The team spread out in a circular pattern, moving quickly and silently. Remi scanned back and forth through his NVGs, the green background appearing much darker due to the lack of ambient light. The overcast sky hurt them once again.
About eight minutes later, he heard crackling over the radio through his earpiece.
“Found him,” Polar said. He passed on the coordinates, and the team converged on his spot. Bill was dead, his body crumpled from the impact. “Looks like he had a streamer. Pulled the reserve, but he must’ve been too low.”
Remi moved to Polar's location; Hilts arrived shortly after that. "Let's grab his comm gear, secure him, and cover him up," he said, storing the coordinates on his GPS. "We'll pick him up before we exfil."
Polar and Hilts nodded and removed the equipment from Bill’s body. They covered him with his parachute and laid a few branches on top of that.
The team began their trek toward the target area. Cunningham took point, using his GPS and crosschecking his map to lead them through the darkness. Each of them donned their helmet-mounted NVGs as they ventured farther into the dense jungle. Remi, once again, was soaked, this time with sweat.
They moved swiftly. They humped more than a kilometer in the first hour. Then the jungle grew thicker, their path more meandering, slowing their progress. He crosschecked his GPS periodically. The team snaked its way through the dense vegetation, following the hand signals of the point man.
After three hours, Cunningham made a whirling motion with his hand. The team gathered, and Remi pulled out his GPS and map.
“Okay, we’re a half a klick out.” He spoke slightly louder than a whisper. “We push out to each of our positions. Stay on comms.”
The team split and headed to their pre-assigned locations. Remi glanced at his watch. 0330. It was going to be a long day.
After the airdrop, Jason directed Martinez to pressurize the aircraft, and the crew unhooked their oxygen masks. The Jakal crew flew across the Malaysian border for about ten minutes and then claimed to have a malfunction and RTB’d to Bangkok. Air Traffic Control tried to convince them it was closer to Kuala Lumpur at this point, but the Jakals assured them they needed maintenance at Bangkok.
When they landed, the crew went to the operations center (TOC) to monitor the op. The only activity was the team humping through the jungle, giving the periodic mandatory check-in.
McClendon approached Jason. “How you doing?”
“Not too bad,” Jason said.
“You look better. You’re moving better than this time yesterday.”
“The soreness is wearing off. I’m better.”
“Yeah, I got a phone call yesterday from your nurse. She told me how ‘persuasive’ you were. You pissed her off.”
“And?”
“And I let her know you did the right thing. I would have torn it up if you didn’t. The mission had to go, and you were the only show in town. I told her she’d understand in a few days. She’s not used to dealing with SOF.”
“Thanks,” Jason said. “For backing me up.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to wish you were back in that mansion.”
Jason gave him a confused look.
“Between the nurse and my admin guy, you’re making my life hell around here.”
Jason grinned and grabbed a bottle of water. “What’s the status of the team?”
“They’re moving into position. Made their last check-in thirty minutes ago. They’ll observe the camp and move in once they’ve got an accurate assessment and are confident on how many bad guys there are.”
“So, they’re still looking at a hit tomorrow night?”
“In a perfect world, yes. We’ll see how it goes.”
“Good enough. We’re gonna head back. You want us to go into crew rest?”
“Yeah. The Pave Low is at Pattaya. They’re on alert for the exfil. You shouldn’t be needed since they have the legs to fly there and back. But I want you guys to maintain an aggressive posture. We may need you.”
“Understood, sir. I’ll let the guys know.”
Jason walked across the room where the rest of his crew loitered on the couch or at a computer.
“Grab your gear, gang. We’re going to the hotel. Back into crew rest. We’re on alert.”
“Aw, man,” Lon said. “Sir, my blood alcohol level is getting low. If I don’t replenish it, I could start making good decisions any day now.”
“I get it,” Jason said with a chuckle. “When this is over, we’ll all have a drink. Perhaps several.”
