Danger Close

by S L Shelton

  By the time I was packed, my phone sang to me, “Don’t want to be your Monkey Wrench”—there was a reply: Schedule is tight, but would love to try a meet. Where in DE? It is a big country.

  I started to tap my reply but then realized I probably shouldn’t tell her I was going to be at Ramstein Air Force Base: My schedule tight as well. Very sorry. Tomorrow is my best bet. Will be about 1.5 hours south of Frankfurt. I hope that works.

  We got into Nick’s truck and backed out. We were almost to Monument Avenue when The Foo Fighters alerted me to the reply: Not near Frankfurt tomorrow. Closer to Saarbrücken. Are you maybe going to be closer to there as well? If that’s the case, then I might be able to squeeze in a couple hours of Monkey Wrench time.”

  My vision was assaulted by a visual hallucination of a map—the area around Ramstein Air Force Base. To the southwest was a small town on the French/German border at the Saar River—about half the distance it would have been to Frankfurt.

  She’s too smart for her own good, I thought.

  I tapped my reply: Will be there with bells on so you can find me. I’ll let you know as soon as I land so we can rendezvous.

  A moment later, her reply sounded.

  I really need to change my e-mail notification tone on my phone, I thought. It’s probably not a good idea to have my code name broadcast every time I get a message.

  I read the reply when we came to a halt at a light: Oh! A Rendezvous! I’ll be sure to wear my good boots. ;)

  “Is that Gretel?” Nick asked as we sped toward the highway.

  “Yeah,” I muttered, trying to think of a witty response to her last message.

  He chuckled and shook his head.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Barb Whitney, Ruth at Langley, the Goth chick at TravTech, Miss Nice Ass from last night, and now sexting with Gretel…I never would've figured you for a pussy hound.”

  Although I was a little offended by his comment, I could see how he got the impression…the truth of the matter was that Patricia had been my first bed partner since Barb had left.

  I decided to let the message from Kathrin sit without a response—it's hard to be witty with that kind of accusation hanging over my head.

  **

  11:55 p.m. —Ar Raqqah, Syria

  HARBINGER stood, darkening the doorstep of the safe house. The Serbs had only two sentries and both were inside—one was asleep. Backed up by eight men, with four more in reserve, he kicked the door in.

  The Bosnian Serb who had been asleep fell out of his chair. He couldn’t get his legs under him before Harbinger had his gigantic hand wrapped around the man’s neck and lifted him from the floor.

  The second man ran to the front of the house, only to be confronted by Harbinger’s men aiming pistols and automatic rifles at him. He dropped his weapon without a second thought.

  Harbinger turned and looked at the late arrival. “Do you know who I am?” Harbinger growled.

  “I’ve never met you, but I’m sure there aren’t many seven-feet-tall mercenaries planning on buying warheads from us,” he said in nervous jest.

  Harbinger grinned and turned back to the man dangling from his hand. “Sleeping on guard duty,” he snarled with a disgusted tone. “If you were my man, I’d kill you.”

  “But he’s not your man,” came a new voice.

  Harbinger turned, seeing another face enter the room. Ah, the new leader of Jovanovich’s group, he thought. “You must be Jaga,” he said without releasing his grip on the terrified Serb.

  “And you are Harbinger,” Jaga stated. “I would appreciate it if you let my man down.”

  Without looking away from Jaga, Harbinger released his grip on the guard’s throat, letting him drop heavily to the ground. “I have a problem with sloppy soldiering,” he said. “Especially when it stands between me and my merchandise.”

  “We don’t tolerate sloppy soldiering either,” Jaga said calmly and then, like a bolt of lightning, drew his pistol from its holster and shot the guard in the leg. The man screamed out but quickly stifled the noise.

  Harbinger didn’t even flinch. “I would have killed him,” he said mildly.

  “You have the luxury of being able to hire replacements,” Jaga said as he put his weapon back into its holster. “My men are family, friends, and comrades from a time when that meant something.”

