by Connor Black
“Good to see you, too, Hillary.”
“Let’s drop the ‘Hillary’ before it gets a life of its own, ok?”
“C’mon, man. Seeing you up on that hill, all four feet of it, with Dutch on your back. Sir Edmund Hillary. Too good to resist. And I think it’s a little late to get that genie back in the bottle.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that last bit.
I gave him the nickel tour of the old Victorian, and we caught up on the past few months over sandwiches in the kitchen.
We retired to the deck, sitting side by side looking out over the beach. Our feet up, we watched the locals pass back and forth. I let the silence linger, hoping he would finally get to the purpose of his visit.
Yes, it was nice to see a friend. But I didn't think he’d come all this way just for a sandwich and a beer.
I didn't have to wait long.
“We have a line on Slater. The CIA and Naval Intelligence have put together a team to go after him,” he said.
“Where?” I asked.
“Best guess is he’s gone to ground in Thailand. Bangkok, they think, based on a very thin SIGINT hit on an old alias.”
“Good place to hide. Plenty of middle-aged ex-pats. Plenty of nooks and crannies to keep you invisible,” I acknowledged. “When are they getting him?”
“We,” he said. “When are we getting him.”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“You heard me, Jackson. I can tell by that crooked smile of yours. It’s gonna be you, me, and your Commander Chen from the Stennis.” He turned to me and lowered his voice, “And let me tell you that once you see her in civvies, you are not going to believe what the Navy’s box-cut uniforms have been hiding.”
I laughed. “Only met her a couple of times, Sterbs, and she was all business.”
“She is that,” he admitted. “Nerdsville is more like it. Head’s buried in her laptop non-stop.”
“She here, too?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Split up at LAX. She wanted to work the problem with the CIA lead in Bangkok. Said something about vector-mapping aliases. Sounded like a bunch of crazy computer shit. We’ll meet her there.”
“I’d have thought the CIA would want to handle this in-house. Not like them to allow a third party.”
“They tried. But Barr, Chen, and even the chief of Naval ops wouldn’t let them. Told them he took out our guys, too, and CIA can’t sweep this one under the rug.”
“Depart tonight?” I asked.
He shook his head again. “Tomorrow. Commercial, through Hong Kong.”
I nodded, “Alright, then.”
“Means we’ve got ourselves a free evening,” he said with a smile. “How about showing me around? I hear there’s great food, and my hunch is that there are some beautiful New Zealand women who would love to get nice and close to this perfect body!”
“That perfect body of yours smells like it’s been on a plane for the past two days,” I said, getting up. “Let’s get cleaned up and then we’ll see about some of the items on your list.”
“Outstanding!”
19
Joe and I drove south, across the Harbor Bridge.
“I think we should have taken my rental car, man. This pickup of yours sure isn’t made for the freeway,” the big man said.
I chuckled, having experienced first hand the excitement a lot of American sailors had for big, powerful cars. “Not exactly.”
He was referring to my not-so-luxurious vehicle. It’s basically a small, four-door pickup truck with a flat platform on the back. It was white, at one point anyway, and the old Waiata Yachts logo had faded to barely a shadow.
“First off, we call this the motorway. Not the freeway,” I said.
“And this,” I continued, patting the dash, “is called a flatdeck. They’re made to work more than they are to use on the motorway. I don’t think there’s a farmer in the country without one of these, complete with a Collie in the passenger seat. This one belonged to my grandfather.”
“Was he a farmer?” Sterba asked. Apparently, the logo had faded more than I thought.
“Not exactly,” I said, chuckling. “He was a boat builder. Bought this when he started the business to haul rigging across town. He loved this truck, and even when the business exploded and he could have driven anything, he kept it.”
“Can’t blame you for keeping it, then.”
“Reminds me of him every time I hop in and hope it starts.” The thought made me smile. I had spent plenty of time watching my grandfather under the hood. But no matter how creaky and wandering it was on the motorway, I simply loved it.
“Where, exactly, are we going?”
“Exactly where I think you need to go,” I said, and left it at that. We passed through the junction and merged onto the Southern Motorway.
We exited at Great South, going past one of the many industrial parks. A couple of turns later, and we were at the Papakura camp gate. The home of the NZSAS.
It’s small, and hopelessly outdated. But the men that come out of there are as good as they come. And that’s what really matters.
“You’re taking me to a base? I’m on leave, man. I don’t want to go to a base,” he said, waving his arms.
I turned to him. “Joe, we both know that we could have left tonight. You added the extra day to check me out. To see if I’d healed enough to run an op with you. I reckon you could ask the boys I’ve been training with, and get a straight answer.”
He lowered his head. “That’s not really necessary, Jackson.”
I was puzzled a bit by his demure response, but we had arrived at the security shed, which ended the exchange. I showed my New Zealand Defense Force ID badge to the guard, and signed Joe in with his US Navy ID.
Cleared for access, we pushed on past the offices and equipment sheds and aimed for the squadron’s barracks.
20
We parked in the dirt lot in front of the old wooden building. The white paint on its clapboard sides had turned chalky from exposure to the strong New Zealand sun.
