by Trevor Scott
“Where do you want to go?” Sancho asked.
“An isolated road,” Jake said. Then he shoved the gear shirt into the next gear and jammed down the gas pedal. They whipped past the bridge that they had crossed earlier.
“Two kilometers ahead a road heads south into the hills. It looks pretty remote. What’s the plan?”
“Just sit tight.” Within seconds, Jake could see the sign for the road ahead. At the last second, he stomped on the brake and clutch, slammed the stick down into second gear and popped the clutch. The car lurched to the left, and the engine hit the red-line as they crossed the center line and headed up the side road. Jake powered through the gears as they rose up the steep hill, having to downshift for the switch backs.
“What’s at the top of the hill?” Jake asked, his eyes briefly checking the rearview mirror to make sure the tail was still there. It was, although it had fallen back somewhat.
“A final turn and then a short straightaway,” Sancho said.
“When I stop, you sit tight and duck down.”
“You got it, Jake.”
In seconds, Jake could see that they were reaching the top of the hill. Here the forest was thick and natural, without the groomed vineyards of the rest of the valley.
Just after they made the final turn at the top, Jake hit the brakes hard, turning the car across the narrow road and coming to an abrupt halt. He immediately jumped out and drew his Glock, aiming it toward the car tailing them.
When the driver finally made the last turn, Jake was ready as the SEAT tires screeched the car to a stop only ten yards away.
Jake swiftly walked toward the car, his gun pointed right at the driver’s head. Finally, he could see the shocked driver’s face. He expected to see a Chinese man, but instead saw a woman in her early 30s. She looked Portuguese.
The woman looked frustrated, but not scared. She gently lifted both hands off the steering wheel.
Jake opened her door and swished his gun to the side, meaning get the hell out.
“You are mistaken,” the woman said in accented English. “I am not your enemy.”
“Who are you and why are you following me?” he asked.
“If you allow me to reach into my purse, I will show you,” she said.
While she did this, Jake assessed the woman. She had long dark hair, straight and leading to smallish breasts. Her most striking features where her eyes, which were dark and highlighted by just enough mascara. Her lips were supple and just red enough to look natural. Finally, she took out an ID and handed it to Jake.
He took turns reading the ID while keeping his gaze on the striking young woman. Then he said, “SIED. Serviço de Informações Estratégicas de Defesa or Defense Strategic Information Service.” Interesting, he thought. They were the equivalent of the CIA.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Well, Carla Matos, what are you doing following me?”
She sat stoically and resolute.
Jake continued. “I thought SIED wasn’t supposed to work within Portugal.”
“We can under special circumstances. Would you stop pointing that gun at me?”
Jake lowered his gun but didn’t holster it yet. Instead, he reached into her car and turned off the engine, pulling the keys and placing them in his left coat pocket.
“Why would you do that?” she asked. “I have just showed you that I am an officer with Portuguese Intelligence. And what authorization do you have to carry a handgun in our country.”
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“Jake Adams. Former CIA officer and current security consultant. Until recently you were living a quiet life on Pico Island.”
Crap. She knew much more about him than he could have suspected. “Then you must know that I have been authorized by the Austrian government, the European Union, and NATO to carry a concealed weapon until death.”
She smiled and her perfect teeth were accented by deep dimples. “The way you are going, that could be sooner than later.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No. I’m talking about the death of four Chinese intelligence officers at your place on Pico.”
“Well,” Jake said, sliding his Glock into his holster inside his leather jacket, “I’m afraid I’ve made a few enemies over the years.”
She got out of the driver’s seat and reached out her right hand to Jake. He reluctantly shook her hand, which was much stronger than her slight frame should have provided.
A car wound its way up the hill and around the corner, stopping a short distance behind the woman’s SEAT. Jake almost drew his weapon again, but instead simply waved the car around their vehicles. The small car barely made it around the Skoda before pulling away quickly.
“Now are you going to tell me why you’re tailing me?” Jake asked, his hands on his hips.
She brushed her long hair away from her eyes. “The incident on Pico Island crossed my desk.”
“Because?”
“Because four Chinese nationals in tactical gear were operating on our soil,” Carla said.
That might have been true, he thought. But she was holding back something. “That doesn’t explain how you tied my life on Pico with my true identity.”
Her eyes shift to the left. She was obviously looking for the right answer. “I can’t say. But I assure you it wasn’t easy. You didn’t leave much of a trail. However, a Gulfstream coming and going can be traced.”
So, she had tracked the Gomez Gulfstream from Terceira Island. He would have to make sure their organization was much more careful in the future. She was still holding back, but Jake expected nothing less from a good intelligence officer.
Another car slowly drove up the hill and rounded the corner before coming to a halt. When Jake first noticed something wasn’t right, he grabbed Carla and pulled her to the ground in front of her SEAT.
Bullets from two guns peppered the car with solid thuds.
Jake rolled and drew his weapon simultaneously, ending up on the ditch side of the car. He fired off five rounds and rolled back behind cover. By now, Carla had her gun out and lay prone protected by the left front tire. Finally, she fired three rounds at the car.