  Harbinger considered this for a moment before looking down at the guard who Jaga had shot in the leg.

  “Then it would seem you are destined for extinction,” he said finally before he turned back to Jaga. “And sooner rather than later, if he is any indication.”

  “Why are you here?” Jaga asked, dismissing Harbinger’s observation. “We were to meet you in Turkey with the surveillance team.”

  “I brought my own surveillance team,” Harbinger answered, looking at his watch. “They should be in place in less than an hour.”

  An angry sneer formed on Jaga’s face. “We did as you instructed. We followed your timetable to the second, making sure the truck was under cover until it reached Turkey,” he said, his anger rising. “It’s been sitting in the garage on the border since yesterday morning.”

  “Excellent,” Harbinger replied with a broad grin. “Then there should be no problems. The al-Qaida group should be the only traceable contact for the CIA follow.”

  Jaga shook his head as if he hadn’t heard properly. “You knew the CIA was tracking the buyer?” he asked incredulously.

  “Of course,” Harbinger said, lowering his massive frame onto the sofa. When he had settled down on the groaning seat, he looked at his men and gestured for them to lower their weapons. “We’ve known for some time that the CIA has had them under active surveillance. That’s why we directed you to make the deal with them.”

  “I don’t understand why you would want CIA attention on our movements,” Jaga said as he sat across the room from the giant. “I thought the goal was to make ourselves invisible to the CIA so you could take possession of the warheads.”

  Harbinger nodded. “How could we know for sure we have evaded them if we don’t test their resolve to catch us?” Harbinger asked with a cruel grin.

  Jaga thought about the question for a beat or two. “How do you plan on doing that?”

  “By making them so desperate to find us that the only reason they wouldn’t is because they can’t,” Harbinger replied as he pulled the scarf from around his neck, making himself comfortable.

  “Please explain,” Jaga stated plainly.

  “Rest assured,” he replied. “If the CIA knows how to find the backtrail on your deliveries, they will do it after tomorrow's shipment.”

  “How can you know this?” Jaga asked. “Why would they expose themselves after tomorrow’s delivery? What makes this different from any of the others?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see,” Harbinger replied with a knowing grin. “There will be no question after tomorrow. If they do not, then we will begin to make arrangements for the transfer of the warheads.”

  “And if they do have the ability to track us?” Jaga asked.

  Harbinger sighed mildly. “Then we will start over.”

  seven

  Friday September 3rd

  8:35 a.m. (GMT +1)—Ramstein Air Force Base, Germany

  I walked off the transport with my backpack and canvas courier bag hanging off my shoulder. I felt out of place being surrounded by clean-shaved airmen and soldiers in crisp uniforms. But I assumed civilian attire wasn’t a complete oddity here.

  I stopped and looked around to get my bearings, knowing I needed to find the billeting office to check in, but I wasn’t sure of the direction. I was about to ask an airman when an air force sedan pulled up to me, driven by a young airman.

  “Are you Scott Wolfe?” he asked as he got out of the car.

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Wolfe,” he said as he reached for my bags.

  “No worries,” I responded, waving off his assis
tance.

  “Sergeant Piper was supposed to meet you, but she had to make sure you got access to the secure facilities…it took an extra trip,” he said, opening the car door for me. “She didn’t know if you’d be needing them this morning or not. I’m Airman Griggs.”

  “Thanks, Airman Griggs… You can call me Scott,” I said as I tossed my pack, shoulder bag, and laptop into the backseat.

  “No, sir, I can't… Want some chow? I know they didn’t serve a meal on the flight,” he said grinning and jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the C-17 Globmaster III I had just arrived on.

  “That would be great,” I replied before getting in on the passenger side. He shot me a strange look, smiling as I got in. I guessed he wasn’t expecting me to sit in the front seat with him—it made me wonder what sort of civilian cockwaffles he normally dealt with.

