by Gary Ponzo
“Agent Garber,” the man extended his hand to Nick who was out front.
“Nick Bracco.”
Garber gestured to the SEALs who were finished examining his Hummer and instinctively creating a perimeter around the meeting without ever saying a word. Their heads on a swivel. “I see you came with some powerful assets.”
“Yes,” Nick said, keeping it simple without introductions or normal pleasantries. This was a joint task force thrown together in less than twenty-four hours and he wasn’t about to add an extra syllable he didn’t deem necessary.
“Is there anyone else coming?” Garber asked, looking up at the airplane’s open door.
“No.”
“Well, go ahead and throw your gear in the back. We’re going to drive over to a small airstrip down the road. We have an amphibian waiting for you there.”
Before Garber could turn, Kalinikov said, “Nice tie.”
Garber glanced down at his chest and wiped away some raindrops. “Thanks.”
Kalinikov didn’t follow up, so the men loaded the vehicle with their gear and jumped into the Hummer. Nick took the front seat, while the SEALs spread out in the middle and back seats. Garber drove down the apron of the runway until the headlights exposed a narrow passageway into the trees.
As they bounced down the dirt road, Olson said, “How long is the trip?”
“Not long,” Garber said.
“Answer the man,” Kalinikov said, a little edge to his voice.
Garber shot a look into his rearview mirror. “Three miles. Maybe five or seven minutes.”
Nick could sense the apprehension mounting and he had nothing to offer as a remedy. The only thing he could do was inspect the circumstances.
“So who was still at the command center when you last contacted them?” Nick asked.
Garber took his eyes from the rain soaked path to glance at Nick. “Agent Bracco, I’m on your side, remember?”
“Uh huh.”
Garber steered the Hummer around some fallen tree limbs and the left side of the vehicle almost came up on two wheels before jostling back to the middle of the road. The headlights cut through the rain, but the darkness covered their periphery and made Nick feel like they were driving through a tunnel. A tunnel without any protection from the elements or their enemies.
From the backseat, Kalinikov said, “You did not answer his question.”
Garber was going faster now, seemingly wanting the journey to end. Without taking his eyes from the road, he said, “You must be the Russian.”
Silence.
Finally, Garber said, “Walt Jackson, Faust, Dutton and Riggs were all still there. I get the feeling they’re not going anywhere until this thing is over.”
Nick looked over his shoulder at Kalinikov who offered nothing but a stone face in return. Matt sat next to him observing everything, but in his zone. With his face darkened by paint, all Nick could see were his eyes. They were alert and aware of every sound, every movement.
The Hummer turned out of the trees and came into an opening. At the far end of the long narrow strip of concrete was one red and one green light and a silhouette of an aircraft between the them. As they approached, the plane came into view between the slaps of Garber’s windshield wipers. It was a twin-engine flying boat with retractable wheels and pontoons hanging from the wings for a water landing. The interior lights were on inside the craft and Nick could see the pilot going through a series of preflight checks.
Garber pulled up next to the plane and jumped out of the Hummer. The SEALs beat him to the back gate and were already unloading their gear, handing Nick his duffel bag while Garber stood by waiting for something to do. The pilot started the plane and the engines coughed to life.
They said good-bye to Garber and entered the amphibian, loading their gear in the back while Nick introduced himself to the pilot, who pulled down the headset from his ears to shake Nick’s hand.
“Nick Bracco.”
“Chase Hedner,” the pilot said.
“You know where we’re going?”
Hedner smiled. “I’ve been briefed for almost an hour on this trip. I know precisely where and how you’ll be dropped off.”
“Who gave you the instructions?”
“Walt Jackson.”
That’s all Nick wanted to hear. As long as Walt had his fingerprints on the operation, he felt more secure about their chances. Walt would be glad to abort the mission the second he felt them going over their heads.
They secured themselves for takeoff. The aircraft was designed for eighteen passengers, so they had plenty of room for their supplies. The pilot gunned the engines and they sped down a dark strip of concrete with only a couple of dim reflectors guiding the craft to the end of the runway.
As they lifted off, Nick’s mouth began to dry up. They were rushing toward a thrown-together operation with short notice and little preparation for the obstacles they would certainly face. He could feel a surge of anxiety tighten his chest, while he grabbed a vial of pills from his jacket.
As the plane banked to the right, they passed directly over Garber’s Hummer driving toward the same path they’d come, the headlights disappearing into the woods.
From behind him, Kalinikov said, “He was wearing a three-hundred-dollar tie.”
Chapter 22
There were almost four hundred staffers and six thousand daily visitors to the White House, yet when Ann Merrick went to go look for her husband at three o’clock in the morning, it felt like the loneliest place on earth. The hallways were too wide for just one person to traverse, especially when they were so barren.
She checked Emily’s room first, then the gym. It wasn’t unusual for him to be working out by 4:00 AM, but he wasn’t there either. Finally she decided to search in the West Wing. As she exited the elevator on the first floor, she was greeted by the Secret Service’s night shift stationed in the transition area set up between the working side of the White House and the residence.
Ann Merrick pulled her robe tight around her neck. “Is he over there?” she asked one of the two men stationed there.
