Hidden Threat

by Anthony Tata

  Amanda, I got called away on a very important mission, as your dad would say. I asked Harlan and Mary Ann to take you to the airport. I have your address in Africa. I promise I will be in touch . . . very soon. Never lose hope.

  Love,

  Riley

  “Never lose hope,” she whispered. She remembered opening the package from Matt, who had written the same words. Never lose hope. You have to have it to lose it, she thought to herself.

  “And now I have hope,” she said to herself as she felt Mary Ann’s arm wrap around her. It wasn’t much, but it was the best thing she’d ever had.

  “Yes, I’m ready.”

  “One last thing,” Harlan said. They began walking together down the steps of the porch. They stood on the sidewalk that led to the driveway and took in the beaming sun blessing them with its warmth.

  “Yes?”

  “My bill. We never finished discussing how you would pay me for this.”

  Amanda thought his timing was a bit inappropriate, but she recognized that he had done a tremendous amount of work for her.

  “I understand.”

  “Maybe you do, Amanda.” He handed her a piece of paper, which she opened at the folds. There was some printing at the top that stated this was the complete and final bill. She searched for numbers but only saw in big, bold print:

  Grow up to be like your Dad. The Germans lost.

  She started crying. Mary Ann hugged her again. That seemed to be her role.

  “Thank you. I will.”

  CHAPTER 87

  Djibouti

  Saturday

  “A server farm?” Matt asked.

  He, Hobart and Van Dreeves had been picked up by the planned MH-47 helicopter after their narrow escape from the target house in Yemen. The Chinook had transported them back to the joint task force headquarters in Djibouti, a destitute country 150 miles across the Gulf of Aden.

  Consistent with their operating routine, they had been off the grid for several days. Invading Yemen was no small deal and immediately upon their escape to Djibouti, their orders were to go dark immediately. Surfacing this Saturday morning, Matt, Hobart, and Van Dreeves assessed the damage.

  “The Yemeni police have been in there for days trying to figure out what the hell happened. Global Hawk’s been snapping pictures. The place is a giant smoking hole,” Hobart said.

  They were sitting on a picnic table outside of the control tower of the airfield. Matt was staring at a Gulfstream 5 jet with two pilots who were probably becoming more pissed by the minute as Matt languished. He was hesitant to leave unfinished business, yet eager about what he intended to do next.

  “How about the houses on either side? They go up in smoke?”

  “Untouched,” Hobart said.

  That bothered Matt, big time. Hobart and Van Dreeves had spotted tunnels that ran from the center house to the homes on either flank.

  “How about the prisoner?”

  “Four days and he still hasn’t said a word,” Van Dreeves said. The three men wore their Revision ballistic eyewear, otherwise known as wraparound sunglasses. Matt kept staring at the Gulfstream and the pilots, he knew, were staring at him.

  Matt had collared the “medic” that they had tossed in the back of the ambulance as they limped to the pick-up zone where they loaded their stowed parachutes and the detainee. Upon landing in Djibouti, the military interrogators swiftly moved him to a holding cell for questioning.

  “Nervous about Rampert?” Hobart asked Matt.

  “He doesn’t have us along, how can I not be nervous?”

  “He’s got Samuels and Roberson. They’re good.”

  “I’d rather be there,” Matt said.

  “You can’t be everywhere, dude. And right now that airplane is waiting to take you where you should be,” Van Dreeves said.

  “You’ve got the list?”

  “We’ve got the list, Matt. Your headquarters has the list. The issue will be keeping it out of the hands of douche bags like Assange and those Wiki-leak idiots.”

  “Add him to the list,” Matt said, smiling as he stood.

  “Roger that.”

  Hobart and Van Dreeves stood, each man shaking Matt’s hand and giving him a half-hug, the shoulder to shoulder bump that signified respect amongst warriors.

  “Wish we could go with you, but we’ve got to wait for Rampert once he gets Rahman.”

  “Don’t go easy on him,” Matt said, meaning everything he implied.

  Both men smiled as Matt turned and walked toward the Gulfstream.

  “Give him our best,” Hobart said.

  Matt acknowledged Hobart with a curt wave as he boarded the airplane.

  ***

  Quetta, Pakistan

  Major General Jack Rampert was dressed in a traditional Afghan headdress and white man-dress. He had grown a well-defined beard and easily passed for a local. He twirled a cup of chai tea on his table in the mud hut restaurant in Jalalabad. Enough time had passed since the helicopter shoot-down. They were back in mission rhythm.

  His informant had told him to wait in this spot, as an important meeting was going to take place in the next building over. He studied his surroundings. There were two men dressed similarly to him sitting in the far corner at a small wooden table. Another man was squatting on his haunches smoking a pipe of some kind. Rampert figured it was hash.

  The primary comforting thought for him was that two operatives were in concealed positions with long rifles outside of the building. With Hobart and Van Dreeves with Matt in Djibouti, he had decided to lead this mission. It was the least he could do for Zach. Samuels and Roberson were his team for this mission. They had clear shots if extreme measures were necessary. They wanted to capture this individual, but they would kill him if necessary.

