groaned, and Perez took a swig from his canteen.

  “I wish this was coffee,” he mumbled.

  Hodges unpacked his Marine sniper rifle and pointed to the rocks overhead. Cascaes grunted, and Hodges took off to find himself a concealed spot to set up his ambush. Cascaes, Perez, and Jones pulled out their duffle bags, one of which contained dragon’s teeth—metal spikes attached to a chain that could be laid across the road to blow the tires of their target. It could also be quickly yanked off the road if the wrong vehicle approached. Each of them had silenced automatic weapons with laser quick-sights. They took a tire from the back of the truck and leaned it against their vehicle. Anyone that might see them would assume they were simply fixing a flat. They were wearing civilian clothes and were not trying to pass as anything other than Americans traveling through Saudi on business, should the need to speak to anyone arise.

  Cascaes and Perez stashed their weapons behind the spare tire and Jones took a position across the roadway, hidden in some rocks. The sun broke over the flat horizon to the east, spreading red and orange fingers through a dark sky. It would be the last sunrise for somebody.

  Cascaes spoke on his hidden wrist mic to Hodges up in the rocks overhead. “You all set?”

  “Roger that, Skipper. I can see y’all clear as a bell. Jones, I can see you picking your nose across the street.”

  Jones held up his middle finger. “Can you see what finger I’m holding up?” he asked quietly.

  “That’s very impolite,” said Hodges quietly.

  Cascaes ignored them and went over it one last time. “The truck hits the teeth and stops. Jonesy, you yank it as soon as they go over it so they don’t see anything. They pull over and see us and assume we had the same problem. If they get antsy and make a move for weapons, Hodges, you whack ‘em right away. Otherwise, we wait for them to pull over and get close enough to see how many there are. We hit them fast, unload the cash to our vehicle and bury the bodies. Jones and Perez, you’ll drive their vehicle back about a mile to that dry creek bed and ditch it out there. No one will find it for another thousand years. Everyone clear?”

  Three quick “Rogers” answered him. “Hodges, how far down the road can you see from up there?”

  “At least a mile and half, Skipper. Maybe more when the sun gets up higher.”

  “Okay, we’ll wait for your heads up. We’ve got a few hours. Until then, you stay sharp. Jonesy, you stay out of sight. Out.”

  Chapter 8

  The Stadium

  Mackey was shaking his head in disbelief. He wasn’t exactly sure what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. The prince had an announcer introduce each player, his position on the field and batting average, in Arabic and English, from an unseen press box, and each team lined up on their appropriate baseline. The Star Spangled Banner was played, followed by the Saudi National Anthem. The Saudi players stood at attention as if they were going to be broadcast on national television, which, it turned out, they were. The Americans, realizing that this was more serious than they anticipated, imitated the Saudis, feeling intimidated for the first time since leaving basic training.

  When the anthems were over, the teams went to their dugouts. The American team bombarded Mackey with questions and comments.

  “Holy shit, Coach, this is nuts! We’re gonna get killed,” said Moose quietly.

  “Bullshit,” said Mackey, obviously irritated at the way things were starting out. “We came here to do a mission, which is what we’re doing. You get to play baseball for a couple of hours. Don’t embarrass us out there. And don’t pitch to the ringer.”

  Moose was shaking his head. Mackey turned and addressed his team. “Okay, you guys, give the prince a game out there today. You may actually have to do some fielding today for a change so pay attention. We’re up in a minute, so watch their pitcher warm up. Take a few pitches and see what he’s got. He may be throwing some heat out there. Jake, you’re lead off.”

  Jake Koches had actually played baseball in college, but as he watched the pitcher hurl the ball at the catcher he cursed under his breath. The guy was a pro, with a fastball and a curve that was not like anything he’d seen other than on TV. He took a few practice cuts as he watched Jose Torrez throw a ninety-seven mile-per-hour fastball. He looked over at Mackey for sympathy, but Mackey was whispering to another player about communication problems. They were still getting static and hadn’t spoken to Cascaes’ team since they arrived at the stadium. As much as Mackey wanted to win the baseball game just to piss off the prince, it was actually irrelevant to the mission as long as they didn’t get humiliated to the point that their team was obviously not an all-star team.

