Carol’s crimson BMW was in the circle near the house. His spirits sank further. But maybe things could be worked out. Maybe she would talk to him.
He pulled up behind her car, memories flashing through him. Carol humming in the kitchen. Laughter as she flicked water at him while washing the dishes. And the perfume she wore when she massaged his shoulders. All of it brought a frown to his face.
Exiting the Jeep, he gave a quick glance to the south side of the house. A large, rectangular red barn ran east-west. Rounded roof, steel siding, and no windows. The single steel house-sized door faced west and was closed.
He carried his bag to the house, opened the front door, and stopped immediately inside the spacious living room. Ten steps in front of him a stairway led up to an open second floor, the ceiling of the living room stretching up to it. The interior was rough-framed in cedar, with oak and mahogany blended in. It was designed to feel open, but that restful quality eluded him now.
Carol sat on the edge of a sofa, her tall, slender frame captive in a beige suit, keys in hand. An ebony pin held her shoulder-length auburn hair to the side. Dressed for a case. A successful defense attorney, she was normally straightforward and direct. Her hazel eyes focused on his chest, her sharp chin pulled sideways.
Spinner, their chocolate Labrador, lay at her feet, head on her paws. Usually the dog leapt up to greet him.
He sighed.
“They said you would be home today.” Carol fumbled with her keys. “I have a trial that starts on Friday. I have to spend time with the client so I’m going to the apartment.” She looked at him. “I didn’t want to leave a note.”
His throat tightened and he let the bag slip from his fingers. “You’re not coming back?”
She shook her head.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
She stared at her keys. “I’ve tried for a year to talk to you and you always put up roadblocks.”
He swallowed, knowing she was right. “It was hard.”
“It was hard for me too.”
Desperation welled up inside him. “Isn’t our marriage worth one more chance?”
“I’m tired of trying.”
He searched for words to change her mind, to convince her they could make it work. “Let’s take a trip, a break from all this.”
She glanced up at him, her voice gentle. “I don’t think going somewhere else will change anything for us.”
“Is this final?” He didn’t want to hear her answer.
“Things happen, Jack.” She wiped her eyes. “Something’s shifted. How I feel.”
“Why? Over Rachel?” He choked on their daughter’s name. “Just talk to me. Please.”
“Every time you leave, I don’t know where you are or if you’re ever coming back.”
“I’m thinking of quitting, getting out of the service.”
“You said that a year ago. The missions are your escape. Even when you’re here I’ve been alone. You just can’t let Rachel go.”
He winced, knowing she was right. “You never forgave me.”
“You never forgave yourself.”
Minute facial movements and a shift in the cadence and tone of her voice prompted him to ask, “What else?”
“You’ve been gone for a month.” She got up with a frown, her forehead wrinkled. “I have a friend.”
His stomach tightened. Jumbled words and images took over his thoughts. He couldn’t speak.
“I needed someone to talk to.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes as she walked to the door, her perfume in the air between them. “I haven’t slept with him. If it’s any consolation, I’m taking a break from him too.” Pausing at his shoulder, she whispered softly, “Now we can blame each other.”
From the living room window he watched as she got into the BMW and drove off, a small trail of dust the only link left between them.
***
One year ago his daughter Rachel had gone missing while he was away on a mission.
They found her bicycle outside a vertical chute leading to a cave. A cut piece of rope was attached to her bike. A rescue team couldn’t even go down the chute because recent rain had created a river at the bottom of the shaft.
Carol’s accusations still haunted him. Your daughter had to be a great explorer, to live up to her father’s expectations. You trained her well. You should have been here.
He got up and walked outside, striding to the barn. Spinner walked with him, her head hanging, her energy subdued. When Rachel went missing, the dog had lost some of her spirit. Carol leaving would add to that strain.
Retrieving a key from his pocket, he unlocked the deadbolt. Next he hit numbers on an electronic keypad to open the second lock. Pulling open the one-inch-thick steel door, he entered, sliding the one-by-four-inch deadbolt arm behind him.
He flicked a switch, lighting up a massive six-inch-high raised padded platform to his immediate right, a computer station on the far end of it. An exercise area with hanging ropes took up the middle of the barn, and a firing range filled the far end of the building.
He strode past the platform to a door on the left that led to a shower room, where he washed away the grime and pain that coated his body.
His own self-incriminations ran through him for the thousandth time. Despite his cautions to Rachel about safety, he had often recounted to her the times he went into caves alone as a child and came out unscathed—often after some minor problem. She had asked him to repeat those stories over and over. He never thought his smiling daughter would want to emulate his deeds.
Over the last year, as much as Carol had distanced herself from him, he had also isolated himself from her. His guilt had added to the ruination of their marriage.
They both used to go spelunking with Rachel, and he knew Carol must have asked herself if she had been too busy that day to go out with her daughter. He had never questioned her about it.
Eventually he became convinced that someone had kidnapped Rachel. He had no proof. He just didn’t believe she would have risked the chute cave. After working a list of potential enemies that hadn’t turned up any leads, he had moved on to other possibilities.