“Yes,” he said. “Would you like me to escort you?”
“No thanks,” Ann said. There was no need for additional security at this time of day, but the Secret Service was conditioned to guard the First Family no matter the circumstance.
She passed the Cabinet room to her left, then poked her head in the Oval Office. Both were empty with just accent lights illuminating the vacant space. However, standing at attention by the door to the president’s personal office was one of his Secret Service agents.
When he spotted Ann, her gave her a warm smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Merrick.”
“Good morning, Alex.” Ann pointed to the door beside him. “Is he working?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, opening the door for her to enter.
Ann slid past the agent and found her husband slouched back in his leather chair staring down at something in his lap. The room was dark, but for an antique floor lamp beside his desk, set on dim. His tie was pulled down to his sternum and his eyelids were drooping. The only sound in the room was the snoring coming from Sam Fisk who lay prone on the couch against the wall.
“Hi,” she said softly.
Merrick didn’t move. At first she thought he too had dozed off, but after a few seconds he said, “Couldn’t sleep.”
Ann stepped over to her husband and saw what he was looking at. His phone illuminated a picture of John Merrick and his two brothers. They were in their teens and the one image captured everything you ever needed to know about the three siblings. On the floor of their living room, were Paul and John, wrestling. Paul was on top of John with a nasty grin as he manhandled his younger brother. Paul would be on his way to the Air Force Academy within the next couple of years, but was already battle-tested. Merrick was on his back with his arms up, protecting himself, but the expression on his face was typical John. Unflappable. He was too cool to let anyone know he c
ould be flustered. A trait which served him well, even to this day. Trent was next to them, on his knees holding a video camera to his eye while documenting the event between his older brothers, a big smile on his face.
“We were going to change the world,” Merrick murmured.
“You did. Every one of you,” Ann said. “Paul went on to be a fighter pilot helping protect small Middle Eastern countries from egocentric dictators. Trent single-handedly saved the elephant population in Indonesia.” She came behind his chair and began to massage his shoulders. “And then there’s you.”
Merrick pushed a button on the phone and the screen went black. He leaned his head back and shut his eyes. “Yeah, me. The delegator who puts people’s lives at risk while I sit here in my bulletproof mansion and shell out commands.”
Ann searched his desk for alcohol but just saw an empty coffee cup. “Honey, why are you doing this? Why now?”
Merrick let out a long breath. “People are going to die today because of my decisions.”
“You don’t know that,” she said, trying to ease whatever guilt may have been crawling around in his mind.
“I can’t lose him, Ann. I just can . . . not . . . lose him.”
In the Oval Office just a few feet away hung a large picture of Lieutenant Paul Merrick in his uniform, taken just weeks before a terrorist flew a plane into the Pentagon where Paul had been working at the time.
“It took me months to get over Paul’s death,” Merrick said in the soft quiet of the most protected building in the nation.
“Years,” Ann replied.
Merrick opened his eyes and looked directly up at her. “Years?”
Ann nodded. “You were gone for a good couple of years. There was no bringing you back. It wasn’t until Emily was born before you resurfaced.”
He reached his hand around the chair and touched her bare leg under her robe. There was something sensual about the gesture, but it felt to Ann as if he were attempting to attach a safety line to her. He was about to dive into the abyss and he wanted her there when he returned. If he returned.
“I was doing pretty well until this happened, right?” Merrick asked in a defensive tone.
“Yes,” she said. “You were doing great.”
His hand rose up the inside of her leg, slowly creeping toward her tenderness, as if the proximity of his fingertips could form a tacit bond between the two of them. His fingers moved between her legs and cupped her butt cheek in his hand. He gently squeezed.
In the deep recesses of her mind, Ann understood the product of this moment. Everyone went to the president for help—poor people wanting food for their children, rich people wanting tax cuts, abortion abolitionists, environmentalists, gun control advocates. There was a never ending line of citizens who needed help, but who did the president go to when he needed help?
Ann allowed him to softly caress her body while he let off some pent up frustration of having nowhere to turn. She bent down and kissed the top of his head.
Merrick continued probing and Ann was beginning to melt with his touch. She whispered, “I wouldn’t start the launch sequence unless there’s going to be liftoff.”
As she touched his face with her hands, she could feel his cheekbones lift from a brief smile.
“I miss you,” he said.
From the darkness, a cell phone chirped. The large silhouette of Sam Fisk came to a sitting position on the couch. He fumbled around for his phone until he found it on the coffee table. The chirping stopped.
Fisk cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said into the phone. Then he shut it off and said, “Air Force One is ready for us.”
Merrick quickly lowered his hand as Fisk lumbered over toward the desk and came into full view. He ran his hands through his hair and said, “Hi, darling.”
“Sam.”
Fisk grabbed a handful of trail mix from a bowl on Merrick’s desk and threw some into his mouth. He chewed for a moment, while seeming to sense the tension.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” Ann said, backing away from Merrick and pulling her robe around her neck.
“Good.”
“I spoke with Jaqui a while ago,” Ann said, looking at her husband. “She said you were going to Colombia and you were coming back with Trent.”
