“Anyway, Dad and I had a great relationship and he had me flying for real by the time I was fifteen. He turned over the crop dusting business to me, and I built it up to a decent little business.” He laughed.
Chris looked at him. “That’s funny?”
“No, just thinking back. When I would finish dusting, I’d find a field where no one was around and do aerobatics and crazy shit the plane wasn’t designed for. It’s a wonder I never crashed that old bird, but it made me a good flyer. Loved those days.
“When I turned eighteen, it was 1975 and the war was still going on. Dad’s World War Two pictures had been on the wall for my whole life. He was the coolest, man. Like the old movie stars in the black and white movies. The day after my birthday, I told Dad I was enlisting in the air force. Dad figured I’d get drafted anyway. Better to be above the jungle than in it, so off I went. I was already a good pilot, and they put me in an OV-10 Bronco. It was a prop plane not much bigger than my crop duster, except it was a wicked good fighter surveillance plane.”
“So were you taking pictures or doing fire missions?” asked Chris.
Mackey sighed. “Well, recon missions had a way of turning into fire missions. I’d go out to gather intel and take pictures, and invariably, some ground troops would hit the radio screaming for help, and off I’d go. The Broncos weren’t really thought of as close ground support, but they could be very effective. I’d get close, act as forward air controller, and guide in the fast movers.”
“Any close calls?”
Mack studied Chris a moment. “This is between us.”
“Sure,” said Chris quietly, now fully curious.
“I had over a hundred combat missions. Only one of them was what I’d really call close.” He took a long drink of his beer and scanned around to make sure they had some privacy. “I was up doing what I did every day. Looking for SAM sites, troop movements, the usual shit. I get a call from ground troops, and I could hear it in the radioman’s voice, you know? The kid was terrified. I think he was crying. I could hear small arms fire in the background. They were being overrun. I got him to calm down and give me his location, then hauled ass over there and started strafing the dinks. Sorry—Vietnamese. Our guys were in a rice paddy in a trap. Mind field had them pinned and they were getting shredded by the NVA in the jungle all around them. I flew circle after circle, firing everything I had. Machine guns, rockets.” He sipped his beer, his eyes looking into his past.
“Small arms fire began taking my Bronco apart. I got hit a few times in the legs and forearm. My plane had a little fire cooking in the cockpit. But that kid on the ground kept directing fire, and I could see how close the enemy was. Mortars and RPGs pounding our guys. I couldn’t leave—no way. So I just kept at it. I finally managed to get some close air support called in, and the jets naped the jungle and ended the fight. By the time I got back to base, my plane and I were both in pretty rough shape.”
“Shit,” said Chris quietly. “Purple Heart for that one?”
Mackey flashed a fake smile. “And a Silver Star. The sergeant on the ground insisted on finding out who saved their ass and was relentless about that medal. We actually stayed good friends for years after the war. He died a few years ago; Agent Orange most likely.”
Chris clinked his glass. “To the fearless flyer.”
Mack clinked his glass, but said, “I was too busy to be scared at first, but let me tell you, the flight back to base, bleeding all over, watching the plane burn—I thought I was toast, man. Scared shitless.
“So anyway, I did two tours and then one day a guy in a suit shows up.”
“CIA?” asked Chris.
“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you. Yeah. The company. They pulled me from the air force and a few months later I was flying in Russian, Chinese, and Korean airspace on a regular basis. Not that I ever said that, or you ever heard it. I ended up liking what I was doing. It was exciting. And I wasn’t in East Bumblefuck, Iowa, anymore. I told my dad what I was doing, but as far as Mom and Wyatt knew, I was flying commercial jets and was away a lot. I always managed a few trips a year home to visit. Thanksgiving every year for sure. Mom and Dad are both gone now, and Wyatt runs the farm with his wife and three boys. We keep in touch.”
Chris nodded, thinking how nice it must have been to have a normal family. He pictured a white picket fence and a farmhouse, then his crazy drunk father, and took a swing. “Ever married?”
Mack laughed. “No. For the same reasons as you. How the hell do you have a normal relationship with anyone when you can’t tell her what you do, and you’re never fucking home?”