He obtained the list of known sex offenders within a hundred miles, and visited all of them, aggressively questioning them—one placed a restraining order on him. When a police officer told him to let it go, he had punched the man. Only his military background had saved him jail time. The officer didn’t press charges.
All of it had fatigued Carol.
In a way he wasn’t surprised she had sought support wherever she could find it. Her decision to leave brought clarity to his eyes. All that mattered to him now was fighting for their marriage. He had failed Rachel. He didn’t want to fail with Carol too. He couldn’t survive another loss.
Walking out of the shower room, he turned off the lights and climbed into the nearby sensory deprivation tank. Spinner rested her head on her paws as he shut the tank door.
Darkness. The utter lack of stimulation seemed to damp down the pain that streaked back and forth behind his eyeballs like an electrical storm. He didn’t want to see any light for some time to come.
CHAPTER 6
“Who does Torr think he is?” The president tossed back a half glass of warm sherry, his eyes glittering. William Torr’s name rolled around on his tongue like a small ball of acid.
Torr had struck at them like a coiled snake hidden under a lifted rock. Fast and unexpected. The president wanted him dead.
His gaze slid off the spotless, beige wall of the Oval Office, across the maroon carpet, and up to the emotionally-masked face of CIA Director Peter Hulm. Even in the dim light, all kinds of imperfections were visible on Hulm’s puffy face. Deceit. Lies. Treachery. Cover-ups. And too much patience.
The president didn’t believe Hulm was calm, at least not inside. At the moment he wanted
to kick the short man, like you would kick a whiny little dog for tripping up your feet.
“I’m the one who ultimately is accountable for Blackhood Ops, so you don’t care, do you?” The president flicked an imaginary crumb off his white shirt, where his acceptably-slight potbelly pushed out. “You think you’re invulnerable? Do you? You think Torr won’t dream up things for you to do too?”
He ground his perfect white teeth. All the years of work. Party servitude. Just to end up as another stooge for someone else. Hulm better answer soon, he thought, or his thrown glass might add to the other imperfections on the CIA Director’s face.
Hulm seemed to sense it too. He barely shook his dark-haired head and leaned forward. His gray coat, which he hadn’t bothered to remove, wrinkled like stiff laundry over his small frame. “We’re safe. Komodo was a covert Op to get a drug lord who supports terrorists.”
“We both know that’s a lie.” The president slammed his glass down hard on the English oak desk, leaving droplets beaded on its waxed surface. “Two generals and a friar.”
Hulm shrugged. “We play it straight. We got misguided intelligence and signed off on it. It doesn’t come back at us that way. We didn’t know the truth. It’s been done before. Blackhood takes the heat.”
“We risked an international incident. Invaded a friendly country. Killed their citizens.” The president’s moist lips twisted as he leaned on his desk. “When a president assumes this office, he takes an oath from the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. He swears to take care that laws are faithfully executed. To fail can be an impeachable offense.”
The president paused and straightened his tall frame. “It could ruin me for the next election.”
Hulm was silent.
The president strode to a window that overlooked the White House lawn. Lights shone down on every square foot that might otherwise have shadows. His shoulders tensed. He wanted to hit someone. Hulm.
It took three deep breaths to calm down. He ran a hand through his graying hair and a frown creased his face. “We better make sure no one else knows what Komodo was really about. Otherwise we’re both finished. We’ll go down in the history books as criminals.”
Hulm shrugged. “Look at it this way, Komodo Op was a small payoff to Torr, that’s all.”
“I don’t have to pay off anyone. I’m supposed to give orders, not take them!” The president’s voice ended like the crack of a bullwhip.
“There wasn’t any choice. At least it’s over.”
“Torr won’t stop with this,” snapped the president. “He’s just getting started.”
A spark showed in Hulm’s eyes. “We’ll have to think about that, won’t we?”
The president didn’t hear Hulm as he studied the shadows among the trees on the lawn and behind the shrubbery. “I’m the president,” he said softly. “And I want Torr gone.”
CHAPTER 7
William Torr, CEO of MultiSec, liked his bulldog build. Rock solid, like his face. It made bald, short, and fifty feel better. He picked a piece of lint off his five-thousand-dollar gray vicuña suit, and then studied his manicured nails.
To the side of the room stood a large glass case. On the top shelf rested a first-place trophy from his college gymnastic rings competition. That trophy brought back images of several thousand cheering spectators. Torr liked to be reminded of that whenever he sensed a headache coming on. Like now.
He swiveled his chair, his gray eyes focusing on the paunchy four-star army general who sat in front of his glass-and-chrome desk. The general was number three on a long list of flunkies. “Well?”
General Sorenson was tall and dressed in uniform, complete with tie. He stirred and made a gurgling sound in his throat that slipped from quivering lips. His sunken eyes looked out of hooded caves, just over a bulbous nose.
“There’s nothing we can do now.” The general’s voice was hushed, as if he spoke in a church.
“I don’t accept failure,” said Torr. “Tell me about PR. Point and recon, right?”
“He’s a decorated soldier. One of our finest. He’s been on all the Blackhood Ops.”