Lon smiled, and his eyes brightened. “There’s the Captain Conrad we used to know. See Martinez, he’s healed.”
Martinez slapped Jason on the shoulder. “Nice to have you back, sir. Although that mission would have been a lot more fun throwing down some 105mm shells at them.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Jason said, the appeal of the AC-130U gunship tugging at him.
The Jakals climbed in the van outside the makeshift operations center. Armed guards and razor wire now surrounded the building, a new addition since they took off last night. The sun started to push its way above the horizon as the driver took them back to The Landmark
The restaurant was starting to serve breakfast. Everybody went upstairs to change and meet again at a table in ten minutes. It was minimal chitchat. They were tired. They’d eat and head back to their respective rooms. He considered calling Lawan but discarded the thought. He didn’t want to lead her on. She had her own agenda, which included climbing into bed with him when she needed. No reason to upset the applecart.
Jimmy let out a low whistle, and everyone looked at the entrance. Nurse Carol walked in, wearing her workout clothes. The skintight shorts and sports bra looked almost painted on, and her skin glistened with perspiration. A towel hung around her neck; each end held by her hands. She scanned the restaurant, and once she found the Jakals, she made a beeline for the table and walked straight to Jason.
"I thought you guys might be in here," she said, staring at him.
“Everybody’s got to eat.”
“I take it your mission was uneventful?”
Jason scowled and leaned toward her. “Lieutenant, we don’t talk about operations around here,” he said in a harsh whisper through clenched teeth.
"Oh, yes. I forgot—SOF warriors. The quiet professionals. You can't talk about anything." She wiped the towel across her face and slowly began to realize everyone glared at her. The smirk fell from her face, she clasped her hands in front of her, and her eyes darted around the restaurant. "Did I just do something wrong?"
“Yes, but nothing we can’t recover from. Why don’t you join us?” He motioned to an open chair.
“No. No thanks. I was working out. I-I wanted to check on you. You seem to be moving better.”
“I’m feeling better.”
“Well, uh, when you get some rest, drop by my office. I’d like to check you over and make sure you’re doing okay.”
The entire crew shifted their look from Carol to Jason. He ignored their gaze, fighting back a grin.
“I’ll do that.”
“Okay, I’ll see you later, then.” She turned and walked away, looking over her shoulder when she was halfway to the door. “Bye, guys,” she said with a half wave.
Six sets of eyes at their table and most of the restaurant watched her leave. Everyone on the crew broke their gaze except Jimmy, who stared at her until she was out of sight. At last, Jimmy became aware he was the only following her exit from the restaurant.
“What?” Jimmy said. “Sorry, she’s hot! I’ve decided, Jason, I’m not leaving your side.”
“Why?”
“Dude, you are the master! You are like a chick magnet. They come out of the woodwork and find you. I’m hanging with you. I want to learn. Teach me, Obi-wan.”
“Relax, Luke Skywalker. She’s my nurse. It’s just a follow-up.”
“See, see . . . that’s part of it. Very subtle, nonchalant. Not letting her know you’re
interested. I got it.” He pulled out a pad and pencil and saw the crew looking at him. “Oh, yeah, I’m gonna take notes.”
The crew busted out laughing, making jokes about the young lieutenant. Nobody noticed the silver-haired man in the seersucker suit approach the table. He placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder.
“Jason Conrad, I’m glad you’ve been found. My name is Sterling MacIntosh.”
59
October 17, 2003
Maison always liked mornings at the mansion. The sun reflected off the shimmering surface of the pool, the cascading water falling into the far end in one steady sheet. The jungle surrounding them now silent, following the initial wake-up period of its inhabitants. The freshness in the air portrayed a calming peace offered by this isolation. He wondered if this would be his last morning here.
He looked up as Helena walked toward him from the house. She wore a bikini, covered in a sheer white shirt, unbuttoned except for one near the bottom. An oversized, floppy white hat and high-heeled sandals completed her ensemble. They had not spoken since he returned yesterday. She stayed in bed most of yesterday, and he was busy with business.
