Danger Close

by S L Shelton

  “You’re putting him in the field?” Nick asked incredulously.

  Shut up, Nick.

  “Nick, if you could please, hang around after the meeting so you, Vixen, Monkey Wrench, and I can have a word,” John said with an edge in his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Nick muttered. “Okay. So Delta is providing security for the forensics team. I’ll let you know on the ground in Turkey who’s going with the three man breakaway. Any questions?”

  The men in uniform turned and started moving toward their gear at the front of the building. I got the impression they wanted out of the area as soon as possible.

  “Let me know when you’re clear,” John said quietly.

  Nick paused a few seconds longer while the men moved away. “Alright,” Nick said, leaning over the speaker. “We’re alone.”

  “I don’t know what the hell is going on with you and Monkey Wrench, but you’d better sort that shit out now,” John hissed.

  “There’s nothing going on,” Nick replied unconvincingly.

  “Did I hear that you hit him?” John asked incredulously.

  “In Nick’s defense,” I inserted, “it was a misunderstanding, and had I known you were on the speaker, I wouldn’t have said anything…Sorry.”

  “What kind of misunderstanding?” John asked with more tension in his voice.

  I looked at Charlotte and her face flushed red as she turned to look away from us.

  “Of a personal nature,” she said. “It’s resolved now. No harm, no foul.”

  My jaw would disagree.

  There was silence on the phone, but John was a smart guy, I knew he’d figure it out.

  “No more of that shit,” John said finally. “You got me? Nick?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nick replied, looking away from me with a little embarrassment.

  “Charlotte?” John said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re staying at Ramstein,” he said. “You’ll coordinate the tech from there.”

  “I’d rather be back in the field on this one,” she said, almost pleading.

  “I know,” John said sympathetically. “But you’re too close to it. You need some sterility.”

  She looked at Nick pleadingly, but Nick shrugged—he either knew he couldn’t do anything about it or he agreed with John’s call—or both.

  Charlotte dropped her head in defeat. “Yes, sir,” she replied.

  “That’s all I have,” John said. “Let me know when you land in Turkey.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nick said.

  I immediately turned to walk out.

  “Where are you going?” Nick asked.

  “I’m going to gear up,” I replied. “We’re leaving, right?”

  “You’ve got time,” he said. “Go with Charlotte and check out the equipment you’ll need. Then you can get your personal gear.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said sharply and turned to leave. On the way out, Charlotte caught up with me.

  “I’m not being left behind because of you and Nick,” she said in a low voice.

  “I know,” I replied without looking at her. “You had a rough day yesterday.”

  I saw her nod out of the corner of my eye. Then, after a second’s pause, “What’s up with you and Nick? He wouldn’t still be pissed about this morning. He doesn't hold a grudge like that…especially when he knows he was wrong, so there must be something else going on.”

  Doesn't hold a grudge? Really? Are we talking about the same Nick?

  I shrugged. “I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out.”

  **

  I checked out the computer I’d be using for the operation and then transferred what I needed from my laptop. The new one was very much like my own except bulkier and more impact resistant.

  The Delta team was already on the plane when I arrived back at the tarmac, and the engines were starting to spin up. I climbed aboard with only moments to spare and looked for a place to sit.

  “You can drop your gear here,” a soldier about my age said and then helped me stow my equipment as we began to roll down the runway.

  “Thanks,” I said as I dropped into the seat and buckled up.

  “I’m Aspen,” he said, leaning over with his hand extended.

  “Scott.” I shook his hand.

  “Aspen’s my call sign,” he added with a grin.

  “I figured,” I smirked. “Mine’s Monkey Wrench.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. Good one.”

  I pulled out my new laptop and began organizing the data for the operation. After a few seconds, Aspen leaned over.

  “What’s up with you and Spartan?” he asked.

  I looked up at Nick and then to Aspen. “We have a strange relationship,” I said quietly. “The first time we met, I broke his nose.”

  Aspen laughed. “Good start!” he said.

