“I read you,” he said quietly into his wrist mic as nonchalantly as possible. “Where the hell ya been?”
“Ball one!”
“We are almost back at Eskan with the fruit. It was not as simple as planned.”
Mackey grimaced. “Everyone okay?”
“Roger that. I’ll brief you when I see you, but we need to move up our exit, like pronto.”
“Roger. We’ll get back ASAP. Out.” Mackey casually turned to Smitty as Woods ripped one over the shortstop’s head for a single. He grabbed Smitty’s arm as he was heading out of the dugout. “Strike out as fast as possible and we’re outta here, you understand?”
“Are you shittin’ me, Boss? Lance is the tying run…”
“Strike out and we’re out of here. That’s a direct order.” He turned to his team and quietly spread the word. “As soon as he strikes out, get your shit together and we need to double time it back to Eskan. Act pissed off so the prince thinks we’re sore losers and understands why we won’t stay for dinner and shit. We need to hustle.”
His players hated to lose, but they understood that they weren’t here to play baseball. Smitty jogged out to the plate and Lance started screaming some encouragement from first base. Smitty ignored the urge to try and kill it and swung at the first pitch, which was in the dirt. The second pitch was also wild, and again he swung and missed. He could feel the prince’s smile behind him and wanted to open up his royal head with the bat, but instead he pounded the plate and swung wildly at the third pitch. He threw his bat and walked back towards the dugout as the catcher ran out to the mound to congratulate his exhausted pitcher.
Lance jogged over to Smitty, annoyed. “What the fuck were you swinging at, man?”
“Shut up—we’re outta here, boss’s orders,” he sneered back. Damn, he hated striking out on purpose.
The few friends of the prince stood and clapped, and the announcer came on with the final statistics. Coach Mackey stepped out onto the field and saluted the prince politely, then turned to his players. “Everybody get your ass to the bus.”
They headed out the same way they came in but were stopped by one of the prince’s men. “His eminence invites you to dine with him and his team, after you help yourselves to our shower facilities and locker room…”
Mackey gave a fake smile and replied tersely, “Please, tell the prince that my men are sore losers and will be heading back to base to be yelled at by their coach for a few hours.” He walked past him somewhat brusquely, followed by his sweaty, pissed-off team in the direction of their waiting bus.
Chapter 11
Eskan Village
The bus pulled into Eskan after a quiet ride back. The mission wasn’t discussed on the bus. Instead, the players discussed the game. Although they were angry about losing, they could live with the fact that they had held their own against a bunch of ringers. Much of the conversation was about the stadium itself. They were all pretty amazed that one person could build a multi-million dollar facility for his own personal use a couple of times a year. They all agreed the lavish expense was the reason gas was over three dollars a gallon.
The bus stopped in front of their neat little housing unit, where a plain looking truck sat parked out front. Jones was sitting in the open back of the truck with his SAW across his lap. Perez paced around the front with his MP5 strapped across his chest, and Hodges sat in the cab, engine running. They were simply guarding the truck while Cascaes was upstairs packing up all of their gear so they’d be ready to hustle when the team arrived.
Hodges spoke into his mic from inside the truck cab to Cascaes. “Skipper, the team’s back.”
“Roger that,” said Chris, who walked out to the parking lot to greet the team, two large duffle bags slung over his back.
The bus squealed to a stop, the airbrakes hissing, and the team walked down the steps, still in their cleats and dirty baseball uniforms. The two Chrises shook hands, and Cascaes spoke first. “I’ve got a plane on the runway, gassed up and ready to go. The fruit truck was as described, except there were two little kids aboard with the driver to throw off the border guards.”
“And?” asked Mackey.
“We didn’t know. Not that we could have done anything differently anyway. We would have been made for Americans if we’d left them alive. Anyway, Jones and Perez were kind of shaken up. All of us, I guess. Let’s just get the fuck out of here before someone finds the truck. I had to burn it. We couldn’t ditch it like we planned—it was too shot up.”
“Simple plan, huh?” said Mackey quietly. He turned back towards the bus and yelled, “Hey! Hold up! We’re getting back on.” He jogged over to the bus and stuck his head back inside. “We need to get over to the airfield pronto.”
“You’re leaving now, sir?” asked the young airman driving the bus.
“Right now.” He looked back at his team that had just gotten off the bus and yelled over to them. “Everyone back on board. Hodges, Perez, and Jones—you too. I’ll ride with Cascaes. You can shower in Germany.”
He jogged over to the truck and let Cascaes drive, following the bus through the neat little streets of Eskan Village back to the airfield where their transport plane would be waiting. They would connect in Germany to refuel and change crews, then straight to Virginia, where people above their pay grade would decide what happened to the fifty million dollars sitting in eight large duffle bags in the back of their truck. Cascaes told Mackey everything that happened from beginning to end, and when he was finished, Mackey told him about the baseball game—a far more pleasant story than shooting two kids to death.