“I’m glad to see you doing better today,” he said.
“Good morning to you, too, Maison.”
Well, she’s her bitchy self again, he thought. It is possible she was still upset about the prisoners escaping from the house. No, she was pissed he had them here, particularly when she found out about Jason Conrad. Perhaps she was right—he was sticking himself out there too far, taking on too much risk.
He wondered what she would do if she found out Preeda was his daughter. Helena had wanted to marry him. She wanted children. Now was not the time, he would say. Now would never be the time. Maison had neither the time nor the patience to have a family. He did not try to fool himself. Why he brought Preeda and her mother back to the mansion was obvious. Preeda was his responsibility. Perhaps, he thought, he might try to get her mother back into bed.
Helena sat across from him, her shirt open to the sides, her breasts heaving as she breathed. She confused him also, remaining in the mansion much longer than any other lover. Was it because she was blond? Perhaps because she was a brilliant banker. Or, had been a brilliant banker.
“Are you going to talk to me or just stare at my tits all day?”
He didn’t shift his gaze. “I think I’ll stare at your tits. Everyone has their place, no?”
“You’re an ass, Maison.”
He grinned at her comment but wondered how much truth was in it.
His cook entered the pool deck and set their breakfast on the table, removed the silver lids, and poured them both coffee. Maison nodded, and he departed.
“What did you find out about my money?”
“Other than it’s gone? Nothing. Whoever did this was very good. Cybersecurity at the bank still cannot locate where the thief originated from.”
“I want my money.”
“I want you to have it, too, Maison. If you don’t have it, I don’t have it. Unfortunately, we are short of time over the next two days.”
“Yes, we are. Did you hear about the exchange with the Chechen?”
She nodded. “I understand Arthit arrived at the camp with the missiles. Weren’t they supposed to go to Bangkok?”
"They will bring them today. The police presence has subsided since the warehouse shootout," he said. He took a mouthful of eggs and talked as he ate. "Arthit said it was like an American Western movie. Bang, bang, bang."
Helena chewed on a bite of mango. “What time do we leave for Bangkok?”
"Eleven. Sarathoon will have the limousine ready. The armored cars are all in place, we'll check on them tonight. Are you packed?"
“Almost. What time does the plane arrive tomorrow?”
“Two p.m. Thirty minutes before the arrival of Air Force One.”
“Sterling MacIntosh?” Jason said. “Do I know you?”
“I’m a friend of your father’s,” he said, looking down at Jason. Jason stood. He didn’t like being talked down to, and a friend of his father showing up in Thailand had his interest. Especially since Jason and his father were diametrically opposites on the political scale.
"Excuse me, fellas," Jason said to his crew, strolling to the side of the restaurant with the silver-haired man. "How did you find me?"
"Your father told me. Of course, your next question will be, how did your father know? Don't forget, his company is the largest contractor for the Department of Defense. He knows things. What he doesn't, he finds out."
“Yes, he does that, doesn’t he?”
“Of course. This one is simply a ‘target of opportunity,’ as one might say in your line of work. He was aware you were out here, and when he discovered I would be in Bangkok, he asked me to check in on you. Little did we know you’d be having the adventure you did.”
“Hmmm.”
“Of course, we’re glad you’re back, safe and sound.”
“My father knows I’m back?”
“Yes. I notified him yesterday.”
“How did you find out I was back?”
Sterling smiled at him. “Your father is a resourceful man, is he not?”
“Yes.”
“You’re talking to the man who made him that way.”
Remi checked on his team at regular intervals. No surprise—the camp was much bigger than the satellite photos revealed. The clearing measured about seventy-five meters long. At the eastern edge sat two large canopies. The canopy to the north turned out to be the chow hall. South of that stood the second canopy. It appeared to be a central meeting place, perhaps the command or briefing area.
