Recon

by David McCaleb

  Her brown eyes widened as she licked a lip. “Admiral Javlek. He authorized it. He’s the one all the ops used to funnel through. Was the chair of the JCS, but retired a few months back. He gave the green light to Red.”

  No shit. “Further back than that. I know Javlek doled out the taskings. How do I figure out who put the request in to him?”

  “That’s all we’ll have.” She pointed the eraser toward his chest. “You’ll need to talk with him.”

  He glanced at her computer. “Why? Can’t you just look in the file and see who it came from?”

  She giggled, then cleared her throat. “Cute. Written? You’ve been here for months and you still haven’t figured it out?”

  “Figured what out?”

  “No tasking comes in on paper. It’s all verbal, and never recorded. We communicate with the cooperatives through written means, but taskings are never in print. It’s the old-fashioned way. For an organization that’s not supposed to exist, it maintains deniability when things go bad. It’s who you know. And Javlek knows them all. Talk with him.”

  Nothing written? This wasn’t good, on so many levels. “And he is?”

  She cocked her head. “Running for Senate. Spends his spare time on a sailboat, I’m told. Now, get me that cell phone number. You owe me.”

  Chapter 17

  Big Cat

  Red ducked beneath waving branches with stunted pine needles, like blunt cattails in dim starlight. They scratched his neck like a wire brush. He dropped to a knee and patted the ground. “Down here, sweetheart.”

  Penny stood still in the tree’s shadow, her silhouette barely distinguishable from the muted backdrop of trunks and bushes. Too tired to move, perhaps? But she’d kept up for the last hour since leaving Lam at the power station.

  He stretched a hand toward her. “You OK?” Stupid question. Though he kept his whisper low, he hoped the rising inflection in his voice would inspire hope.

  She took a step back.

  He kept the arm out and wiggled his fingers in a come here gesture. “You need some rest. Just an hour or so. Then we’ll get moving again. Maybe get another klick before sunrise.”

  Her shoulders drooped. She sniffled and wiped the underside of her nose on one forearm. Her hand reached out to his fingertips.

  “We’re safe for now. Daddy will stay awake.”

  Shoe soles scuffed twigs as her feet slid across the pine bed. She fell against him so hard Red had to steady an arm against a rough pine trunk. Her chest heaved as she sobbed into his armpit. He patted her head, stroking tangled hair, combing it lightly, fingers snagging dried leaves and unruly strands from pigtails. He closed his eyes, but jerked them open again and scanned the forest behind. Never relax your guard.

  She’d been through so much in the last twenty-four hours. Witnessed him kill several operators, was manhandled by the Jamaican, then ended that man’s life using his own pistol. Even dug what she thought was a frag out of his butt cheek, but was actually Red’s tag. Whatever credits he had in Penny’s account at the start of the day were certainly exhausted now.

  He patted his chest pocket where he’d slipped the tag. The small square of metal was gouged across its shiny face. But maybe that was what it was supposed to look like. He didn’t know for certain.

  Penny’s breathing slowed, and the grip around his neck eased. Sleep would be best for her now. He laid her upon the ground and, using his fingers, raked a pile of dry pine needles next to her body.

  “What’s that for?” she slurred.

  “To keep you warm.” He stroked her neck. “When you wake up from cold, pile these across your legs. They’ll be like a blanket.”

  Another sniffle, but gradually her chest settled into a calm rhythm. He waited a minute, then stood, grasping a low branch above him. It crackled, but the rush of air through her nose didn’t break cadence. He limped uphill forty, maybe sixty feet, then knelt on the edge of an overlook. Sliding to his belly, he rested his chin upon a rock the size of a softball. If he fell asleep, his neck would relax and arch back painfully, waking him again.

  Above, wind stroked pine needles, stirring terpenic scents, waving their clusters like a child counting on fingers. Penny, only ten years old. He’d seen the hollow eyes of kids her age rummaging the filthy streets of Sierra Leone, their only family a gang of peers, lives spent hiding from adults. High on whatever drugs the militias pumped into them, consciences seared through witness of continuous violence. Killing another as natural as taking a piss. No. Not Penny. It had been a lot for her, and it wouldn’t be without effect, but Red and Lori gave her a stable family.