  I refocused on my screen. “Yeah, well. He was trying to abduct me at the time.”

  “No one here is cleared to hear your war stories,” Nick said from across the bay. He had obviously been eavesdropping though I was amazed he could hear us over the drone of the engines.

  “Sorry,” I said sheepishly.

  I continued working on my data.

  “Can I offer you a piece of advice?” Aspen said in a quiet voice.

  “Sure,” I replied, happy to hear expert input even if he did keep interrupting my research.

  “Shut the computer off and get to know the guys,” he said with a smile, but there was seriousness behind it. “We lost some good friends yesterday, and it doesn’t instill a lot of confidence when the Op leader and tech support aren’t getting along.”

  I turned off my computer and closed the lid.

  “Good point,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure,” he replied with a grin.

  As soon as the plane was to altitude, I got up and took a stroll down the line. My first stop was in front of a couple of guys who were breaking down their weapons and cleaning them.

  “What’s your sidearm?” I asked one of them.

  He looked up and squinted at me. “Beretta…What’ve you got?” he asked pointing to the lump under my jacket.

  “G nineteen,” I replied and then lifted my pant leg. “And a baby Glock backup.”

  “This is my backup,” he said as he pulled a sawed-off shotgun out of its scabbard and handed it to me. “Mossberg.”

  “Nice,” I said with a grin. “But I’d have a hell of a time hiding that in my pant leg.”

  “True,” he said smiling broadly. “But then again, if you’re carrying that, all low-profile options are basically already off the table.”

  I chuckled.

  “Gopher,” he said, reaching out his hand. I had to assume it was his call sign—either that or his parents had a very cruel sense of humor.

  “Monkey Wrench,” I replied, keeping to the naming protocol.

  “So you’re the tech we’re supposed to keep alive?” the guy next to him asked.

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” I joked. “But I don’t want anyone going out of their way.”

  They both laughed.

  I continued down the line, talking to the team members and asking as many questions as I could about prep, tactics, and weapons.

  “You sure are talkative for CIA,” one sergeant commented with a grin.

  “Yeah,” Nick snarled from across the bay. “You sure are.”

  Damn, he's got good hearing.

  That was as close to a conversation I’d had with Nick since the briefing in the hangar.

  When I finished being schooled in the proper method of trigger tuning by a Delta sniper by the name of Peepers, I plopped down next to Nick. He didn’t even look my direction.

  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, I leaned over to speak to him in a voice the others couldn’t hear over the drone of the engines.

  “I don’t know about you, but if I were these guys, I’d be a little nervous that there’s bad blood between the Op leader
and tech support,” I said.

  He didn’t respond immediately, but I could see a response forming in his head as emotions danced across his face. I wondered how someone like Nick could have made it so long in the CIA without being able to disguise his emotions.

  “There’s no bad blood,” he said, his words hanging like a preamble rather than a full disclosure. “You’re just an asshole, and I have to babysit your rookie ass.”

  He grinned, still not looking at me.

  “I thought you’d be happy I wasn’t in Fairfax anymore,” I said, probing his mood.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “But how bad do you think it is in Fairfax if John is sending you to the Middle East to be safe?”

  “Good point,” I said, chuckling.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you a good ass-whoopin’ wouldn’t fix,” Nick said. “But John is already treating you like a trained field tech. I don’t know what the deal is with that, but I don’t like it. It’s going to get you, or me, killed.”

  I shrugged.

  “John met me in an abduction—of his design,” I said.

  “My design,” Nick corrected.

  I hadn’t been aware of that.

  “—of CIA design,” I said, adjusting. “The next time I saw you guys was on the ground in Mimon. By the time I left the hospital in Germany, I wanted nothing to do with that life.”

  “That sure changed fast,” Nick muttered.

  “Then reality kicked in…how easy do you think it would be for you to go back into civilian life?” I asked. “If you had to work at Home Depot or a car dealership, do you think you could just drop right into the simple and mundane life of an uninitiated civilian?”