Chris smiled. “Yup.”
“Got laid plenty, though.” They clinked glasses and laughed. “When I was running a few things with the Russians, I had a few chicks inside that I used to use for information, you know? Man, those Russian chicks were so friggin hot. I swear I was ready to go KGB after a weekend with this one Ukrainian chick.” He laughed and closed his eyes for a second, picturing the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“Anyway, by the time I was forty, I knew I was a bachelor for life. I’m way too fucked up now to be a good husband.”
Chris laughed. “Yeah, I hear you. I think about the shit I’ve done and seen. How could I ever have a normal conversation with anybody about anything?”
“Exactly. My few friends are guys like you. The guys I trust with my life that I work with. That’s about it. And the occasional piece of ass for a very short interval, until they ask me questions I can’t answer.” He shrugged. “In my next life I’ll fly for United and have six kids.”
“Yeah, right,” said Chris with a laugh. He looked over at the group of guys drinking and laughing by the pool table. They’d kill and die for him and vice-versa. They were his family. He thought about what Dex had said earlier. Some guy named Hill wanted him out—wanted the team to fail. The thought of his family being taken apart and dispersed out into the armed forces made him angry. They wouldn’t fail. His men would never let him down, and he’d die before he’d fail them.
Mack laughed, too. “Well, in this life, I’m going to retire and buy a big boat down south somewhere. I’ll be drinking cold beer and fishing and chasing pretty girls. You can come visit when you’re on R and R.”
“Deal,” said Chris.
A young waitress walked over to them and told them that their table had been set up. It was time for pizza.
Chapter 20
CIA Training Facility
The team had stayed out until the place closed, eating more pizza and drinking more beer than the rest of the patrons combined. It had been a much-needed night off, and the men had blown off steam and had a chance to socialize in a different type of setting. They had felt human again.
Cascaes was up at oh-five thirty, walking the hallway like a Marine Drill Instructor with a baseball bat banging against a metal trash can. “Wake up, ladies!” he screamed as he walked up and down the hall.
The men had years of mental conditioning, and they rolled out of their beds, hung-over and exhausted, but with a reflex to be outside and standing at semi-formal attention in the hallway in their boxers. Moose was his typical self, screaming at his SEALs to move faster. Once they were assembled, they looked at Chris, puzzled at the boot camp awakening.
“I can’t have you getting soft, you fat bodies!” yelled Chris. “Mess hall in fifteen, outside to the trail in thirty! Move it, people!”
The men ran back inside to hop into shorts and shirts, and Mackey walked out of his room, moving much slower than everyone else. “You shittin’ me?” he asked Cascaes.
“You’re excused from duty on account of being very fucking old. These guys need an ass-kicking,” he said calmly. “See you at breakfast.” With that, he put down the garbage can and walked towards the mess hall.
The team ate quietly and quickly, not overeating for two reason
s, they were still full from pizza night, and they didn’t want to throw up all over themselves. Cascaes’ SEALs knew what an early morning wakeup call meant, and it was never good.
Chris had them outside, column of twos fifteen minutes later, and was surprised to see Mackey outside with them. Chris made eye contact, and Mackey flipped him the bird. Chris jogged to the front of the column, and then took off.
“The only easy day was yesterday!” he bellowed as he ran down the trail. The men took off after him at a faster pace than usual. It was going to be one of those kind of days.
* * *
At two o’clock, the team jogged back to where they started, thoroughly soaked with sweat through their clothes on a cold, wet afternoon. Five of them had thrown up off to the side of the trail at various times, and they had all sweated out the alcohol from the night before. It had been their hardest workout in weeks, but the truth was, they all loved it. They were simply a different breed of human.
Once back at the main building, Chris dismissed the men to shower up and meet for a late lunch at three. They had taken water breaks, but hadn’t eaten since their light breakfast before the sun had come up.
Chris and Mackey stood outside and watched the men head inside to shower and change. Once the men were out of sight, Mack stepped into the bushes and puked. After spitting a few times, he walked back over to Chris and shook his head. “You’re right. I’m way too fucking old for this shit.”