  He huffed. Stable? What other family had wet teams targeting their mother? And where was Lori now? Why was someone so intent on ending her life when she was only a fintel analyst? Or was she? Carter must have been right about Red being ignorant, putting so much faith in her word. No one would be so bold as to attempt the contract killing of a CIA analyst twice, on American soil. What the hell was going on? What was she hiding? She’d kept his own past hidden from him for six years; who knows what rotting corpses she’d buried.

  Fatigue weighed upon his body, but his mind kept firing. Over the last hour as they’d hiked, he could only see Penny when she moved, camouflaged against the forest’s dark background. With so many roving inconsistencies, Lori’s lies were becoming evident. She needed to come clean. To be honest.

  A shot of pain ran down his leg. This shit had to stop. If she was a spook, he could handle that. But she owed the family the truth. If men were going to continue to threaten Penny and the boys because of her, she needed to do the right thing and leave.

  He studied the dark line of trees under which they’d trudged, jagged tops tearing the sky. A deep breath, and he closed his eyes to listen. A breeze rumbled low, like the aftershock of a distant explosion. Or like waves upon rocks, sound blunted by tall dunes. An owl’s screech surged from the shallow valley below.

  When he opened them again, the sky seemed a half shade brighter. He could almost make out limbs from trunks. Had his vision adjusted?

  His chin rested on the ground, softball-sized rock against one cheek. He’d fallen asleep! Gaze darting down to the tree under which Penny slept, he drew back arms to push himself up, but froze.

  He tightened his grip on his pistol, straining to focus on a near line of shrubs, subdued outlines of sullied green and brown. What was it he saw?

  Nothing. He hadn’t seen a thing. Only a sense. A feeling of a near menace.

  He brushed it aside as paranoia from waking, but it pressed like a fist into the nape of his neck. An animal instinct he’d learned to trust. Like a dog catching a scent and sniffing to determine its direction. Like the heat he felt from the alpha mare near the stable where Penny took lessons. Now the same hotness burned his belly.

  A breeze climbed the hillside, its cool air watering his eyes, stirring tall shadows cast upon grassy earth. Ten meters below, one section of a shadow remained frozen. A boulder? One hadn’t been there earlier. A minute later, as trees stilled in calming wind, the blocky form dissolved into a slender body with four lanky legs, dragging a long tail. A dog maybe? Wolf? Its fluid trot was silent as it climbed toward him.

  Did the animal see him? Was it readying an attack? No telltale stalking. Its head swung loosely at the end of a short neck, jerking with each step, more like a security guard running a routine beat. If the beast came too close, he couldn’t shoot it or he’d risk alerting other operators to their position. His only knife was in his pocket. He couldn’t get to it fast enough, and any movement would broadcast to the animal his position. Two paces ahead, it froze, one paw just touching the ground, like a pointer spotting a covey of quail.

  Shit. A blunted nose and small ears, this was no dog. A cat, and black as its shadow. The animal’s bulk must have been at least ninety pounds. But the tail was long and curled at the end. No bobcat
. Too small for a mountain lion, and too dark. What the hell was this thing? If he had to shoot it, he’d press the muzzle into its pelt to muffle the shot. He’d tangled with many a wild man, but never a cat, with switchblades mounted to all four paws and a mouth full of razors. It turned its head away from Red, into the waft, and lifted its nose. The downwind breeze was probably the only thing that kept Red hidden.

  Rounded ears turned one fore, one aft. Red’s stomach seared. This beast knew danger was near. Cats could see at night, but there must be just enough darkness to obscure his presence…as long as he didn’t move.

  Another low gust brought the beast’s perfume of musky cat urine. If Red sprang now, he might catch the creature off guard. If he failed, he’d meet the fury of paws and teeth slashing faster than any human could react.

  He stayed put.

  The animal swung its head back around, glancing directly where he lay. Another few strides and it stopped at the base of a tree. Turning, it lifted its tail, and two puffs from scent glands blasted the trunk. Cat piss and buttered popcorn. A bit of the mist sprayed Red’s cheek. Maybe he should shoot the thing anyway. He held his breath.

