Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Struecker

  He had little fear of the latter. Zinsser trusted technology. It had helped him get through the endless hours he spent in the hospital. If the FLIR said no humans were in the area, then there were no humans in the area. Still, being “Army strong” meant being Army smart. He had no problem playing it by the book.

  His heart increased its pounding but brought no strain. The pace was easy. Soon all he could hear was the sound of his boots impacting the grass-covered ground.

  His ears picked out a distant sound.

  A pop.

  A whiz.

  His head began to tingle as if ants were crawling through his hair.

  A shot.

  An AK-47.

  Zinsser dropped to the ground, head down. A second later he raised his head to scan the terrain. Where had the shot come from?

  Voices. Distant voices. Somali voices.

  “Data.”

  To his right?

  Another shot.

  No, to his left.

  “Data?”

  That voice was clear and close. Someone needed him. “Brian . . . Echo.”

  “Zinsser!”

  Zinsser activated his radio. “Echo, this is Zinsser, where are you?”

  “I’m down.” The voice wasn’t in his radio. It came from inside his head. Something was wrong.

  “Say again, Data?”

  That voice came over his earpiece, but the timbre was wrong. It was deeper, thicker.

  “Data, this is Shaq. Say again.”

  Someone touched his shoulder. He rolled on his side and reached for his sidearm. The 9mm slipped from the holster easily, and Zinsser started to bring it to bear when a heavy weight landed on him, driving the air from his lungs. His arm was pinned.

  “Get off me, you dirty—”

  A hand clamped his mouth shut.

  “Zinsser!” The voice was familiar and just above a whisper—and the urgency was unmistakable.

  Zinsser blinked. The sounds were gone. The terrain was no longer a Somali street but an open field.

  “Boss, you guys okay?”

  “Standby, Shaq. Hold your position.”

  “Roger that.”

  Zinsser’s brain tried to settle the confused images in his mind. Lying two feet from him was an angry Moyer. De Luca sat on Zinsser, pinning his arm and sidearm to his body, his hand pressed over Zinsser’s mouth.

  It couldn’t be. It couldn’t have happened. Not here. Not now. Not with these people. Zinsser closed his eyes and wished his heart would stop beating.

  “Look at me, Data.” Moyer spoke through clenched teeth. “I said look at me.”

  Zinsser gazed at Moyer and pictured, behind the black knit mask Moyer wore, a stone face chiseled with anger. Moyer’s eyes, however, which should have flashed with fury, were tempered with concern. “Are you with me?”

  “Yeah, Boss. I’m with you.”

  “You have ten seconds to tell me what just happened.”

  Zinsser thought quickly. “I thought I heard something.”

  “Who is Echo?”

  “Echo? Echo was on my last team. Did I say Echo? I meant Shaq.”

  Moyer’s eyes narrowed and Zinsser could imagine the gears of his team leader’s brain turning. “You were going to shoot me, weren’t you?”

  “Shoot you? Why would I shoot you?”

  “Then why did you draw your handgun?”

  “I wouldn’t shoot you, Boss. It would be a bad career move on my part. Why would I do that?”

  “Because you thought you were somewhere else. Where were you?”

  “I’m right here—in Italy—chasing bad guys with you.”

  “Listen to me, Data, and listen good. We got a situation here. I need to know you’re with me mentally.”

  “I’m with you, Boss, body and mind. You got all of me.” Zinsser could see some of the tension leave Moyer’s face. “I’m fine, Boss. Good to go. I know where we are and what we’re doing.”

  “That a fact?”

  Zinsser took a breath. “We’re in Italy, in the countryside outside of Rome. We are a seven-member team. You’re leading me and Polo here on a direct approach to what we believe is an abandoned bus used to carry female suicide bombers. Shaq is leading the rest of the team—Colt, Doc, and Junior—on an approach from the north.”

  Moyer said nothing.

  “Any chance you can get the Italian off of me? He’s making it hard to breathe.”

  Moyer spoke into his radio. “Shaq, report.”