The steps to the vestibule creaked as we walked up to the red door, which was open to let the afternoon breeze move through.
“Look out, lads! The Yanks have arrived!” came a shout as we entered the barracks.
“Bloody hell!” someone chimed in.
“Hide your girlfriends, lads. That’s the first thing we’ll take!” I announced. Wankers.
Three of the boys were in this afternoon, playing darts and having a laugh on the recreational side of the building. They came to the front to say hello.
Fish, a member of the squadron for years came up and gave me a hug with his long, scrawny arms. “How’ya goin’, mate!” he said. He’d been training some of the young men the past few weeks up north, and I hadn’t seen him recently.
Tautoro, a big Maori bloke, nodded his hello, as did Hamish. I’d just seen them the day before, when they’d done some walk-throughs in the shoothouse with me.
“Boys, this is Chief Joe Sterba,” I said by way of introduction.
Fish reached out to shake his hand, but was showing a cheeky smile. “Told you he’d bring you here, mate,” he said to Sterba.
Son of a bitch.
“You’ve been here?” I asked.
He gave me a sheepish look. “You called it, man. I did need to know if you were ready.”
“Bastard. So, you satisfied?”
“The guys here said you’re ready to roll.”
The boys nodded. I tried to decide if I should be furious at Sterba or not.
Fish chimed in to change the subject. “He helped us update the case.”
He pointed to the dusty old trophy case. It looked like something you’d find in a secondary school, though even worse for wear. The glass was dusty, and the varnish on the oak shelves was peeling.
But it held the memories of the squadron. Trophies, both silly and serious, from rugby matches, triathlons, shooting competitions, and the like. Mo
re importantly, it held plaques and photos dedicated to the men that had served with and before us. Men that had stood tall for the squadron, who had defended both their country and their brothers in arms.
I knew as well that it held the other half of my insignia pair. It was on a cheap, faux-marble plaque with my name etched on a brass plate beneath.
Only today, there was a piece of tape below my name. It had a hastily made edit, and read simply, “Hillary”.
Bastards.
We headed outside, where I resisted the urge to bash Sterba’s head in. Nicknames, or call signs as they’re properly called, are fairly common in the military. The downside is you don’t get to choose your own. It just happens, and there’s not a thing you can do about it.
I had lucked out for years going by just “Chaser”. These things get a life of their own, though, and I had a feeling I was heretofore doomed.
Wonderful.
“Joe, we better get going,” I said. “Couple more things on your list to do.”
“What’re you getting up to, then?” Fish asked.
“Joe’s asked to meet some gals and enjoy a Kiwi dinner, Kaye said she’d have us round for the night.”
Fish and I had known each other long enough that he’d spent some evenings with Kaye.
He chuckled and said, “Ah, good on ya. They’ll lay on the full Kiwi treatment for you, that’s for sure. Room for a few more?”
“Absolutely,” I replied.
He turned to Joe. “You’ll love Kaye. And the rest of the ladies. They’re going to eat you up, mate.”
Sterba smiled, not really knowing the truth of the matter.
21
Kaye’s driveway was full, of course. So I hopped the curb and shut it down on the edge of the lawn.
“Something you should know, Joe,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Kaye’s going to kiss you on the lips.”
“I like the hospitality in this country!” Sterba said.
“Ok, just so long as you’re ready for it.”
And at that, we walked in.
We could hear the din in the front hall. Rounding the corner into the kitchen, Joe fixed me with a smile.
“You got me,” he said.
Before us was a kitchen absolutely packed with family. A beautiful mix of brown and white, large and small, tall and short, loud and quiet.
Well, mostly brown, loud, and large. I know it’s not politically correct to say so. But, hey, it’s my family.
My great aunts, three of them, were running the show. Various cousins were chatting away, each of them working on one dish or another. And children of all ages were darting about the kitchen.
I saw one have a look to see if any of the mums were watching. Seeing that the coast was clear, he grabbed a slice of bread off one of the dishes and darted out the door to the back.
“Jackson!” I heard someone shout.
Everyone shuffled a bit to allow one of my grandmother’s sisters, Aunty Kaye, to pass through.
“Hello, darling!” she said as she reached us.
“Hello, Aunty Kaye!” I said as I bent down and wrapped my arms around her.
“Give me a kiss!” And there it was. Aunty Kaye pursing her lips together for a full kiss. Some things never change.
“And this must be your friend, Joe,” she said, turning to Sterba. “Well if he isn’t a handsome bloke!”
She spread her arms wide, pursed her lips, and went in for the kill.
To Joe’s credit, he gave her big smile and rolled with it.
I made the rounds, introducing Joe to the aunties and cousins before we found our way to the back. Papa John was at the barbecue, which was packed with lamb and sausages crackling away.
“Ah, there he is!” he said, and gave me the bear hug I’d loved since childhood.
I introduced Joe, and they shook hands.
“First time in New Zealand?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Joe said.
Papa John set his barbecue tongs down and said, “Well, best teach you how to do this properly.”