  The feline turned, staring toward the trees from which Penny and Red had hiked. A statue except for the ears, swiveling constantly, scanning the distance. What was it hearing? The cat ducked its head with a jerk, as if dodging a blow, then leaped uphill in bounding strides.

  Slowly, Red drew his knees beneath him, arms shaking as if he’d done a hundred push-ups. Hobble-sprinting, he slid beneath the dusk of the tree where he’d left Penny. She lay motionless, covered by pine needles. He shook her arm, but it flopped lazily. He rolled her to her back, panic swelling his chest, and shook again, lifting her head from the forest floor.

  An arm brushed across her face. “Leave me alone, Jackson,” she moaned. “I’m trying to sleep.”

  Red’s shoulders dropped as he allowed a quiet sigh to escape clenched teeth.

  Behind him, a muffled metallic jingle, like keys in a pocket.

  Chapter 18

  Splash

  Carter squinted against dawning light. He slowed and steered his white Malibu beneath a faded baby-blue-and-white sign with a silhouette of a trawler atop the words Seashore Marina. Tires bumped a muddy-green telephone pole lying flat on the ground as he broke to a stop. Laying end to end, several of the tall posts outlined the harbor’s crushed oyster shell parking lot. Early Sunday morning, only a few pickups with empty aluminum trailers rested at one end. Sailboat masts and rigging fractured dawning rays, glowing yellow and white, like spiderwebs laden with early morning dew. As the slow wake from a sparkling gray motor yacht disturbed their sleep, each rocked gently back and forth, as if leaning to its neighbor to whisper a secret down the line.

  He opened the car door, and shells crunched under brown Ferragamo loafers. Knowing he’d be on a boat, he’d picked the ones from his closet shelf with the softest soles for better grip, not quite able to condescend to cross trainers. Guys that wore those things in public sported buffet bellies and had just given up on life. He tugged the collar of his Ralph Lauren polo so that it snugged his neck.

  A salty breeze lifted his gaze eastward, clear skies to the horizon. Muddy marsh scent, oddly vacant of the oil and diesel concoction he recalled from his few years in the Navy. But he’d worked intel then, never much enjoying anything to do with water. Couldn’t even swim well, but had somehow kept from drowning through boot camp. He stared at a single contrail stretching beyond a Canadian flag flapping atop a stubby mast. What was that saying his bunkmate always said? Something about Clear skies in the morning, sailors take warning. Yeah, whatever…

  He crossed two piers, turned down the third, then started to the end, skipping over a tangle of green hose. Drooping white lines moored Mistress Two near the end, a blue-hulled Bermuda forty, her owner had called it. He supposed that meant the boat was forty feet long, and from the dock it appeared to be a reasonable assumption. Her bow scooped in a gentle arc, curving up at each end, the same way crime scene photos in a murder book curl with age. Two masts, main one mounted amidships, short one astern. Sails of white nylon were wound and lashed tightly, spiral wrapped like stripes on a candy cane. A gray-haired man in a red T-shirt with Bearded Belly Bar across the back held up a seat cushion in the open cockpit, hunching over the cooler below. With practiced precision, he yanked green bottles from six-packs of Beck’s beer and shoved them beneath ice. Not a top label import but better than water.

  Javlek was the man’s name. Carter didn’t know his first. It’d just been Admiral before his retirement. His dealings with this prior chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had been brief. But several months back the man had doled out a tasking to the Det for an op in North Korea that had almost resulted in the death of Red and his wife, Lori. No telling how far back Carter would have to trace the trail, but whoever had originally proposed that op to Javlek was probably the one gunning to kill Red and Lori. And Carter reminded himself Javlek could be a suspect as well.

  Carter cleared his throat.

  Javlek jerked upright. Tanned skin creased his cheeks like the tongue of a leather boot. A glance ahead. “Grab that bowline, will you?” A brisk smile.