  “We’re in position, Boss. The area appears clear. No movement in or around the bus. You guys okay?”

  “Yeah. Hold your position. We’ll be there in three.”

  “Holding position. See you in three.”

  Moyer pushed to his knees then put his face close to Zinsser’s. Zinsser could smell coffee on Moyer’s breath. “I don’t know what just happened, but I have suspicions. We’re going to carry on with our approach and you’re going to stay focused on this mission. Is that clear?”

  “Clear as glass, Boss.”

  Moyer paused, then added, “I’ve never had to shoot a team member before, but if I think you’re about to draw down on me or any other member of the team, I’ll drop you. Got it?”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “You continue on point. I want you in front of me.”

  “Will do, Boss.”

  “Let him up, Polo.”

  De Luca crawled off Zinsser but kept a grip on the hand that held the sidearm. Slowly Zinnser slipped the weapon back into its holster. “Waiting on your word, Boss.”

  “Move out.”

  Zinsser was on his feet, moving forward as he had been a few moments before. The night vision goggles narrowed his peripheral vision, and he was glad. He didn’t want to see how often Moyer and De Luca were checking him out.

  AS EXPECTED, THE BUS was empty. Moyer, Zinnser, and De Luca arrived at the coppice of trees three minutes after they resumed their stealth approach. Rich and the others had waited as told. During that time they saw no one. The area was clear of potential enemies. Still, Moyer sent them as if black hats were waiting inside the bus for anyone stupid enough to approach.

  “Clear,” Rich declared once he and J. J. made entry into the minibus.

  “Still a step ahead,” J. J. said. “By the way, what happened to you guys? We heard Data’s transmission, but it didn’t make sense.”

  Time to nip this in the bud. He couldn’t afford to have the team speculating. “Nothing happened. Now—”

  “But we heard—”

  Moyer skewered J. J. with a glare. “I said nothing happened.”

  J. J. lowered his head. “Gotcha, Boss.”

  Moyer turned to De Luca, who was placing his cell phone to his vest. “Well?”

  “Nothing. The pilot has been doing a circular search pattern but hasn’t found anything but a few small vehicles on the roads—nothing the size of a minibus or a caravan that could hold enough people to fill even half this bus.”

  “They could have hidden several cars here and driven off in different directions,” Jose said.

  “Maybe, Doc, maybe.” Moyer thought for a moment. “Okay, fan out. Let’s see if we can find some kind of tracks or clues. Don’t waste time; we’re already behind.”

  The team began to move when Moyer said, “Zinsser, you’re with me.”

  Moyer led the newest member of his team to the edge of the small grove, then stopped and gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “So, do I send you back or what?”

  Zinnser looked away.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “I want to stay.”

  Moyer ran a hand across his chin, glad to have the mask off. “How bad is it?”

  “What?”

  “Your PTSD.”

  “The docs checked me out for months and gave me the all-clear. I don’t have a problem with post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  Irritation heated Moyer’s chest—and his words. “Any soldier who’s seen what you have is probably
struggling with it. Don’t lie to me. I have to be able to trust you. For all I know, if De Luca hadn’t pounced on you, you might have put a hole in my head. I want the straight skinny.”

  Zinsser looked down for a moment and then raised his head to look Moyer in the eye. “Every once in awhile, I flash back.”

  Good. The truth. He could work with the truth. “Like you did at the villa?”

  “Yeah, it usually lasts only a few moments. Most of the time I can control it.”

  “Most of the time? Is that what I heard? Most of the time? I need you and your brain present 100 percent of the time. Ninety-nine percent isn’t enough.”

  “Understood, Boss.”

  “Protocol requires I pull you from this mission and send you home. You are a danger to this mission and to the team.”

  “I . . . understood, Boss.”