  “We’ve got a great mess hall,” he said as we passed through the gate off the tarmac and began winding our way through the base. “If you want, when we’re done with chow, I can take you to your billet. We’re putting you up at Ramstein Inn.”

  I looked at him with a curious glare. “Inn?”

  “Yeah… That’s what we call the temporary lodging here.”

  I nodded. “What secure facilities is Sergeant Piper getting me set up with?” I asked, curious as to what I might be doing here—I was under the impression it was just a layover.

  “Server room and imagery access,” he replied. “We weren’t sure what you’d need but were told you should have access to whatever you asked for…so she had to scramble to sew together the access authorizations.”

  Wow! This is going to be interesting.

  “She’ll meet us in the chow hall once she’s done,” he said. “Sorry for the delay.”

  “No need to apologize,” I replied. “I was under the impression I’d be hanging loose today anyway.” Then I decided to test my access to resources. “There’s a town about thirty minutes southwest of here—Saarbrücken. How much trouble would it be for me to get a vehicle and take a trip down there?”

  “No problem at all,” Griggs replied. “I can drive you. I’ve been assigned as support for your time here.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said, not wanting to share that it was a personal side trip. “It would be better if I was on my own.”

  “Ah. Company business,” he replied knowingly, referring to the CIA. “I’ll have a civilian vehicle checked out of the car pool.”

  Friggin’ awesome!

  I didn’t answer, letting him continue to think what he wanted about my status and purpose for needing the vehicle.

  **

  I was halfway through my meal when Sergeant Piper showed up. “You must be Mr. Wolfe,” she said as she walked up to me, extending her hand.

  “Scott,” I replied, wiping my hands on my jeans then shaking hers. “It’s nice to meet you, Sergeant. I’m sorry for the last minute runaround.”

  “Not a problem,” she replied as she looked at the personal belongings I had on the floor next to me. “You don’t have to haul those around with you. Griggs can take them to your billet.”

  Wow! It's nice being CIA on a military base…lots of pampering and attention.

  I shook my head. “Sensitive data and a couple of weapons,” I replied. “I’ll hang on to them if that’s alright.”

  She nodded her understanding. “Please sit and finish your meal,” she said, pulling up a chair next to me. I sat and resumed eating.

  “When you’re done here, I can take you to your quarters, or we can go straight to the data center,” she said as I shoveled eggs into my mouth.

  I swallowed just as the Foo Fighters sang out through my phone. She looked at me with a curious stare and then smiled broadly as if something had just been revealed to her. I pulled my phone out and read the e-mail from Kathrin. Kleine Café, 15:00. But only for a couple of hours…short notice. Sorry, but I’m still very excited.

  “I’m free until 13:30,” I said as I typed my reply. “Airman Griggs is off to find me a vehicle. If I can get my gear locked up after breakfast, I’d like to get into the imaging center and check on a signal.”

  “No problem,” she replied with a grin. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll swing by the Inn, and then I’ll take you to the NOC. Your room has a safe for the computer and your weapons.”

  “Thanks,” I replied as I sent the response before looking up at her smirking face. “I’m sorry. Did I say something funny?”

  She shook her head. “You looked familiar. But when I heard your ring tone, I figured out who you are.”

  I shot her a curious glance. “Have we met?”

  “No,” she said, still chuckling. “But I’ve seen and heard you. I was on the tracking and imagery team that covered an operation you were on…in the Czech Republic.”

  I suddenly felt very exposed working with someone who knew my very recent, very amateur beginnings in the spy world. My expression must have been readable because her smile softened.

  “Don’t worry,” she added with a grin. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Good to know,” I replied forcing a smile to my face. I picked up my tray, having lost my appetite.

  After getting my gear stowed in my quarters, Sgt. Piper took me to the secure imaging facility. The main room was covered in computer monitors but only a handful were active. She showed me to a terminal near the back of the lab and I began booting up my laptop. Once it was running, I accessed the tracking package on Ukil before loading the transponder ID into the system.