“When you greet Maori like us,” he continued, “you touch noses together. Like this.” And I watched as Papa John grabbed Joe’s shoulders and gently touched his wide nose to Joe’s.
“Kia ora,” John said.
“Qui-ara,” Sterba replied.
Everyone laughed.
“Close enough, mate!”
He then turned to me. “Best let him have the second part of a good Kiwi greeting, then.”
I looked around, and found the cooler next to the barbecue. I pulled out a Lion Red and twisted off the top.
Handing him the beer, I said, “Cheers, mate!”
“That’s the one!” said Papa John as he tilted his head back and laughed.
At dinner, I watched Sterba, seated in the middle of one of the four picnic tables packed onto Kaye and John’s patio, get peppered with questions.
The uncles asked about the economy. The boys from Papakura asked about SEAL training. And the little ones, who could barely stand still, asked if he knew Justin Bieber.
The aunties made sure he tried everything. There were lamb steaks, sausages, kumara, and more. And oh, did you try the mussels? Or the kina—sea urchin—that Paula grabbed ‘round the rocks this morning? How about some pavlova for dessert?
I’ve been to enough of the extended family dinners to know when to say when.
But big Joe Sterba, a smile on his face, kept on going. I really don’t know where he put it all.
After a cup of tea, some of the cousins moved into the kitchen to make some headway in the massive pile of dishes. Knowing what was next, I joined them.
“How about some songs, Joe?” I heard Papa John bellow.
Not waiting for an answer, John grabbed his old ukulele and began strumming away. The family joined in, everyone knowing their part.
In the kitchen, we laughed, and then began to sing along. Undoubtedly, the whole neighborhood heard the racket. But you can never be upset with the sounds of a happy family.
The dishes stowed, and goodbye hugs given all around, Kaye walked us to the door.
Under the front porch, beneath the tangle of passionfruit vines, she took both of Joe’s hands in her own.
She spoke in a quiet voice, “John and I know enough not to ask where you two are off to. But please, take care of our boy.”
Sterba equaled her sincerity. “I will, ma’am.”
She wrapped her arms around him and went in for the kiss. And perfect guest to the end, he rolled with it.
He wrapped his arms around her, and said quietly, “You have a beautiful family, Aunty Kaye. Thank you for making me feel at home.”
“You’re always welcome here, darling,” she said with a smile.
I honestly thought that big SEAL was going to cry. Aunty Kaye always could make even the toughest men turn to butter.
Part III
Bangkok
22
The long halls of the US Embassy in Bangkok were busy, with clusters of State Department workers moving from, room to room, meeting to meeting. The black and white marble floor magnified the din of conversations being held in English, with a smattering of Thai.
“Here you are, gentlemen,” said our escort from the Military Attaché’s office as she opened the tall door to a conference room.
Sterba and I nodded our thanks and entered.
Seated at the table were Lt. Commander Haley Chen and a man I assumed to be our CIA contact in the hunt for Slater. They rose and came around the table to greet us.
“Commander Chen,” I said, shaking her hand. While she was one step senior in rank, we did not salute, as we were both in civilian clothes.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” she said, and then turned to Sterba. “Chief.”
She wore slacks with a blouse and jacket. And while the jacket was loose, I could see why Joe mentioned that Naval uniforms had been hiding something there.
The CIA man extended his
hand. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. My name is Landon Clark. Station Chief.”
As Station Chief, Clark would be the head spook here. Both Sterba and I regarded him carefully. I put him near sixty, with thinning hair more gray than brown. His suit was well cut, but also well worn. He exuded a level of comfort, or, more accurately, confidence without arrogance.
“Nice to meet you as well. Expected your title to be Agricultural Attaché or something silly like that,” I said with a smile.
He chuckled. “Only on occasion. I’m too old for those games any longer.”
I gestured to Sterba, “Chief Joe Sterba.”
He reached to shake Sterba’s hand, his face turning from a amused to serious instantly. “Chief, please know that I am very sorry to hear about the men you lost on the mission in Afghanistan.”
His sincerity was genuine. You could tell he had lost men in the field before, and understood the burden Sterba carried.
“Thank you, sir. They were good men,” Sterba replied.
“So let’s talk about getting the asshole that killed them,” said Clark.
And with that, the concerns Sterba and I had that we’d get the bureaucratic runaround washed away.
“Let’s do that,” I said, and we all took a seat.
Clark took it upon himself to bring us up to speed.
“Caleb Slater joined the agency about 25 years ago. He worked the Eastern Bloc, and then spent some time handling Central America before moving to the Middle East.”
“Lot of stations,” Sterba observed.
“He’s from the old guard, like me. We went where we were needed,” Clark said.
He folded his hands together and continued. “A lot of the kids the Agency hires now call us dinosaurs. Makes us laugh to a certain degree. But we know that while our actions may have strayed outside the lines somewhat, we always did what was right for the country.
“I say this to make the point that while Slater was older, we don’t consider him one of the dinosaurs. My sense on the guy was that he was always a bit slippery. Like a snake.”