  Moyer looked around. “If we were close to base . . . We can’t afford to waste any more time. For the moment we’re stuck with you. Shaq is assistant team leader so I’ll have to let him in on this, and he isn’t going to like it.” Moyer raised a finger. “I’ll get you home first chance I get. And if one of the team gets so much as a splinter because you fail to perform, I’ll make sure you’re drummed out of the service. If I lose a man because of you—”

  “I know, Boss, you’ll hunt me down and put a bullet in my brain.”

  “Oh no, I’ll do much worse than that. I’ll make sure you live a long, miserable life with your failure. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Dismissed.”

  As Zinsser jogged to join the others, Moyer wondered if his threats would help or hurt.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE AGUSTAWESTLAND AW109 SLOWED its descent and its retractable landing gear appeared. Moyer and the team stood twenty meters away from the landing site. J. J. had made the discovery and called Moyer to an area a short distance away from the stand of trees.

  “Looks like prop wash to me, Boss.” He pointed to an area of tall grass that had been pressed to the ground. J. J. squatted and touched the ground. He motioned with his flashlight beam. “The soil is soft and there are two long narrow depressions.”

  “Like helicopter skids.” Moyer looked around them. “It would have to be one of the larger copters.”

  “A Bell 412 corporate chopper carries something like fifteen passengers.”

  “That’d probably do it,” J. J. said.

  “This just gets better and better.” Moyer pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to force his thoughts into formation. “The helicopter would give a level of mobility they’d never have with a car, not to mention speed.”

  “They’d have to fly low to stay off radar,” Shaq said.

  “Another advantage.”

  Moyer had De Luca put in a call for transportation. The Italian Army sent the AW109. Less than sixty seconds after its gear touched down, the team was aboard and headed to Naples.

  Over the horizon the sun rose, pushing its rays through a bank of clouds. The color reminded Moyer of blood.

  LORENZO FLIPEPI GAZED AT the rising sun. He had waited all night for its arrival. There had been many occasions when events required he stay awake through the night. Those nights crept along, one minute slowly morphing into the next.

  A gentle cough, softer than a kitten’s mew, drew his attention from the window. He turned and gazed at the small form asleep on the hospital bed in the center of his tiny, dirty apartment. The form shifted, grimaced, and rolled to her side.

  A moment later the eight-year-old girl with straight black hair was asleep again. He watched the thin blanket that concealed her form rise and fall with each breath—a ballet of life.

  Seeing her made him ache, delivered a pain so hot and so deep he had to force back tears. Eight years old. Just eight. And for the last two years, Mia had seen almost nothing of the outside, just what passed by the car window whenever Lorenzo took her to the hospital.

  He glanced around the apartment. It was small, with only one bedroom and one bathroom. It was all he could afford, and half of the time he was in arrears on the rent. The landlord, a blimp of a woman with a matching heart, often looked the other way.

  A gentle knock came from the door. Lorenzo opened it, and the cool dawn air rolled into the room. Standing in the pale glow of the yellow porch light stood Ornella, Lorenzo’s sister. Despite the early hour, she looked fresh, rested, and ready to greet the day.

  “I’m sorry to ask you to come so early,” Lorenzo said, stepping aside.

  “Nonsense, it’s only a couple of hours and I rise early anyway.”

  Lorenzo closed the door. “It’s just that I have to be at work early.”

  “I understand. It is not every day that so many dignitaries come to our city.” Ornella stepped to the tiny dining area, hung her long coat over the back of a chair, and set her purse on the table.

  “How did she sleep last night?” Ornella spoke softly and let her eyes drift to the child.

  “She slept through the night,” Lorenzo said, matching her tone. “We had a little episode about two this morning. Choking. But it passed quickly.”

  “That’s good. When did she last eat?”

  “We had some ice cream about ten o’clock last night.”

  “I mean really eat.”

  “About six. I heated up a can of chicken noodle soup and made toast. That’s her favorite.”

  Ornella walked to the hospital bed and straightened the snow-white sheets, careful not to wake her sleeping charge.

  Lorenzo removed his blue uniform coat from the closet and slipped it on. “I may be late. I will get home as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t worry yourself about it. Mia and I are best friends. I can stay all night if necessary.”