  He thought about that for a moment. I could see him trying to fit himself into that world. I pictured Nick working at a hardware store, confronting an angry customer:

  “This is the last toilet seat, and it has a scratch,” says the irate customer. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Nick reaches out and snaps the customer’s head around sideways, killing him instantly.

  “Clean up on the plumbing aisle.”

  Nick shook his head. “But you aren’t initiated,” he said. “You haven’t even been taught how to throw a proper punch.”

  I looked at him sideways and cocked my eyebrow at him.

  He immediately backed off his statement. “Okay, I’ll give you that. But you treat this like it’s some sort of game.”

  I could tell he was about to add something else to his list of “Reasons Scott Wolfe shouldn’t be here,” but he apparently decided against it—knowing Nick, it was probably something about “taking a life.”

  But I was pretty sure I had more kills prior to CIA training than he had—and that was huge. I had proven capable of taking a life in a moment of need while maintaining my sanity—at least outwardly. My OTHER voice might disagree with that assessment, but until I figured it out, I wasn’t sharing it.

  “I’m having fun!” I said, smiling broadly.

  “This isn’t fucking summer camp!” he said, raising his voice a little and garnering some looks from the Delta guys.

  “You don’t enjoy your work?” I asked.

  He paused. I already knew the answer to that—he loved his job. The aggravation he felt was part of the joy to him.

  “You are really fucking annoying,” he said quietly.

  “I can’t disagree with that,” I replied, grinning ironically. “But you have to admit, I’m handling induction pretty well.”

  He thought about that for a moment. I saw a slight head tilt and an opening of his shoulders.

  Acceptance, I thought.

  “Keep your head down and your eyes open,” he said. “This may be John’s idea, but if you die before I get you to the Farm, he’ll blame me.”

  I laughed. “I’d be more worried about Bonny.”

  He stared down at his hands for a few seconds and then took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I hit you,” he muttered.

  “What?” I asked, leaning toward him as if I hadn’t heard his apology over the hum of the engines.

  There was a short pause and then he turned and looked at me. “I said, I’m sorry I hit you,” he said, raising his voice loud enough for some of the other guys to hear.

  “We’re good, man—” I said and pulled my computer out. “Besides—you hit like a girl.”

  He laughed and then dropped the communications hardware manuals into my lap for all the equipment I’d be using during the Op.

  “Learn these,” he said. “I don’t want to be left flapping in the wind while you read the instructions in the field.”

  I began reading them immediately—my strength. I could absorb entire programming languages in a weekend. These manuals were written in military fashion—idiot proof. I’d have them down in no time.

  By the time we landed, I knew more about the systems than Nick did—though I didn’t say so.

  **

  6:25 p.m. local (GMT +2)—U.S. Air Base, Incirlik, Southern Turkey

  Nick and the two sergeants who I was supposed to ride with—Aspen and Apollo—were having a discussion as I returned from changing into regional clothing, including my very first shemagh—the traditional scarf worn by men in the middle east to keep their heads and faces protected from the sun and blowing sand. I wrapped it loosely around my neck over my jacket collar as I walked into the garage where our transportation to the border waited.

  “—and I don’t care how badass he seems, he’s a rookie. You are there to protect him,” I heard Nick say as I approached him from behind.

  Aspen looked up, having seen me, and cleared his throat. Nick turned and saw me.

  “Don’t stop the briefing on my account,” I said sarcastically. “You left off at know-nothing rookie who can’t wipe his own ass.”

  Aspen chuckled.

  “Monkey Wrench, this is Apollo and Aspen,” Nick said, ignoring my snark. “Listen to what they tell you and you’ll be fine.”

  I nodded and shrugged as I reached out to shake hands with them.

  “Nothing fancy, guys,” Nick continued. “Surveillance on the Syrians until you see the Serbs. Tag either the truck or one of the Tangos and then beat feet back across the border.”