Now, the shooters opened fire with everything they had, with bullets smashing windows, the metal on the car and finally taking out the rear tires.
Then nothing. Jake guessed they were reloading. He jumped up and aimed at the driver, finishing his 17-round magazine as the car drove backward and quickly turned around. Carla followed Jake’s lead, finishing off her magazine as Jake reloaded. But by now the attackers had rounded the corner and were heading down to the river.
Jake shifted his head to her and said, “Come with us.”
“Do I have a choice?” she asked.
“Not if you want to live.”
The two of them ran to Sancho’s car. Jake found the man huddled as deep under the dash as his body would go.
Sancho was relieved when he saw Jake. “Why is it that anytime I’m with you people start shooting at us?”
Jake got behind the wheel and Carla got into the back seat.
Starting the car, Jake cranked the wheel and pulled out after the shooters.
“Who’s the hottie?” Sancho asked.
Jake didn’t answer. He was too busy navigating down the hill after the shooters. But it soon became clear that they would never catch up to them.
Sancho reached his hand back and said, “Sancho.”
Reluctantly, Carla switched her gun to her left hand and introduced herself only by her first name. She gave no details on her background. Then she added, “This is the first time I have fired my weapon, other than at the range.”
Sancho laughed. “Well, you just met my friend. So, that makes sense.”
Jake slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Do you need anything from your car?”
She shook her head. “It was a rental. My bag is at my hotel in Porto.”
“Who were those shooters?” Carla asked.
“More Chinese,” Jake said.
“How did they find you?”
“They didn’t find me,” Jake said. “They found you.”
She shook her head. “Impossible.”
“We’ll see.” Jake put the car in gear and quickly pulled out, heading down the hill toward the Douro River.
11
Sumatra, Indonesia
Lee Chang was on the move, pushing his way deeper into the jungle on this small island in the center of the Strait of Malacca. His guide, Sinaga, barely out of breath, waited ahead of Chang.
“We must move, Boss,” Sinaga said. “I know a way.”
His Batak guide had brought him close to the Chinese facility nearly twenty-four hours ago. Chang had gotten the photos he needed to confirm that the Chinese were building a major facility on this island. As they were backing out, somehow the Chinese had become aware of their presence. That led to an initial chase through the jungle. Then, Chang had thought the Chinese had lost them. But that lasted only a few hours. During that time, Chang had been able to do two things—send his photos to his boss in Singapore using his SAT phone, and ask for an extraction. His Singapore station had agreed, but that had become more difficult. When they got to the extraction point it was crawling with Chinese military, forcing Chang to change to their secondary extraction point on the extreme western side of the island.
This island contained only a few small Batak villages, and Chang suspected that the Chinese would have each of those covered with men. Sinaga would have to get a boat, pretend to go fishing, and pick up Chang down the coast, away from the Chinese. Then Chang could escape to the larger island of Sumatra.
Periodically, they would catch a glimpse of their pursuers through the jungle. But Sinaga had kept them safe so far. He knew the jungle better than anyone on this island.
“We go, Boss,” Sinaga whispered. “My village is close.”
The two of them moved with slow determination now, Sinaga making sure that they were not being followed here. Soon they reached a small precipice with a view of huts on the edge of the water below. Smoke from a number of small fires rose up and melded with the fog across the entire Strait of Malacca.
Chang lifted his binoculars to his eyes and saw only a couple of people in the village. It was late afternoon and Chang expected to see more activity.
“What see?” Sinaga asked.
“Only a couple of people.”
Sinaga’s expression shifted to uncertainty. “Not right. I go to see.”
Chang considered that, knowing it was probably their best option. There was no way he could pass for Batak. “Okay. Be careful. Wave if it’s alright.”
Sinaga nodded understanding and headed off into the jungle, making his way down the small hill toward the village.
While he waited, Chang took out his SAT phone. He had turned off the phone hours ago, thinking the Chinese could track him by its signal. But now he might not have a choice. He could need to send one last distress signal. The Agency would be able track his location by GPS. Then he got another idea. He had pulled out the memory card from his digital camera while on the run and replaced it with a fresh card showing only photos of the jungle. His cover had him as a free-lance photographer producing a coffee table book with jungle images. He found the memory card with the images of the Chinese military installation and he put it into a plastic Ziploc bag. Then he dug out some moss at the base of a large tree and hid the bag underneath it.
Now he saw Sinaga in the village through his binoculars. He was talking with another man.
Suddenly, two men appeared from a hut and pointed guns at Sinaga.
Chang fumbled with his SAT phone as he watched his guide through the binoculars. He switched on the phone just as Sinaga dropped to the patch of dirt in front of a hut. Then the sound of a gunshot echoed up to Chang’s ears.
His last SAT phone message to Singapore was sent in a hurry. This was his last hope. His message meant that he was in deep shit and imminent danger. Then he quickly shut down his phone again, hoping the Chinese didn’t have enough time to track his signal. Now he was on his own. Somehow, he needed to get off this island.