West of the chow hall, on the north side, sat the five personnel tents they saw on the imagery. Each of those could sleep up to four men comfortably. Also present on the southwest edge, the four personnel trucks and three smaller trucks from the imagery sat unoccupied.
What wasn't visible on their imagery? The area located south of the clearing near the trucks. Tucked deeper into the jungle: five more personnel tents, a larger tent that he assessed to be a supply tent and a row of latrines. Throughout the morning, they counted an estimated twenty-five men. So far, no women or children had been seen.
It was a wide area to strike with seven men. Ellis, his sniper, positioned himself at the northwest edge. He had a full view of the clearing and the camp, except for some of the latrines and personnel tents blocked by the trucks on the south side. Ellis could see at least a hundred meters north up the road leading into the camp. Polar led a team of two to the south, and Remi took the other two north.
The men slept in shifts. Remi dozed off in the darkest part of the night, just before the dawn. He might have slept longer, but a screeching noise that grew louder by the second startled him, and he jerked up. Hilts put a finger to his lips, then pointed toward the treetops. Remi's eyes adjusted, and his brain calculated the threat, which turned out to be no threat at all. Gibbons, the smallest primate in Thailand, mark their territory every morning with their call. This morning was no different. As his eyes began to focus, he could see some of them swinging from tree to tree.
The morning had been relatively benign—normal movement around a camp like this. Around 1400 hours, things started to pick up. Two beat-up SUVs rolled into camp, fifteen minutes apart. They moved to a clearing south of the camp. Two more vehicles arrived thirty minutes later, and over the next two hours, five more arrived. Nine additional vehicles. Eighteen additional men.
“Remi, what’s up with the new vehicles?” Polar said over the radio.
“Not sure yet. They didn’t appear to bring anything. I think our initial assessment was wrong. They aren’t leaving on the static vehicles. They’re taking the ones that just pulled in.”
“Yeah. The way they parked, they cut off my line of fire for the entire south side,” his sniper said. “I’ve got everything from the command tent north in sight. Totally blind on the south side.”
“Copy. Polar, did y
ou copy that? You guys will be on your own.”
“Affirmative. Thanks a lot.”
Nothing happened at first. At 1530, the terrorists rolled two fifty-five-gallon drums to the trucks. A pump and a long hose attachment topped off each vehicle with fuel. The terrorists then rolled the fuel cans to the edge of the jungle and tossed the pumps and hoses in the grass. Remi felt this indicated the terrorists would not return.
After they fueled the vehicles, they started moving boxes from various tents to the trucks. Other men congregated near the chow hall canopy. Remi keyed his satellite radio.
"Omaha. I repeat, Omaha." The code word came earlier than expected, Remi had to give the code for the terrorists loading up to depart. It was assumed they would move at night, though Remi questioned why anyone would make that assumption. Typically, in a combat zone, the enemy moved at night for concealment, but this was not a combat zone. These guys had nothing to fear, or so they thought. No one was looking for them. Hell, no one knew they existed until a few days ago.
Turns out Remi was right. They planned to drive out of the jungle before dark. Remi had his team check in over the team radio. Once the last one checked in and confirmed his position, Remi spoke.
“Waiting on confirmation from the man,” Remi said. He knew it would take some time. The satellite link in Bangkok had to bounce to SOCPAC at Camp HM Smith on Oahu, who had to find POTUS, who would give the green light. And the process would reverse itself. It seemed simple in concept, but approval for these covert ops sometimes took much longer than it should, mainly because the bureaucrats stuck their noses in and muddied up everything. It pissed Remi off because his men’s lives were at stake.
SOCOM at MacDill was supposed to grease the skids behind the scenes with the DOD and NSA. The objective: have POTUS decide early so the team wouldn’t have to wait. The terrorists loaded their trucks, and Remi feared the answer would come too late. Five more minutes and these guys would climb into the vehicles and leave. He reached for the radio to key the mic with the code “Omaha Zulu,” letting them know they had two minutes to decide.
The Quiet Professional Page 27