“You hung right in there and you weren’t the only one puking. Quit your bitching. You would have made a good SEAL a few years back.”
“I liked sitting in the plane.”
“You never did tell me, did you get your pecker shot off that day?” asked Chris with his usual slight grin. The man wasn’t big on belly laughing.
“Happy to say I have all my original parts. But don’t laugh. I used to sit on a piece of steel plate for that exact reason. We have a briefing in thirty minutes with Dex and Kim.”
“Roger that. See you there.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, the two Chrises arrived at Dex’s office, where Kim was already seated.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Mack.
“More chatter,” he replied. “Kim…”
Kim asked the men to sit, which they did. Dex was behind his desk, Kim in a high backed chair, and Mack and Chris on a leather coach.
“We don’t have a lot of assets that we trust in Qatar, which has been limiting. Oman and the UAE have limited help, and they aren’t hearing anything. We do have some field presence in Saudi, but it’s a tough place to work. The Mabahith, that’s the Saudi Secret Police, they keep a close eye on our folks. They know who our people are most of the time, and we we’re very careful about pissing off our Saudi allies.”
“So what’s the chatter?” asked Mack, not following her conversation.
“Saudi contacts in a bank watched another fifty million leave Prince Abdul Awadi’s account again.”
“We’re wired into their bank?” asked Chris.
“No, unfortunately, their anti-terrorism laws are almost as bad as Qatar’s, and we aren’t allowed access to their banking information.”
“So…?” asked Mack.
“So we do have a few low level bank employees on our payroll. They do a little snooping for us into specific account balances. It’s how we caught the fifty million this morning. It was a cash transaction.”
“Fifty million in cash and no one asks any questions?” asked Chris.
“Nope. Welcome to the Middle East. Awadi buys a racing car every few months for cash, too. A few hundred thousand dollars in a duffle bag. An everyday occurrence out there in oil land.”
“I bought a truck for cash once,” said Chris quietly. “Back in Iowa. It was five hundred bucks.”
“So we think this is the replacement fifty million for the fifty we acquisitioned last week?” Asked Mack.
“Precisely. We can’t prove anything, of course. But we’re going to arrange a rematch with the prince’s baseball team. We need you to get inside his palace. Our tech guys have been working on a few new gadgets. If you can get into the palace and get to a computer—any computer inside the palace, we can get into his entire network,” said Kim.
“Sure wouldn’t mind the rematch,” said Mackey. “I had to throw the last game and it’s been pissing me off every day since.”
“He’s funny that way,” said Cascaes. “Thinks he’s really coaching a baseball team.”
“So you didn’t mind losing?” asked Kim, smiling.
“I didn’t lose with those half-assed baseball players. I was out stealing fifty million dollars.” He almost smirked.
Dex chuckled. “Then it’s settled. You’re going back to Eskan and playing baseball. Get inside the palace, bug the shit out of his computers and phones, and we’ll get ourselves some proof and gather some information.”
“Phones?” asked Mack. “I thought it was a computer thing?”
Kim smiled. “We’ll take you to the barn. It’s what we call the tech building. They have a tiny little gadget that just needs to be inside the palace to get into the prince’s Wi-Fi network and every satellite communication in and out. Between listening to his phone calls and reading his emails, we should be able to nail his ass.”
Mack looked at Chris and in his best umpire voice said, “Play ball!”
Chapter 21
The Rematch
Mackey was sitting in the dugout watching his team stretch and get warmed up. Moose was throwing to Ripper in the bullpen while Ernie warmed up with Jon a few feet away. Moose could throw a fastball like any major league pro, while Ernie relied on breaking balls. Jake Koches had been stretching and jogging in the outfield when he stopped and then ran across the field to the other team. Mackey watched curiously for a while as Jake and some player on the prince’s team chatted and laughed together. They shook hands and Jake jogged back towards his team. Mackey whistled at him to grab his attention and called him to the dugout.
“What was that all about? Who’s he?” asked Mackey.
