“The only connection between these bastards is that they all were killed in San Antonio, and they were all sponsored for their visas by a Lebanese businessman who’s an international banker with offices in New York City and Paris. Here’s a picture of the bastard. His name is David Ashrawl.”
The picture changed on the view screen to show a man in his late forties with a gray spotted beard and salt-and-pepper hair. He was wearing an expensive looking suit, and he had medium dark skin with dark brown eyes. “He left the country two weeks prior to the attacks, taking a non-stop flight to Paris where he promptly disappeared.
“A fifth terrorist,” the picture on the screens changed again, “has been identified as another student. What a surprise! This one had been working as an intern at the first refinery that was attacked, the Oxytriad Refinery. According to the FBI, he was a student from Qatar on a work exchange program through their government. His name according to his passport is Yousef Al-Sintani. Unfortunately, the government of Qatar is claiming they never sent anyone to work at Oxytriad or any other refinery, and they’re now stonewalling all inquiries.
“We have pictures of the son of a bitch from when he applied for his visa when he was employed by the refinery and from security cameras at the mall in San Antonio.” The first two pictures that appeared on the screen showed the same man, but the third picture showed a man who was thinner and without facial hair. “Yes, he was at both attack sites. We used a facial recognition program to make a positive ID, which means he is probably the cell’s leader. Note that he shaved or discarded his disguise by the time he reached San Antonio. The CIA, FBI, NSA, NIA, DEA, DOD, DOJ, MI6, MI5, Interpol, Mossad, the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts are all on the lookout for him.” No one chuckled at Chip’s attempt at humor.
The three pictures on the view screens showed two profiles and full frontal photos of a young man, maybe late twenties, with dark hair, dark eyes, wearing glasses. In fact, his eyes were so dark that they appeared as cold and merciless as shark’s eyes.
“There has been a letter sent to Al-Jazeera from a group no one has heard of before called the Islamic Freedom Fighters who are claiming responsibility. The FBI and the CIA are trying to track down any information about the group, but the only thing that connects them to anything is the letter claiming credit for the attacks in Houston and San Antonio. It’s likely that it’s a false lead designed to muddy the waters. Other than that, the FBI along with the rest of the alphabet agencies, have run out of leads. They’re questioning anyone they can think of, but the politically correct crowd won’t take the gloves off, so they aren’t making much headway.
“That brings us to the intelligence the FBI and the others have overlooked, and a few other items of interest. Local police in Victoria, Texas found a burned out black van that was a match to the van found at the mall in San Antonio. We believe this was the escape vehicle for the terrorists. At the site where they found the van, they also found tire tread markings in the sand that led them to a stolen Buick Park Avenue. It was found abandoned on South Padre Island at a waterfront bar. It had been wiped clean.
“There was unconfirmed intelligence picked up that a boat matching the description of a stolen cabin cruiser from Brownsville left the island with five men on board the day after the attack in San Antonio. This was ten hours before the car was discovered, and a day before the tire treads were matched. This same boat was last seen heading towards the deep waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Later that day, a cabin cruiser supposedly caught fire and sank with all hands on board approximately one hundred forty-five miles due east of South Padre Island. It just so happens that one hundred and fifty-five miles is the approximate distance the stolen cabin cruiser could travel on one tank of fuel.” The room filled with mumbling as everyone shared the same thought. This was just too much of a coincidence. The boss cleared his throat, and the noise died down, allowing him to continue.
“A Panamanian freighter, The People’s Glory, was conveniently in the area and was the only eyewitnesses to confirm the sinking. After helping in the search for survivors, the ship sailed directly to Cienfuegos, Cuba, though the ship’s captain had told the Coast Guard that he was headed to Belize and Honduras. When The People’s Glory arrived in Cuba, five additional crew members disembarked.” A mumble filled the room again and then tapered off.