  Rampert could see outside of the open-air restaurant, which had two lambs hanging upside down in the front. They had been slaughtered and skinned.

  “Assalamu alaikum. Peace be with you,” the merchant greeted him. He bent over, blocking Rampert’s important view, and refilled his tea mug.

  “Wa alaikum assalaam. And on you, peace.”

  The man switched out the napkin underneath his mug and placed his hand over his heart. Rampert reciprocated the sign of good will. As the man departed, he lifted his tea mug and sipped the warm beverage. He then lifted the napkin and opened it.

  The Scientist. Two minutes

  Rampert folded the napkin and scratched his ear. As he did so he whispered into his cuff. “Two mikes.” It was a simple transmission that they had rehearsed. The lack of additional information meant the Scientist was arriving according to plan. Rampert’s drive to capture Mullah Rahman had been based upon his declaration of a Fatwah against Colonel Garrett. He wanted that over with so that everyone could move on. That was his promise to Matt Garrett.

  Presently the black SUV in which the Scientist was believed to be seated stopped in front of the open hut. It skidded to a halt, dust flaring from beneath its rear tires. Immediately, security personnel from lead and trail vehicles swarmed the black SUV. Doors were opening and slamming with a click and a thunk. The clicks might have been the charging of weapons.

  Rampert waited a brief moment and stood. As he did so he laid his hand on the silenced Berretta pistol beneath his tribal garb. He heard in his earpiece Samuels whisper, “Driver.”

  There was a barely audible whisper that hit the driver, who had made the fatal mistake of stepping outside the vehicle. The man slumped unceremoniously to the ground. It took the security detail a few seconds to comprehend what had happened. That gave Rampert the time to lift his weapon and shoot the lead security man, who was exiting from the front right passenger seat. He dropped to the ground dead. The guard who had been assisting the Scientist at the right rear door turned toward the restaurant, giving Rampert another clear shot at his forehead.

  “Two down, right side,” he whispered.

  “Two more down left side.”

  “Three comin
g from behind.” Roberson entered the discussion, followed by, “Not anymore.”

  Rampert made a quick move toward the vehicle, though he was certain that there were more security personnel. The two men at the table inside the restaurant made a quick move in his direction, snatching AK-47s from against the wall. Rampert had noticed though and quickly shot both men in the head. Directing his attention back toward the vehicle, he approached the right rear door. He looked inside, pistol first.

  He saw the man they knew to be the Scientist, or Haqan el Lib Rahman. He was an Egyptian who was number three on the Database list just behind Zawahiri.

  “Don’t move or you die,” Rampert said.

  Roberson approached from behind and removed flex cuffs from his pocket, quickly zipping them across Rahman’s hands. Rampert moved into the front right seat as Samuels closed in on the driver’s side. With Roberson in the back, keeping his weapon on Rahman, Hobart gunned the vehicle and sped away under a fusillade of AK-47 fire. Thankfully, Rahman’s vehicle was uparmored and the bullets pinged off the outer shell like BBs.

  They drove through the Byzantine streets of Quetta until they reached a U.S. military operating base at the border checkpoint, where they were quickly waved through the gate.

  There, they loaded a UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter for the short flight back to Kandahar. Rahman went without much of a fight, as usually happened with the senior leaders of the enemy. The plan had been executed perfectly.

  Sometimes that happened.

  General Rampert radioed Van Dreeves in Djibouti and said, “Jackpot. Give Matt the go ahead.”

  CHAPTER 88

  Landstuhl, Germany

  Riley Dwyer followed the uniformed security guard through the vault door at Landstuhl Army Medical Center in the southern part of Germany.

  The last several weeks had been exceptionally challenging for her, but she understood her purpose. Every day she would come to this place and every evening she would go back to the hotel on the military base.

  “Hi, Matt,” she said, placing her coffee cup on the end table. “You look like hell.”

  “Riley,” he said, standing and giving her a half hug.

  “I’m told there’s news?”

  “Yes. I got word last night they got him—the one who put the Fatwah out on Zach. They compelled him to retract it this morning.”

  “Compelled?”

  “I don’t ask questions.”

  Riley looked away. Tears were forming in the back of her eyes. She had completely healed save for a small pale scar on her cheek. Now she looked at Matt who looked like he had been through a Mixmaster. What was happening to this world where good men like Matt Garrett had to look like he did in order for everyone else to be safe?

  “Does this mean we can let Amanda know?”

  “I think it’s time, don’t you? It’s been killing me.”

  She looked back at Matt. “It’s way past time, Matt. Who do you think should tell her?”

  They looked at each other and immediately knew the answer. There was no question.

  “Thanks again, Riley. Without you coming we couldn’t have known whether to trust Amanda. Until we knew that we couldn’t risk her having this information.”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s a done deal, but she’s different. There’s no doubt about that.”

  Matt said. “What you’ve done with her has been crucial. You can’t deny that.” He looked at her a moment, letting the compliment sink in. “About the other thing, I’ve talked to the insurance company. They made the donation to the village and are covering Amanda’s college costs through a scholarship. When they heard the details, they were eager to assist.”