  Tango: Military slang for “target” or “bad guy”. My internal computer brain filled in for me.

  “What’s the most recent INTEL on the delivery we’re looking for?” Apollo asked.

  “Small arms and some RPGs,” Nick replied as we piled into the small van we were using to get to the drop site—he and Apollo in the front seat, Aspen and I in the back. “We haven’t heard a word from the Serbs, but the Syrian rebels sent the rendezvous coordinates two days ago and they didn’t move out of their location until this afternoon, so it could happen tonight.”

  “Are these guys related to the al-Qaida fuckers that blew up the truck yesterday?” Aspen asked with a little anger in his voice. The al-Qaida group had nothing to do with this tagging operation, but I suspected Aspen was still a little raw over yesterday, so I cut him some slack on not being clear on the details.

  I shook my head. “No. These are just Syrian rebels. But I don't think al-Qaida was responsible for the truck blowing up yesterday, either. In fact, I don't think al-Qaida knew it was going to blow up…that was all about the Serbs testing our ability to track them.”

  “So what makes you think the buyers aren't related?” Apollo asked.

  Nick was about to answer, but I beat him to the punch…doing my job as an analyst and disseminating data. “Adb al Malik Ukil is afraid of al-Qaida…particularly the AQAC splinter,” I replied. “He wouldn't come within a hundred miles of the al-Qaida cell that was doing the buying yesterday. But he arranged this sale to the rebels…he's our litmus test on the buyers. You have to understand…for the purposes of this operation, we don't give a shit about al-Qaida or the Syrian rebels; all we want is a clean tag on the Serbs so we can find our warheads.”

  “How do we know the
Serbs are involved at all?” Apollo asked.

  I smiled. “Ukil is trying to buy Strelets Rocket arrays as well…for Nick,” I replied, throwing a smirk in Nick's direction. “Ukil is smart. He's buying the weapons from the Serbs as a lot and then selling off the small arms to the Syrian Rebels at an inflated price to offset his loss in Azerbaijan. If Ukil is involved, then the only common factor is the Serb group. We have to focus on them. No one else matters.”

  “Is Ukil gonna be at the handoff with the Syrians?” Apollo asked. “Will we need to get him clear if the shit hits the fan?”

  Nick shook his head. “Ukil will do what Ukil does…he's not mission critical,” he said.

  “And we don't have any indication that he plans on being at the exchange,” I added. “Though if it were my investment, I'd be there to oversee the sale…plus, I doubt the Serb arms dealers would want to crack their vault open twice for the same buy. We might see the rockets Ukil's ordered for Nick.”

  “We've got nothing that indicates the rockets are on the menu today,” Nick said, shooting down my theory. “And if there aren't any rockets, you won't see Ukil for a truckload of small arms…but keep your eyes open for them anyway.”

  Apollo looked at Nick. “Whatcha gonna do with all them rockets, Spartan?”

  “Sell 'em to your mama and retire,” he replied, his face showing no emotion. “Get the tags on all the players and then get back here, or you'll miss the boat on the takedown.”

  “Is there any way we can just hang and do an advance RECON if it pans out?” Apollo asked. “Covert border crossings make me nervous. I’d hate to have to do two extra if I can avoid it.”

  “It depends on where the signal goes,” Nick replied. “Monkey Wrench knows all the suspected supply points, but most of them are in the east along the valley.” He was referring to the Euphrates River Valley, the fertile strip of agricultural land that cut diagonally through Syria and into Iraq.

  Apollo nodded his understanding. On the two-hour trip to Gaziantep, Turkey, where we would meet our border-crossing specialist, I pulled out my laptop and began refreshing the satellite feeds from the previous night.

  There was no detectable indication from the satellite feeds that Jovanovich's Serb group was in the area of the scheduled weapons transfer with the Syrian rebels. But then again, they had been doing a pretty good job of playing hide-and-seek for months. I felt confident the rebel gun deal would draw them out—but the rockets, if Ukil showed, would definitely bring them out.