Chapter 12
Homeward Bound
They had showered and changed clothes at a US Airbase in Germany, then re boarded their transport plane to try and get some sleep in uncomfortable seats. Jones woke up somewhere over the Atlantic in a cold sweat, the mutilated faces of the two boys splattered all over the front seat in his nightmare. He woke Perez out of a dead sleep.
Ernesto Perez, simply known as “Ernie P.” woke up startled, automatically reaching for his gun that wasn’t there. He blinked a few times and looked around the dark aircraft before he remembered where he was. He looked at Earl Jones, who looked like he had just seen a ghost, because Jones was pretty sure he had. His face was covered in sweat.
Perez whispered, “Wussup?”
Jones whispered back over the low drone of the plane. “Nightmares, man. I keep seeing those kids in the truck. I blew the shit out of two little kids, man.” Jones was literally shaking in his seat.
“Holmes, it wasn’t our fault, man. The dude grabbed his gun and was gonna shoot Mack. What the fuck was he thinkin, anyway? Bringin’ two little kids with him to smuggle money to terrorists…it was fucked up, man, but it wasn’t our fault. I fired at the truck, too, man, and so did Hodges. That shit ain’t on us, man. It’s on the dude that brought the kids. Take a deep breath and get some sleep, you look like shit.”
Earl leaned back and tried to close his eyes, but every time he did, he could feel the tears coming. It was right in front of him—two little kids on the front seat, their mutilated bodies, and the blood running out of the truck onto the dusty road…he stared at the dark ceiling until troubled sleep finally came.
Ernie looked over at him every hour or so to see if he was sleeping, his own sleep now ruined by the same nightmare. He was fearless and had seen plenty of killing, including dead civilians in Iraq and Afghanistan—but had never killed a civilian himself. He exhaled slowly and fought back his own tears in the dark cabin.
* * *
The team touched down in Virginia near CIA headquarters at eleven in the morning, almost thirty hours after stealing fifty million dollars of terrorist money. The tires bounced on the tarmac with a short screech, and the plane taxied to the end of the runway. They were at a private airfield owned by the CIA, just outside of Langley. A black
bus was at one end of the runway, escorted by a black SUV. The rear of the aircraft opened and the ramp lowered to allow the team out with all of their gear, including heavy duffle bags filled with bricks of American hundreds.
After several months of rigorous training at another facility, and now their first mission successfully under their belt, they were finally going to meet “the boss,” Dex Murphy at the official home of CIA’s Special Operations Training Center. They were now officially, “on the inside.”
Dex Murphy opened the door of the SUV and stepped out. He walked over to greet his old friend Chris Mackey, who introduced him to Chief Petty Officer Christopher Cascaes, team leader of the six SEALs now imbedded with the baseball team. The rest of the team headed for the black bus, still jet lagged, while Mackey and Cascaes hopped into the back of the SUV behind Dex and his driver. The team would be housed at CIA’s training facility near headquarters. They made some small talk in the truck as they headed through security gates and a corridor of barbed wire, cameras, and guard towers. Eventually, they arrived at the housing facility where hundreds of agents were housed, trained, drilled, and schooled in hundreds of different specialties and spy craft which would hopefully keep them alive in a hostile world.
The two vehicles pulled in front of the small buildings and everyone piled out, still dragging all of their gear. The money was shoved into the rear of the SUV and everyone was given three hours to shower, relax, and grab some food before a major debriefing inside the fortress-like building. Dex offered them a “welcome home” as they walked to the building, weary from a very long week.
Dex stood with Chris Mackey and Chris Cascaes, his arms folded across his chest as he watched the team walk into the building. He shook his head and half-smiled. “Mac, in all the years I’ve been doing this, this has to be the wackiest ensemble of personnel to ever step into that building. We’ve got military personnel from damn near every branch of the service on your little baseball team. It’s just plain old bizarre.”
Mackey smiled. “I know. But I tell you what—it worked. You know I’ve been around the block a few times myself, Dex. These guys are naturals. Natural athletes, trained warriors, and street smart—they’ve got it all. They work together like they’ve been doing it all their lives. We add some spy craft to their resumes and we’re going to have a serious little army in there. That baseball team could take down some small countries all by themselves.”
Dex looked at him without smiling. “Good. Because they may have to.” Dex paused thoughtfully and leaned forward to speak in a softer voice. “Mack, we go back a long way. I have to tell you, things are changing around here. Darren Davis is a good guy and he tries to have my back, but the new Commander in Chief has his own peeps he wants in the chain of command. Davis is getting heat from the President’s hand-selected bullshit artist, Randall Hill. Your team’s cover gets blown or something goes south, it’ll be more than just you looking for a new job. Right after they throw all of you out the front door, they’ll push me out the back.”
Mackey scowled. “Dex, you should be running this whole damn building; what the hell are you talking about?”
“What have you done for me lately, know what I mean? I’ve given twenty years to this place, and the last six months they’ve been talking to me like I just started my probationary period. I love my agents and the folks in the building, but the politics is getting real old. I’ll leave when I’m ready, not because some suit who’s in way over his head wants me out.”
“Roger that,” said Mack.