  Carter loosed the cord from a heavy black cleat. Javlek stood behind a spoked stainless wheel three feet in diameter. He swung a shiny lever. A low rumble, then a puff of black smoke from astern. Now came the familiar diesel scent. Javlek jerked a finger toward the bow, and Carter tossed the line onto it. He did the same at the stern, then stepped aboard as the boat crept forward. A cool headwind swept his cheeks, and they motored east toward a glimmering yellow horizon, watering his eyes, bringing the aroma of chlorine bleach and sea spray. Gripping a shroud line, Carter glanced around the deck. All the rigging was taut, vibrating like a long piano cord in the rising breeze.

  A splash of spray, and the eye of panic cracked open. What the hell was he doing on such a small boat? He’d weathered six months aboard the aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln, even enduring two typhoons in the South China Sea. During one in particular, he’d stared for an hour at more waterspouts than he could count, fish falling upon the steel flattop like rain from a starless, lightning-filled sky. But the sheer bulk of the ship had been enough of an anchor to calm him.

  Now, edging beyond stone breakwaters, an electric motor whined and the main sail climbed the mast, uncoiling itself from the boom. The bow began to sink and rise, crashing through ocean swells. Carter took a breath, held it, then locked eyes to the lifeline. Hand over hand, he made his way to the foredeck. The bowline was tied to a cleat but trailed alongside the vessel in the surf. He pulled it in and arranged it in a flat spiral, matching every other loose line on the boat, hoping the distraction would calm his nerves.

  Javlek was messing with other lines near the mast. The boat’s wheel rocked gently back and forth. Hope this thing knows how to steer itself. Shouldn’t there should be more than the two of them? Even if Javlek was a sailor and not just another retired Navy officer who thought commanding a destroyer qualified him to pilot a sailboat, that still meant only one crewman knew what he was doing.

  He stood behind the wheel again and leaned back, staring at the top of the mast. An electric whir and both sails started to climb. They flopped flaccidly in the breeze, then halfway up seemed to catch and billowed out. Carter ducked beneath the curling fabric and stepped down into the cockpit. Javlek’s eyes stayed skyward till the trailing edge of the sheet stretched taut. The boat heeled, and Carter planted both hands on a railing.

  “Thought you were a Navy man,” Javlek said with wrinkled grin, still staring upward as he spun the helm.

  The man certainly wasn’t a talker. “Not much of a swimmer, sir.”

  Javlek wrapped a line twice around a shiny pulley and tugged, his sixty-year-old arms still nimble and wiry. “But you went for a dip in Iran, I hear.”

  Nice segue. “Wasn’t my
choice, then. You know how Mayard could be. Plus, we had some scuba gear. Never had a problem with diving, just swimming.”

  “Mayard…” The retired officer’s eyes came off the mast and stared at the bright horizon. He scratched his forehead, then pinched his shirt at the navel, or maybe it was a hurried cross. “I miss that cantankerous sonofabitch.”

  Carter loosed one hand in an effort to appear nonchalant. “I’ll agree with the sonofabitch part.” Should he soften him up a bit more before jumping into the interview? Maybe talk about that op in Iran? Or Mayard? The dead man was the only common ground the two held. Screw it. The guy was a retired admiral and would respect a direct approach. “Sir, I’m investigating threats against Red and his family, the Det’s commander. You know who put in the request for last winter’s op into North Korea?”

  The sailor’s lips peeled back from yellow teeth. Blue eyes glanced aside, but only for a second. The strengthening breeze rippled his shirt, but his flattop remained stiff. “I like you. That why you came out here at five thirty on a Sunday morning? Ever since you called yesterday, I’ve been wondering what your angle was.” A pause. “You religious?”

  What the hell did that have to do with it? “No. Not particularly.”

  Javlek glanced up and spun the wheel, and the ship heeled more, leaning till the tips of waves rolled near the opposite gunwale. “Why not?”

  Carter shrugged. “Never much time to think about it.” Where was this going?

  The wheel slipped beneath Javlek’s palms a few degrees. “I hear that a lot. But statistics don’t lie. You’re gonna die.” A cold glance. “You’d better make your peace with Jesus before you meet him.”

  That made no sense. Diversion. A weak but common counterinterrogation tactic. Plus, how the bloody hell could you meet a dead man?

  “Mayard knew Jesus,” Javlek spouted with a lift of his nose.

  “Didn’t seem to help him any.” Too crass, but too late.