Merrick hesitated. “What did you expect me to tell her, sweetie, I’d give him a ten percent chance of surviving?”
“Please don’t use your negotiating skills on me,” Ann said, crossing her arms. “Exactly what are you two doing down there?”
Fisk put his hand out to stop Merrick from answering. “We’re meeting with the President of Colombia to discuss any leads they may have acquired regarding Trent’s disappearance.”
“That’s it?”
Fisk held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
Ann looked down at her husband suspiciously. “Why do I have the feeling there’s more going on here?”
Merrick rose from his chair and cradled her face in his hands. “Sweetie, I’m going to try to help my brother the same way I’d help any citizen who’s in trouble with a foreign country. With diplomacy.”
Suddenly he wasn’t her husband anymore. He was trying to look too presidential. Too businesslike. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then followed Fisk out the door. The President of the United States walking away from her with his State of the Union speech strut. Like he was going to battle and nothing she said would stop him.
Then it hit her. He had said, “Any citizen who’s in trouble with a foreign country, not in a foreign country.” Trent was a prisoner and Merrick was on his way to save his younger brother and in his state of mind Ann was convinced he would do anything to accomplish that goal.
She hurried out to the hallway and watched the two of them turn the corner in deep conversation. Ann Merrick considered what she could do to keep her husband from going and realized the answer was . . . nothing.
“Can I help you, Mrs. Merrick?” A voice came from beside her.
Ann turned to see a Secret Service agent with his eyebrows raised.
She shook her head. “No,” Ann said, watching her husband about to jump into a giant void. “There’s nothing you can do to help me.”
Chapter 23
The twin-engine plane droned through the night sky barely above the tree line, avoiding radar and acting like a drug smuggling operation. The rain had dissipated, but they seemed to be sandwiched in between the thick clouds above them and the green topography below. Nowhere to land and nowhere to bail. At this point they were all in and Nick felt a sense of community with the team surrounding him. Ultimately, it was Matt’s presence which always brought the greatest sense of security, but the SEALs and Kalinikov kept his heart rate from bursting. The pills helped mitigate his symptoms so he took the least amount of medication to be effective, yet without dulling his senses.
They were heading east and the sun was illuminating the horizon with a pinkish blue aura. Nick watched as Kalinikov worked with his pistol like a chef putting together a sauce he’d made a thousand times before and could’ve done it blindfolded.
Kalinikov kept his attention on the pilot who’d suddenly developed an interest in the topography of the land below them, even though they were landing on the lake. The pilot swiveled his head side-to-side and it put some bad thoughts into Nick’s head.
Kalinikov was back to working with his gun. His hands slid over the pistol with a smooth dexterity.
“That’s nice,” Matt said, admiring Kalinikov’s Makarov 9mm.
“Thank you,” Kalinikov said. “I actually met Nikolay Makarov a year before he died. He was very proud of his weaponry. As a matter of fact, he was awarded the title, ‘Hero of Socialist Labor.’” Kalinikov looked at Matt through the corner of his eye. “That probably does not impress you very much, does it?”
“No, hey, as far as Socialists go, the Hero of Socialist Labor title is right up there with the best of them.”
Kalinikov o
ffered a slight grin. While examining his pistol, he said, “You still do not believe I am doing this for the money, Agent McColm. Or my family’s safety.”
“No,” Matt said. “I don’t.”
Kalinikov nodded, as if agreeing with Matt’s assessment. “When I was in training for the KGB, they sent us to the Amazon rainforest to acclimate ourselves to jungle warfare. We were attempting to join an elite branch of the service.” Kalinikov pointed to the three SEALs. “Very much like their outfit. It was the final stage of the training. We started out with four hundred soldiers vying for the very prestigious status and were down to the final ten men. They dropped us off deep into the Amazon without food, water, or weapons. We were told where our pickup point would be some two hundred miles away.”
Kalinikov stuck the Makarov in his holster and said, “Well, after two weeks, there were only three of us left. Everyone had suffered from malaria, dysentery and taken on too many parasites which our bodies were not prepared for. We would bury the dead along the way. After less than three weeks, I buried the final soldier, Dimitri, while spitting up blood on his grave. He was my closest ally.”
The large Russian looked past Matt, out the window, as if reliving the scene in his mind. “The next day,” he continued, “my own diseases had taken hold. I had an insatiable thirst, a skull-splitting headache and uncontrollable shivers. I was not able to move. I lay down next to a tree and prepared for death. At that point I welcomed it. Relished it, really.”
Kalinikov’s eyes wandered over the treetops. “Then, a tribe of Native Indians surrounded me. At first I thought it was a hallucination. They wore nothing but patches over their genitals and snail shells strung around their necks. They rarely spoke. They used mostly sign language. I later discovered they were the Marutos.”
The name triggered something with Nick. “The same tribe Trent Merrick was filming a documentary about when he was captured.”
“Precisely,” Kalinikov said. “They had been following me for some time, but they were so clever about their camouflage. They would never remain at eye level. They were either in the trees or underground. Their language is comprised of a series of birdcalls identical to the real thing. They could be talking just overhead, but you would never know it.