  I sat for a few hours, watching the pin move on the map as I reread the background information I had been given. I would have checked in on his movements during the flight, but military transports don't have Wi-Fi, and I couldn't use my broadband card over the ocean—no cell towers.

  Ukil wasn’t moving much today, and he had made no calls from his phone. At 1:00 p.m., I decided I would check in on him visually before I wrapped up.

  Bringing up a list of available satellite images, I clicked on one I thought might give me some good ground detail. As soon as the coordinates were loaded, the image began zooming in on Ukil’s location.

  The building his signal was coming from was a small estate in Turkey. Parked outside the main structure was the white Mercedes sedan he drove, along with a black SUV and a compact pickup truck. I checked to see if the satellite had infrared capabilities—it did, so I flipped it to that view, but the roof of the house was too hot to get an image of the inside…I’d have to wait until night to use that functionality.

  I rubbed my eyes and glanced at my watch, deciding Ukil could wait until tonight. So I packed up my computer and went to the BMW Griggs had procured for me. After a brief stop at my quarters for a shower and a change of clothes, I left the base and drove to Saarbrücken for my rendezvous with Kathrin.

  **

  2:45 p.m. (GMT +2)—Midyat, Turkey

  CIA OPERATIVE CHARLOTTE CLARK was sitting in the back of an SUV, tracking the movement of the al-Qaida group when the weapons truck showed up—early. They had expected the Bosnian Serb mercenaries’ delivery, but not an hour early. She had Sgt. Spencer—Aspen—pull their vehicle over in the center of town when the box-backed delivery truck pulled onto the street.

  “Shit,” she muttered before clicking her mic open. “Apollo, this is Vixen. How far out are you?”

  “Still about ten mikes out, Vixen,” came the voice of the Delta security team leader. The two Delta Force soldiers in her SUV turned and looked at her in anticipation of an order.

  She shook her head. “What do you think?” she asked the pair in the front seat.

  “I don't think we can wait for our backup,” Aspen replied.

  Charlotte looked at Staff Sergeant Eriksson—Chef—and got a nod of agreement.

  She looked out the window and saw the delivery truck stop at the edge of the market half a block away.

  “Okay,” she said. “But don't take any chances. Tag it and go.”


  Chef nodded before exiting the vehicle.

  “Apollo, this is Vixen. The target showed up early,” she said into her mic. “I'm sending Chef to tag it.”

  “Roger,” Apollo replied. “We're stepping up our pace.”

  She clicked her mic twice to acknowledge the information.

  Chef disappeared behind a small line of vendor carts at the edge of the market. A moment later, she saw him reappear near the doorway of a shop.

  “How's it going, Chef?” she asked into the radio.

  Two clicks came back—still a go.

  Another minute passed when her earpiece squawked to life.

  “Vixen, this is Chef. They’ve stepped away from the vehicle. I’m going to get closer and take a reading.”

  “Roger, Chef,” she replied after shooting a nervous glance at Aspen. “Keep it tight. Your backup is eight mikes out.”

  “Roger,” came Chef’s reply.

  “I wish the delivery truck hadn't been early,” Aspen said over his shoulder as he watched Chef from the front seat. “I feel a little naked doing this without our backup.”

  “He knows better than to engage. He’ll just tag it for the assault team,” she replied firmly, but she was worried. There was something different about the movement on the Serb deliveries. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it was enough to make her feel insecure about their tagging operation. Aspen’s comment nagged at her for a few seconds before she decided to reiterate the mission parameters.

  “Chef, Vixen. Just tag and go,” she said, confirming his mission parameters to him.

  There were two clicks in her earpiece confirming receipt of the command, allowing her to breathe a bit easier.

  From her vantage point, she could only see the nose of the truck, and she didn’t have sight of Chef at all. There was no movement near the vehicle and that worried her—something felt off.