“Four of those five have stayed in Cuba. The other terrorist took passage on a ship of Libyan registry, The Crescent Moon, one day after arriving. We believe that he went to Libya and from there to Lebanon via Air Italia, where he was reported to be staying somewhere in Southern Beirut—the Hezbollah stronghold. We believe this man goes by the name of Al-Sintani, and he was the leader of the terror attacks.” The screen behind Chip switched to the picture of Al-Sintani without the beard and moustache.
“The Israelis are telling us that Al-Sintani is a new player, and he has dropped off the map in Beirut. They believe he has moved on to Europe. So, they are working with Interpol to try and find out if that’s true, but so far nothing has surfaced.
“We’ve got feelers of our own out for any information about this dirtbag and our mystery businessman, as well. If these two have gone to ground in an unfriendly Arab nation, getting to them could be rather difficult,” Chip explained.
“Our job here is simple. We will be going on the offensive. We will be the force for reprisal. We will be searching for them within the very populations that they have hidden behind in the past. These are not run-and-gun missions. We will not be ‘spraying and praying’ we hit someone. Our goal is quiet kills, leaving no trace behind.
“We will break up into five man teams, and some of you will be going after these terrorists right away. Others will be dealing with corporate issues, but rest assured all of you will have your chance to hunt terrorists.
“Team one, you’ll be headed by David Clarett, and you’ll be going to Cuba. Meet down at the dock by the container ship, Honolulu Sunrise, in one hour and leave everything; no IDs, no dog tags, nothing that will identify you. We’ll supply everything you’ll need, so nothing can be traced back to America or Kilauea Corp.
“Team two, you’ll be headed by Tom Willard, and you’ll be going to Lebanon and/or Israel—the final destination is still pending. Same goes with the IDs and personal items. We’ll supply them. You’ll meet at the airport tonight at 1800 hours.
“The rest of you will be going on other less sensitive missions for the corporation at this time. All teams other than one and two will meet in the conference room on the first level at 0930. Your missions will include setting up protection for the corporate ships traveling in the Far East and security for several corporate executives in South America.” An audible groan arose from the group. They were all chomping at the bit to take down the terrorists.
“I don’t want to hear any gripes about the assignments. You’ll all get your chance to take on the bad guys. Any questions?” No one said a word. “Then, good luck and good hunting!” Chip added.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The minutes dragged by while David waited for his team to arrive dockside. When he was alone, he couldn’t help but think about the family he’d lost. From his perspective, it was just yesterday that his children had been born. They had just taken their first steps and spoken their first words. He hadn’t been there to see or hear any of it, but he’d seen it on DVD. Now, he would never be able to be there, and it was eating him up inside.
He remembered their smiling faces and the group hugs that his children especially liked. He and his wife, Elaine, would place the children between them and wrap their arms around them, then pick them up off the floor and snuggle the children between them. After a few moments, they would begin to tickle them. The kids would giggle loudly as Elaine shrieked with laughter. They would tickle them until they nearly cried, then they’d drop gently to the floor and tickle them some more. He could see their faces, their huge smiles, and the tears of joy that would trickle down their little red cheeks. He remembered how
they would wiggle and giggle, their little legs kicking wildly, as they struggled to get away. After a few minutes they would let them escape, whereby they would begin tickling Mom and Dad who played along for a moment or two, only to start tickling them again which caused the whole hugging and tickle fighting love fest to commence once more. The kids had loved that so. He had loved it, too. All he had now was the memory. It was all he’d ever have.
He fondly remembered how they were always competing for his attention when he was home, which was not often enough, by far. He remembered Elaine’s tender touch, her warm soft lips, and the smell of her shampoo. The wispy strawberry scent of it floated through his memory causing his heart to ache. Then, closing his eyes and holding back tears, he could have sworn he smelled the subtle scent of her perfume, and for a moment, he felt her hand caress his as she had done a million times. In an instant, the empty space within him was back, gnawing at him, slowly eating away his soul. The train of thought led to how he had come to be here.