Jake looked at him and smiled. “You don’t recognize him? That A-rab did it again. Hired pros. That’s Mike Duffy! He played for the Mets for ten years, Mack! Retired last year, but the prince offered him a hundred and fifty grand cash to fly out here first class and play baseball for a few days. He’s not as good as he used to be, but he’s a hell of a lot better than any of us!”
Mack folded his arms on his chest. “They had pros last time, too, and we almost beat them. I don’t want to hear that shit. What position does he play?”
“Third base. But he’s got a serious bat, Mack. He’ll be knocking them over the fence all day, no offense to Moose or Ernie. They better walk his ass.”
“So noted. Anyone else over there you recognize?”
“Duffy is the only one I recognized right away, but Mike told me there’s four other American pros on the team. They’ve been here for three days living like kings. Well, like princes, anyway.” He laughed at his own joke.
“This prince is pissing me off. I know winning the game isn’t why we’re here, but I’m a sore loser—and unless you and your friends want to be PTed2 to death, you better play like you want to win.”
Jake’s smile disappeared. “Yes, sir,” was all he replied, and he jogged back out to the field to continue loosening up.
Mackey kicked the dirt and checked his watch. Almost game time. Music came on, and Mackey looked up to see the prince walking down the steps behind home plate with his entourage. There were over a dozen of his friends, all dressed in formal thobes, long white robes, with kuffiyehs of either red and white or black and white on their heads. A few pairs of high-end French sunglasses were thrown in for good measure.
Mackey stared at them as they made their way down, waving to players who waved back. The prin
ce gave a “papal wave” to Mackey, who returned it with his best Queen Elizabeth impersonation, the sarcasm lost on the prince.
Mackey’s team jogged back into the dugout and Mackey read off the batting order. As soon as he was finished with that, he gave a quick pep talk to his team.
“I hate this fucker. Go out there and win a baseball game. Moose, don’t give number five anything to swing at; Jakes says he’s some Duffy guy from the Mets. I gotta talk to Langley and get a bigger budget for this op. We need a few pros on our team. In the meantime, try not to screw this up. Eric, get on base—that’s an order.”
The two teams lined up along the baselines for the formality of the National Anthem, followed by the Saudi Anthem, and then returned to their dugouts. Eric walked to home plate and tapped his cleats with his bat, which had been corked back at Langley by their “gadgets folks.” If the prince could bring in ringers, the team could cheat, too.
Cascaes walked out to first base, on the pretext of being the first base coach. He aimed his baseball hat at the prince and his associates and casually squeezed the bill of the cap, turning on the powerful camera hidden in the cap. He slowly scanned every face around the prince, which was being seen in real-time back at Langley by facial recognition systems as well as Middle East analysts and Kim Elton. If any of the prince’s guests were in the system, they’d know soon enough.
Eric took the first two pitches, a ball and a strike, and then looked back at Mackey, who didn’t signal. Eric was free to do what he wanted. He watched another fastball come in at ninety miles an hour, strike two. The next pitch was also a fastball, but hit the outside corner where Eric made contact. The corked center made the ball take off like a Fungo bat, and the ball bounced off the top of the center field wall.
Ripper, who was batting second, grabbed the bat and tossed it back towards the dugout before their catcher could grab it to inspect it. Anyone who knew baseball would have been a little suspicious of how lively that hit was, but no one said anything. Ripper stood at the plate, a giant of a man, with his bat looking like a toothpick in his hands. The pitcher threw him some chin music to set the tone, but Ripper never backed off the plate. Ripper merely stared at the pitcher and pointed his bat, like he was aiming straight at him. The two of them stared at each other, and the next pitch was a breaking ball for ball two. A swing and a miss, another ball, a called strike, and then wham! A line drive right back at the pitcher made the pitcher cover up for a near miss. It went through the middle for a single that moved Eric to third base. Ripper and the pitcher stared at each other for a second as he stood on first base smiling. Ripper wasn’t actually good enough to aim right at the pitcher, but the way things turned out sure made him happy. His teammates in the dugout cheered wildly, just to piss the pitcher off.
The Team Page 8