  Mackey was concentrating on the radio when he heard the sound of a ball on leather and a loud “Strike one!” with an Arab accent. He looked up and watched Koches step out of the batter’s box. The announcer was saying his name, but killing the pronunciation of Koches, making him sound Hebrew with the “ch” sound being a phlegm noise. Mackey cracked up at that.

  Koches swung wildly at the next fastball as well.

  “Strike two!”

  “Jesus Christ!” yelled Mackey. “I told you guys to watch a few pitches first!”

  “Strike three!”

  Jake fought off the urge to throw his bat and trotted back to the dugout.

  “What happened to watching a few pitches, Jake?” screamed Mackey.

  “Coach, he threw three perfect strikes right down the middle.”

  “So why didn’t you hit any of them if they were so perfect?” snapped Mackey.

  “Because the motherfucker throws a hundred miles an hour!” he yelled, as he threw his batting helmet across the bench.

  Pete McCoy, their shortstop and team speedster, was up second. After watching Jake get smoked, he made up his mind to bunt his way on. He took the first pitch, a called strike fastball, and smiled. He had barely seen the ball coming in.

  “God damn, he throws hard,” he said loud enough for the catcher to hear. The catcher smiled under his mask and signaled for his fifth consecutive fastball.

  This time, Pete squared around as soon as the pitcher was finishing his motion and managed to get his bat on the ball. It bounced harder than he would have liked towards third, and he sprinted like a mad man. The catcher and third basemen almost collided, but the third basemen called him off and barehanded it, zipping it to first. Pete had managed to beat the ball to first, but he was wheezing, amazed at how hard the third basemen had thrown the ball. Who the Hell were these guys?

  Lance Woods, the resident surfer, walked out to the plate. Mackey wasn’t really doing any coaching, as he was trying to get the damn radio to work, but he had signaled to McCoy, the fastest guy on the team, to steal. Woods would be swinging at the first pitch.

  The guys on the bench were actually watching the game, even though they had no idea what was happening to their comrades out in the desert. They held their breath as Pete took a long lead. Torrez glanced in his direction but didn’t think he would go and threw a slider to Woods, who actually got a piece of the ball by pure luck. The jump McCoy had gotten helped him get around second by the time the right fielder picked up the loping single, and McCoy burned it to third base

  Smitty walked out to the plate, rubbing dirt on his hands. He was strong as an ox, and even though he wasn’t particularly tall or broad, he was just hard. His forearms and hands were anvils, and he was the best hitter on the team out of pure natural talent, even though he never played serious baseball before joining. When he got a hold of one, it went. The announcer call
ed his name and number in a heavy Saudi accent.

  “…and now batting for the Navy All-Stars, number seventeen, Joe Smith…”

  The guys on the bench laughed. Smitty was CIA, and they figured his name was fake, but to hear “Joe Smith” announced on the stadium speakers made it all the more comical.

  Torrez was trying to size him up, knowing he was the cleanup batter. He didn’t like having men on first and third with one out, either. He had been paid a quarter of a million dollars and been given the most luxurious accommodations imaginable to pitch this game—but he had also guaranteed a win. He could feel the prince glaring from behind home plate in his special luxury box seat. McCoy and Woods were taking small leads and screaming at Smitty to hit one out of the park like a bunch of Little Leaguers. Even the guys on the bench were getting into it now, standing up at the dugout fence and yelling at their teammate, while Cory Stewart shushed them as he tried to listen to his earpiece for any communication with their ambush team.

  “Strike one!” yelled the umpire as Smitty watched the first pitch break at the corner of the plate. He had never seen a professional curveball from the batter’s box and found it somewhat amazing. His bat had never moved. He stepped out of the batter’s box and looked around at the huge stadium. For a guy who’d been all over the world doing all kinds of Black Ops, he was a dumbfounded little kid. He stepped back in and took a deep breath, and Torrez threw a fastball that was a hair inside, brushing him back a little. Smitty was pissed, figuring this was no accident, and in his mind was already firing a three round burst into the pitcher’s chest.

 

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