It had taken him two months of constantly badgering his old man, trying to make him understand he was going to do something with or without the military or the official sanction of the government. If he had to, he’d sell everything he owned and search the world until he found the bastards who killed his family, and he would kill every last one of them. All he was asking of his father was to help with some intelligence, which as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs he had plenty of. After two months of David’s pestering, Dad asked him to sit down and talk, and it was then that Dad made a confession that totally blew David’s mind.
David was physically jolted to learn that his father had retired two months prior without fanfare, but what really sent David reeling was the reason his father had made the move. Like David, he too had to do something to avenge the deaths of his son’s family, his family. He would be that force of reprisal if it took the rest of his life, and then he asked David to join him.
At first, David couldn’t comprehend how working as a glorified security guard would help him avenge his family. Dad then revealed the true nature of his new position. He explained how they would be working on the surface for Steven Howard and Kilauea Corp., and behind the scenes for America and for revenge. David would be working on black ops behind enemy lines. The job would be to hunt down and kill the terrorists wherever they found them. No one was going to stop them with idiotic rules of engagement. No one would be concerned about how the press might view it or if there was enough evidence to convict the person. It would be his Dad’s call as to whether or not the guy was dirty, and he would be calling a spade a spade. To hell with political correctness.
Dad had then gone on to explain that everything would be in operational readiness in thirty days, and that Steven and his group had assured him he would have an unlimited budget. If David could live with the fact that it wasn’t exactly legal and it was to be done as his old man saw fit, then he should join up and help his father make those bastards pay.
The team arrived en masse, breaking David’s train of thought. Within seconds, David found himself doing a mental assessment of each of the team members as they milled about. Each man had an impressive resume which included David’s course on survival behind enemy lines. Funny, he didn’t remember any of them. Michael Montoya, a tall Hispanic from outside of Houston, Texas who was standing next to the gangway, would be David’s lead recon man. He’d worked as a recon sniper and demolition man in the SEALs. Dan Shields, a rough-mannered rogue of a Marine from Philadelphia who was sitting on a steel drum, would be the guardian angel lookout and sniper. He’d won combat medals four separate times for his marksmanship, and despite his small frame, he could kick like a mule in hand-to-hand combat when it was required.
Rick Mitchell and Andrew Fields, both Army Rangers, were hanging out under the overhanging awning in the shade. They were among the best in the world when it came to hand-to-hand combat and were almost carbon copies of each other; both stood six foot three, a hundred ninety-five pounds of solid muscle. Their hair color was just slightly different, with Mitchell’s being light brown and Andrew’s, slightly darker. Both wore their hair somewhat longer than military regulations. All four of them were expert marksmen with any weapon that they chose to use.
No one spoke for several minutes as each man checked out the other members of the team, mentally sizing up the competition. It’s just something that type ‘A’ personalities do. They like to size up the competition, even if they are on the same side. It was a pecking order thing. Each dog has to know his place in the pack. Finally, Mitchell spoke up, and David stopped worrying about how the team would relate to each other, for now.
“Can you believe this old tub? Look at all the rust. What about those gantry cranes? They look like a good stiff wind would blow them over. Hell, this tub doesn’t look like it could sail across the marina, let alone across an ocean,” Mitchell complained sarcastically about the ship they were about to board.
“Yeah, it’s just like the Marines—nothing but the best, unless something less will do,” Dan Shields added with his own sarcasm. David just shook his head while giving the men a look of indignation.
“Clarett? Are you any relation to the boss?” Mitchell asked David.
“Yeah, he’s my father, but I favor my mother.”
“Yeah, you don’t look much like him,” Mitchell observed, without any tact. “Couldn’t your old man spring for a ship built in this century?” Mitchell added as his eyes continued to check out the old freighter.
“Or at least one with a recent paint job,” Dan Shields added.
Seeing the look on David’s face, which wasn’t pleasant, Montoya quickly joined the conversation and changed the subject, “When was the last time you saw a breakfast like that?” he asked of no one in particular.