  Lorenzo bent over his daughter’s form and kissed her on the forehead, then walked to the door. He turned to face his sister. “If the landlady comes by, please tell her that I will try to have the rent ready in a few days. She’s been very understanding.”

  “But won’t you let me handle that, Lorenzo? I’ve spoken with my husband—”

  “No, it’s my responsibility. You and Ricardo have financial needs of your own.”

  Ornella stared at him with kind eyes. “We can manage, brother. We are family and family sticks together.”

  “I can’t allow it.” Lorenzo pursed his lips.

  “Well, since you won’t be here, you can’t stop me.” She smiled. “Ricardo thinks you two should move in with us, and I agree. That way I wouldn’t have to get up at dawn and come here. I could be of much more help if you and Mia lived with us.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Ornella, but it just isn’t that easy.”

  “What is not easy for you is swallowing your pride, but we understand. The offer remains open. Mia needs a mother figure in her life. She’s needed one ever since Isabella left you.”

  “I do not want to talk about Isabella.”

  He’d trusted her. Loved her. And she’d come to him one night saying she was leaving him for another man. A man who was not a police officer, who kept normal hours and would be home to take care of her. Just like that, she abandoned her husband and daughter. Lorenzo had not seen her for three years.

  “I’m just saying that you would have more money for Mia if you lived with us. Perhaps better doctors could save . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “It would not be enough. Ten times my salary would not be enough.”

  “Have your lawyers made any headway?”

  “No. They’re still trying to force the insurance company to live up to its promises, but they’ve made no progress. The insurance company has more lawyers.”

  Ornella stepped from Mia’s bedside and joined her brother at the door. She kissed him on the cheek. “It is the lawyers and the doctors that keep you poor, brother. Don’t let your pride make it worse.” She removed a bit of lint from his lapel. “You look handsome. You always look handsome.” She wrapped her arms around him and s
queezed. “I worry about you and Mia. I pray for you every night and during the day.”

  Lorenzo wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her tight. He rested his cheek on her head. “Ornella, if something should happen to me—”

  “Stop saying that.” She pulled back. “It is as if you know something is going to happen. It frightens me.”

  “I just have to be sure you understand.”

  “I understand, brother. You have reminded me many times.”

  “I need to hear it for my own comfort.”

  “If something should happen to you,” she said slowly, “I am to go to your desk and open the top drawer. There I will find a key that fits a safe deposit box in the Napoli Central Bank. Mia’s important papers are there. I am to retrieve them.”

  “And you will do that for me? You’ll do that for Mia?”

  “Of course I will. You know I will. You shouldn’t have to ask. But nothing is going to happen to you.”

  “Of course nothing is going to happen to me, I’m just being careful.” He felt tears rise in his eyes. Before she could see, Lorenzo turned and left. He paused at his front window long enough to catch one more glance at his leukemia-ridden daughter.

  BY THE TIME LORENZO pulled his tired Renault into the police parking lot, the sun had emerged full form from the horizon. He checked in with the desk officer and left the station in one of the department’s newer patrol cars. It took fifteen minutes for him to work his way along the surface streets after the police barricades that he’d help set up. He parked a block away from the Miramare Hotel Grande and covered the remaining distance on foot.

  This morning it was his job to check the status of the Naples police officers’ stations. There had been a division of labor: Italian army provided snipers stationed on the roofs of many of the surrounding buildings. Secret Service agents and their equivalent from other countries provided in-hotel protection and transportation. The Naples police were to handle crowd control and traffic control. Lorenzo assumed there were other groups doing things he was not privy to. No doubt there were a dozen intelligence agencies hiding in the bushes.

  His supervisor Aldo had called for several layers of blockades, each manned by uniformed officers. In every case but one, no one was allowed to pass. Deliveries passed through one blockade and only after each vehicle had been cleared. Should any one of the heads of government want to be driven from the premises, they had to obtain permission first.