McLean, Virginia
Kurt Jenkins walked his German shepherd Rex along a snowy trail in the stark forest of Scott’s Run Nature Preserve along the Potomac River, the dog’s whiskers frozen from the brisk January air. Kurt had been contacted by the CIA Director John Bradford, saying they needed to meet immediately. That was less than an hour ago.
From his current position near the Scott’s Run Falls, Kurt guessed he was only a couple of miles from CIA Headquarters, with a view across the Potomac of the U.S. Naval Surface Warfare Center.
Bradford had been cryptic at best in his secure text, but Kurt knew that was the nature of the beast, considering the CIA director could be scrutinized by congressional oversight.
When he heard footfalls from the trail behind him, Kurt turned to see the director jogging toward him. Bradford slowed his pace and waved to two men who trailed him—his security detail. Bradford had been an Air Force four-star general, and had always been an avid runner.
Bradford shuffled over to Kurt and then stretched his muscles. “I see you still have that beast,” the CIA director said.
The dog growled at Bradford. Kurt pulled back on the dog’s leash, so the shepherd sat at his side. His dog had been an Air Force explosive detection specialist, and Kurt had adopted Rex after many years working in Afghanistan.
“General, please. Rex is a combat veteran.”
Bradford started to reach his hand down to pet the dog, but Rex growled and snapped at him, forcing the director to pull back his hand. “Maybe we should have retired him permanently.”
Kurt shook his head. “Don’t say that. He just doesn’t like officers.”
“Insubordination,” Bradford said. “We need to get to business. My muscles are starting to tighten up.”
“Age will do that to you.”
“So will temperatures in the teens.”
“What’s up?” Kurt asked.
“Jake Adams. We got word that someone tried to kill him in Portugal.”
“I know. Four Chinese operatives on Pico Island.”
“No. This was east of Porto. Two gunmen.”
“He’s in the shit now,” Kurt said. “What have we gotten him into?”
“Nothing he can’t handle, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know about that. The Chinese are making moves all over the globe.”
Bradford walked in place to keep his muscles warm. Then he said, “You don’t know the half of it.”
“I know they’re talking about putting missiles in the Azores,” Kurt said. “Not to mention the bombers they plan to base or rotate on the Venezuelan island. And this is just what the news media is reporting.”
Bradford swished his head side to side. “They’re buying up ports all over the world, from Africa to South America. They plan to be major players in the Panama Canal region.” He hesitated, perhaps unsure how much to tell his predecessor. Finally, he said, “We just got intel that the Chinese are building a military facility in the Strait of Malacca.”
“What? Are you serious? That’s a major shipping lane.”
“I know. It connects India with the Americas and the Middle East and Africa with China.”
“You think they plan on playing troll?”
“Anything is possible with the Chinese. They have long-range plans for world domination. They don’t just want to be the world economic power. They plan on dominating every aspect of life, from culture to military hegemony.”
“And our government on both sides of the aisle don’t seem to be concerned,” Kurt said.
Bradford laughed nervously. “I’m briefing daily on the threat. But I’m not sure they see what we see.”
“I take it you have a direction
for Jake to pursue,” Kurt said.
The Director hedged as he glanced across the river. “We’ve already put him in play with our friends in Portugal.”
“The shooting?”
“I have no idea what happened there,” Bradford said. “But I know Jake will find out. We understand Gomez had a number of attacks on his people.”
“Besides Jake and Sirena?”
“Yes. Two dead in Lisbon and a man killed in Dublin. Not to mention coordinated protests at Gomez production facilities. Only Jake and Sirena survived the strikes.”
“I’d always put money on those two,” Kurt said.
“I’m right there with you. Please send him word that he should look into the Lisbon shootings. The Chinese are all in there, and we’re not entirely sure why.”
“What about our own assets there?”
“In transition,” Bradford said. “The ambassador is still a hold-over from the previous administration. She isn’t playing nice.”
“But you still control your people there,” Kurt reminded his old friend.
“The station chief retired last month and we haven’t found a replacement. The old guy was put in place by the last administration, against my wishes.”
Kurt nodded. “I know who you’re talking about. He’s a weasel and should have retired years ago. Or been fired.”
“I wish Jake would take over the post,” Bradford said.
Kurt laughed. “You’ve got a better chance of filling that post with the Easter Bunny. To use a football analogy, Jake is like that strong safety who seems to be everywhere on the field, knocking the snot out of anyone with the ball.”
“I know. Wishful thinking. But you can see why I’m sending Jake to Lisbon now and not including our people.”
“You’re afraid that the former Bozo at the top has shit in the shallow end of the pool.”
“You have a way with words.”
“I’m quoting Jake Adams.”
“Alright. I need to get moving. We’re preparing a briefing to the joint congressional committee on intelligence.”
“Talk about an oxymoron.”
“Mostly the moron part. Only one person on the committee served in the military.”