“Anyway, your guys proved Hill wrong already. Just keep doing what you’re trained to do. Hill is my problem. I just wanted you to know that there are people on our side that wouldn’t mind seeing you fail, for no other reason than to get rid of me.” Dex smacked Mackey on the shoulder and walked away towards the building, with Cascaes and Mackey exchanging glances and following close behind.
Chapter 13
CIA Training Facility
The team had showered and changed into plain gray sweat suits. Had they gone outside to run the confidence course, they would have looked like everyone else out there, except they would probably shave a few minutes off the fastest times. They reassembled in a large conference room and took seats at a long rectangular table. Dexter Murphy had been at the door and personally shook hands and greeted each man as he came in. When they were all seated, he took his seat at the head of the table.
“Gentlemen, on behalf of Director Wallace Holstrum, I’d like to officially welcome you to the Central Intelligence Agency. You’ve all signed your lives away more than once prior to joining this team, but let me just remind you that everything you see, hear, and do while at this facility is highly classified information. Keeping a secret is one of the hardest things for a human being to do. However, when secrets are blown in our world, people die.
“Your personnel records have been changed to reflect special reassignment to Navy Intelligence; however, you will also have new personnel records kept here and only here. While I know you aren’t in this for the money, you will be happy to know that you will be paid by this agency for your time with us, over and above your military pay.
“You are, to my knowledge, the largest team we have ever used in this manner. Our operations are covert and usually performed by single agents or very small teams. Two and three man units, typically. While we occasionally have operatives imbedded with larger military groups, we have never had this many agents working together in the field. You’re appearing together, in public, on a regular basis. It’s highly irregular and very dangerous and, quite frankly, makes me uncomfortable. That said, your first job went surprisingly well.”
Jones mumbled to himself, “Yeah, fuckin’ great.”
Dex heard the comment and didn’t let it pass. “Mr. Jones, I understand your feelings about the unfortunate deaths of the two children on that truck.” Jones eyes snapped to his, surprised that he knew everything already. “The fifty million dollars that you intercepted will save countless numbers of other children in Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever the hell that money was going, as well as American lives and coalition forces. Until those countries are stabilized, children will continue to die there every day. You all did your part to prevent some of that bloodshed. Fifty million dollars buys explosives and weapons, intelligence and bribes. The Iraqis are holding their government together by a shoestring. Don’t underestimate the importance of what you did.”
Jones looked down at his hands, folded on the table. He could still see the bodies leaking blood all over the truck.
“A team the size of yours has specific uses in the war on terror. With your advanced training and conditioning, your baseball team is as effective as a small army. Mercenary companies like Executive Outcomes fought in Angola and Sierra Leone against tens of thousands of soldiers, without much more manpower than you have here at this table. That said, you do need some additional training. Not with your military skills—we all know you can fight. And the reports I read from your previous training and mission prep were all outstanding. But the types of operations that you will be conducting will require specialty skills that not all of you have been exposed to. This is why you have been brought here.
“Over the next six weeks, you will be taught to use ‘toys’ that you have never seen before. We have surveillance equipment, weapons, computer, and satellite systems available to you that you will need to train on to maximize their effectiveness in the field. For the first five weeks you will train with new equipment and spend some time with agency instructors. The sixth week will be mission specific, and then you will be redeployed.
“Frankly, gentlemen, you’re all one big experiment. SEALs, Marine Recondos, Army Rangers, and our own personnel working together would have been inconceivable only a few years ago, but the battle space has changed, the enemy has changed, and the times have changed. We are going to use every means available to us to keep our nat
ion safe, which translates to thinking outside the box. You, gentlemen, are outside the box.”
“The batter’s box,” said Ernie quietly.
Dex smiled. “We’ll use the baseball team as a cover for as long as we think it’s safe. At some point, we may need to change your cover story—either a little, or completely, but that will depend on circumstance. In the meantime, check your egos at the door and try and learn as much as you can from our instructors. You’re going back to war gentlemen, just in a way you’ve never done before.”
Dex stood up. “I’ll show you where you can grab some lunch, then it’s off to class for all of you except Mackey and Cascaes. We’re going to see Darren Davis.”
Chapter 14
CIA Training Facility
Dex led Mack and Chris to another conference room and showed them to the coffee machine on a side table. Coffee—the lifeblood of the military and CIA.
They sat at one end of a long mahogany table and Dex pressed an intercom button on the table. He spoke briefly to someone named Kim, who arrived a moment later with a laptop under one arm and a coffee cup in her other hand. She had the brisk, no-nonsense walk of a woman used to working in a man’s world.
“Gentlemen, meet Kim Elton. Kim is the assistant desk chief for the Gulf States. Basically, she covers Kuwait, Bahrain, Qatar, the UAE, Oman, and Yemen. Don’t let her big blue eyes fool you; she speaks fluent Arabic, French, some Hebrew, and a little Farsi for good measure. Kim, this is Chris and the other Chris.”
She smiled and shook hands with the two men. “Excellent. I can’t screw up your names.”
“Actually, I go by Mack to make it more confusing on purpose.”
The Team Page 5