“Five star hotel menu,” Dan Shields chimed in, “at least they do that right.”
“Yeah, I had steak, eggs and bacon with just a little salsa. It was really good,” Montoya added, with a grin bursting across his face.
Finally, David spoke up. “Not only do you guys bitch and whine like a bunch of old ladies, you act like you haven’t had anything other than field rations in your life.”
“What? I suppose you like field rations or something, hey, boss?” Mitchell snapped, with his grin growing bigger.
“We work for Kilauea Corp. now. The food we had in the military was the best based on nutrition; here it’s just the best. If you don’t watch what you’re eating and keep working out, you’ll soon be just that guy who used to be part of our team,” David stated flatly, with just a hint of his own sarcasm.
“What? You gonna fire us?” Andrew Fields inquired as he struggled to keep from snickering at the thought.
“I’m not going to fire anyone. But the bad guys will thin the herd starting with the weakest links and you all know that. This isn’t some weekend picnic.” David turned his head towards the gangway, having heard the clanking of boots on the metal gangway.
“Well, I see you made it,” a massively muscled man dressed in rags stated as he walked down the gangway. “Welcome aboard the Honolulu Sunrise. Or as we’re known around the office, ship number one. I’m First Mate Hanchell, Nathan Hanchell. You can call me Nate or Hanchell, it doesn’t matter. Follow me and I’ll give you a quick tour of the ship, and then you can get prepared for the mission.” He turned and retreated up the gangway without waiting for the team to follow.
Hanchell, David observed, taking a good look at the guy, was dressed in what looked to be discards from a Salvation Army store. His t-shirt was several shades of gray darker than white with a few holes and plenty of grease stains. His shorts, though not holey, were frayed at the seams and clearly in need of laundering. Hanchell was of average height and weight, but the man’s upper body would have put Atlas to shame. Hanchell was all muscle from the waist up and the neck down, like you would see on a competition body builder. He wore his light brown hair very closely cropped. His smile showcased his perfect white t
eeth, and his t-shirt, now that David looked closer, appeared as though it would split the next time Hanchell flexed his muscles.
“What’s with the cargo freighter?” Mitchell asked as they walked up the gangway.
“Container ship, and that’s a fair question.” Mitchell rolled his eyes at Hanchell’s correction. Hanchell stepped onto the main deck. “It’s about stealth,” Nate continued. “We can’t exactly pull into port in a destroyer, now can we? The most common vessel on the sea today is a container ship, and as you’ll see, it allows us the freedom to carry a great a deal more than containers.”
“So we’re supposed to be merchant sailors or something?” Shields asked.
“No, you don’t exist.” Hanchell shot back quickly and curtly. “We’re the merchant sailors and you’re backup, if needed. Our job is to get you in and out of ports and tight spots. But as far as the rest of the world is concerned, we’re just a bunch of sailors pushing freight.”
“So, why this old rust bucket? It looks like it would sink if it left the dock,” Fields asked. “I thought everything at Kilauea Corp. was the best money could buy?” he added sarcastically.
Hanchell stopped and pointed to the superstructure. “Okay, one more time for the ground grunts. This is about stealth. If you still don’t get it, just watch and learn,” Hanchell continue to grin as he patronized Fields contemptuously.
“Okay, the rules for the voyage,” Hanchell shouted for effect, stopping just outside the entry hatch. “You,” Hanchell shouted, pointing at David and his men again, “do not exist. You will have to stay inside the ship during all daylight hours unless the captain says it’s okay to be on deck. We sail the major shipping lanes for the most part, and there are usually ships passing by all the time. We don’t need anyone taking your picture or taking a head count of the crew and discovering that we have more crew than is typical for a ship of our size. The industry is pretty standard in that way. At night, you are free to go on deck, but try to stay in the shadows.
Reprisal!- The Eagle Rises Page 20