“What is he, a renegade? A traitor to his country? Why would a man who’s served his country so admirably disobey an order?”
“We don’t know.”
Torr sighed and stared at the pitiful man before him. “What do you know? How the hell did he blow the Op?”
“We think he attacked Colonel Danker.”
“But you don’t know that for sure either, do you?” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “What a first-rate operation you fellows run. I hate to think that our national security is in your hands.”
Sorenson’s face reddened and his right hand formed a fist on his thigh.
“What’s PR’s name?”
Sorenson shook his head. “That’s classified.”
“I don’t care,” snapped Torr. “You don’t have a choice.”
Sorenson glared at him. “Major Steel.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Torr tented his hands. “I think Major Steel deserves punishment, don’t you?”
Sorenson shook his head. “We have no proof, nothing. He could take it public. We can’t do a thing.” He looked at his black wingtips. “We did what we could. It’s best if we let it go.”
Torr frowned. “General, we’ll let it go if, and only if, I say so.” He smiled when Sorenson’s face scrunched up. It showed off the general’s wrinkles. “But you’re right, it might be best if you’re not involved. And I need some time to deliberate on General Vegas.”
Sorenson shook his head again and his voice shook. “No more Ops on him.” Both his hands formed fists.
“For now.” Torr swiveled his chair one-hundred-eighty degrees so he could look out the windows of his forty-fifth-floor Manhattan office and view the city. “Run along, general. I’ll call as soon as I’m ready to talk again.”
Sorenson’s reflection rose in the glass window in front of Torr. The general stared at Torr’s back for a few moments. Then he stepped forward and picked up the baseball-sized paperweight on the desk.
Torr thought he could see the general’s fingers turn white around the black stone. Holding his breath, he gripped the arms of his chair and set his feet flat on the floor, ready to push off.
Sorenson stood still, the paperweight held waist high. His eyes narrowed and his face tightened. Drawing back his arm, he twisted and threw the paperweight at the glass case, shattering it. The stone made a sizeable divot in the blue wall paint before it fell to the floor.
Sorenson straightened his suit and walked out.
Torr exhaled quietly. At least the wimp had missed his trophy. He didn’t turn around until the door closed.
When he considered how much the botched effort of the combined strength of the CIA and a covert squad of highly trained Army personnel might cost him, he squinted. As if that could make the dollar amount become smaller.
His headache began and he knew who to blame for it. No matter. It would just require more effort. He would eventually get the job done. That much was certain. It would just take more planning.
But before that he had to satisfy two needs. First he had to find out what had really happened on the Komodo Op. He didn’t like unknowns. They could come back to haunt you. And only one person could provide that information. Major Steel.
His second need would be easier to satisfy. Besides his belief in obedience, he also had a strong belief in punishment. It was a great motivator for flunkies and a great pain reliever to see opponents hurting. However he wanted something more permanent for Steel.
Even though he had numerous choices for both options, he decided to use the opportunity to punish Hulm, his number two flunky. The CIA Director hadn’t bungled his part in the Komodo Op, but he was part of a failure, nonetheless.
From memory he dialed Peter
Hulm’s personal phone number to make his request. It brought a smile to his lips. Hulm would get one day to set it up, and one day to execute. He could wait two days to send Steel to his grave.
He opened his center desk drawer for his aspirin bottle.
Afterward he had to make another call. For insurance. Major Flaut.
PART 2
OP: PARAGON
CHAPTER 8
On the first day Steel woke up feeling like a windblown desert—barren, lifeless, and used up. And acutely aware that Carol wasn’t present. He quickly buried all of it, before it buried him.
His security system hadn’t sent any alerts to his phone. Still he grabbed the Glock 19, cautiously exiting the house back door to take the two dozen steps to the barn. Using the key and number code, he unlocked the door, deadbolting it behind him, and strode across the platform to the computer station.
The large padded platform served as a state-of-the-art virtual reality station. Sensors in the front corners of the barn allowed room-scale tracking, and he used a wireless motion-tracking controller. A full-body haptic suit simulated pain, temperature, uneven surfaces, and inclines. Boots, gloves, a head piece, weighted pistol, and goggles completed the sensory input.
Blackhood Ops had developed the VR program to train senior operatives. He had convinced them that it would elevate his performance if they supplied the program to him for home use. And it had. After buying the computer and peripherals, he had used the VR equipment obsessively to develop the razor-sharp skills that minimized his risk on Blackhood Ops.
The VR sessions were also an escape from the harsher realities of his life.
***
He stood in the forest. Four unarmed men appeared from behind trees and strode toward him from all sides. They attacked him simultaneously, all proficient with fighting techniques. He used a combination of Brazilian jiu-jitsu, kung fu, and Special Forces techniques to subdue them.
After running scenarios like this for a year and a half it was too easy. He increased the number of attackers to six and increased their skill level to the maximum. He also tried several different surfaces, and the program provided different combinations of attacks. With six assailants he grunted a few times from blows—the suit’s sensors gave him jolts. Still he put them all down. He tried one more simulation with eight attackers. This time he took some damage before it was over.
Steel Force Page 3