  “When do we leave for Africa?” If she was anything at this moment, she was impatient.

  “Not soon enough.”

  Epilogue

  Tanzania

  Amanda Garrett knelt in the tall prairie grass that swayed in the stiff African wind like underwater kelp flowing with the tug of the tide. Golden husks of wheat stood tall, nourished by the river that meandered behind her. Dressed in her khaki paratroop pants, an olive drab T-shirt and tan fishing vest, Amanda smiled as a young boy approached her with a pad of paper and a pencil.

  “What would you like to draw?”

  The boy, no more than twelve, clearly had a crush on Amanda, which she considered perfectly acceptable. She smiled when the boy was alternating pointing at himself and then at Amanda.

  Laughing, even giggling like a little girl, something she had almost forgotten how to do, Amanda said, “Okay, Kiram, let’s draw a picture of me and you.” She helped him lay the paper out on the shaved tree trunk that doubled as a desk.

  Kiram’s artwork was surprisingly well done, like the coal drawings of Pervious. One thing was for certain, Amanda thought with a smile, he could make a mint drawing caricatures at Virginia Beach.

  She watched him with intensity, feeling herself being pulled into his scene. She began to visualize another universe out there, ripe for collision.

  Her demons apparently resolved, or at least at bay, she was free to think how she desired. Since her high school graduation, she had begun work at this small orphanage and had decided to attend Columbia University in New York next year. She had already been accepted, and they were going to give her eight credit hours for her time as part of a mission to Mwanza, Tanzania. Jake had written her every day so far.

  She recalled with happiness the time she and her father had been working on the school project. She remembered what she had promised her dad; she had sworn to him that she would try to make a difference with the children of Africa.

  She did not know what motivated her more; the fact that she had promised her father she would do it or the fact that she actually achieved great personal satisfaction helping these unfortunate children. It did not matter in her view what the source of her motivation was, because both were pure and gave her a good sense of purpose. She had never felt better.

  Two weeks had passed since high school graduation, she distinctly recalled sitting in the chair on the football field wishing that her father was alive and would suddenly appear as the surprise guest speaker. Someone she couldn’t remember had actually talked about purpose and meaning and finding oneself.

  Yes, her father’s love was a warming ray of sun breaking through the clouds after a storm. The memories were back in full clarity, easily recalled. The hard drive had been rebooted.

  The little boy tugging on her leg snapped her from her wistful memory.

  “Okay Kiram, show me what you’ve got,” she smiled cheerily.

  “Ma’am,” Kiram said, pointing at the picture. He bowed his head as if to indicate that his work was not worthy of the eye contact.

  As Amanda looked at the drawing, she was forced to take a seat on the very stump upon which Kiram had drawn the sketch.

  One of the people in the sketch was definitely she; only he had managed to make her more beautiful. Her oval eyes seemed to lift off the page and hover in translucence. The face was a quarter angle profile shot, and she was looking up at a man who could only be her father. Here again, Kiram had done remarkable work. He captured her father’s strong jaw line and piercing eyes. He had drawn her eyes and her father’s almost exactly alike.

  Amanda looked up. Near the village about twenty children kicked a soccer ball that she had provided for them. Kiram, though, was different than the rest of the children. Amanda had immediately liked him, partly because he gave her attention, she had to admit. But it was mostly because he seemed out of touch with the others, something she could relate to. Over the past two weeks of their presence in Tanzania, Amanda had noticed Kiram was a very intelligent young man, almost mysteriously so.

  “How did you know what my father looked like?”

  He wagged a long, slender black finger at her. “Miss Amanda, you find out. He protect you.” Kiram hugged Amanda.

  “You’re such a beautiful child, Kiram. Maybe I’ll take you home with me.”

&
nbsp; “No can go. Must stay here with my people.”

  “Well, the way you drew this picture of my father is just very strange. It’s like you can see him, you know, in the other world. He’s dead, you know.”

  Kiram screwed his face up at hers.

  “Man not dead. . . .”

  “I know, I know,” she countered quickly, waving her hands as if to wave him off. “His spirit lives forever.”

  Kiram returned her stare.

  “Well it does, Kiram, I’ve got my father right here in my heart.”

  She opened a gold locket hanging around her neck. On the left side was her face, smiling from a happy time with her father when she was nine or ten. On the right side was her father’s face, square jaw set, green-flecked eyes radiant, and his beautiful smile locked on his face, the way she wanted to remember him. She tried not to think of everything that Matt had told her that day at the funeral for Lance Eversoll.

  “I’ll be in touch, Amanda, with more information about your dad. You just have to trust me.” She did trust Matt and knew in time that she would find out his fate. And then there was the note from Riley that she kept with her. Never lose hope.

  “What those?”

  Kiram’s skinny black finger was pointing at two medallions hanging in tandem next to the locket. Amanda pawed them without looking down.

  “Saint Michael’s medals. They say, ‘Protect Us’.”

  “Why two?”

  “One is from my dad. The other is from someone who tried to save him.” Amanda felt tears welling as she thought about Sergeant Eversoll giving his life for her father.