Saber Down

by Harrison Kone

  “Why did you save us?” Wyatt asked. The question silenced everyone in the room. De Jager glanced at him and shrugged.

  “Ask him,” he replied, pointing at Mather-Pike. Wyatt shifted his gaze toward the reclining South African. Mather-Pike rotated a bottle of Witblits in his hand before he met Wyatt’s gaze.

  “It was the right thing to do,” he replied before taking a swig. Both Wyatt and Shaw felt there was more to the story, but they didn’t press it.

  “Thank you,” Shaw said. Mather-Pike inclined his head.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What do you think of my ship?” de Jager asked, eager to gain the approval of United States military personnel. He patted Shaw on the side of the knee as he moved to the open seat next to him.

  “It’s nice,” he replied. De Jager grinned and turned up his own bottle of alcohol.

  “She may not be a cruise ship or like one of your American navy ships, but she is a good home,” de Jager said.

  Shaw hadn’t been surprised when the two Little Birds nested on the vessel waiting to the south of Port Tawfiq. The ship resembled an explorer’s vessel that Shaw imagined hosted submarines to comb the seafloor in search of missing ships from ages past, but this ship, although a bit rusty, was a floating armory hidden in plain sight. He had to applaud Colonel de Jager. The ship would fit right in with the rest of the vessels that came and went in the various ports throughout Africa.

  Shaw’s thoughts drifted toward Natalie; he needed to contact her as soon as possible but wasn’t sure how. It was obvious by now that General Weber had called off the mission, and Shaw wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it. He could see both sides; however, Shaw withheld his judgement, but he doubted Wyatt would be so forgiving.

  The medic finished his work, and Shaw gazed down and approved. He wet a towel and began cleaning the dried blood off his body. A cellphone rang, drawing his attention.

  Mather-Pike wearing a wide smile scooped it up and pressed it to his ear. His face immediately changed, and everyone witnessed the concern splashed across his countenance.

  “Ella, what is it?” Mather-Pike asked. If his face wasn’t enough of an indicator, his tone confirmed their suspicions. Something was wrong.

  “Rian!” she exclaimed. Her sobs disrupted her words, “You’re … you’re alive!”

  “I’m fine,” he relayed sternly, “what is going on?”

  “A man came for me and said you sent him, but another man shot him,” she explained. Her hysteria grew as she recounted the traumatic event. “He brought Silva on board. He’s been shot too, and the other man confined me to my room.” Mather-Pike’s anger soared to new heights as he listened. “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Wait, did you say Silva is there?” Dread assaulted him as he considered her words.

  “Yes, he’s hurt and angry,” she started, pausing as she mustered her courage, “he knows,” she finished. Mather-Pike nearly dropped the phone. He didn’t fear for himself but rather for Ella’s safety, and the reality that he could do nothing to save her bore down on him like a collapsing building. “Did you shoot him?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he replied without hesitation. As quick sob issued forth from Ella’s lips. Her despair wasn’t in that he had taken that action but in that Silva had survived. “I swear to you I thought he was dead,” Mather-Pike said. “Ella, I will save you,” he promised.

  “I know,” she said. Her door slid open, and she raised her gaze to meet Morgan’s cold eyes. He stood before her in the doorframe to her room. Tears trailed down her cheeks in wide streaks. The look in his eyes betrayed his intent, and her sobs intensified. “I love you, Rian,” she said.

  “I love you too, Ella,” Mather-Pike said back. Tears moistened his blue eyes as the longing emotion gripped him. His eyes suddenly popped as Ella shrieked.

  “Ella!” he shouted. He heard the struggle through the phone. Ella fought for breath as Morgan’s hands closed around her throat. “Ella!” Mather-Pike screamed. Horrified, a surge of helpless rage coursed its way through his body. Shaw never removed his eyes from Mather-Pike’s face. His expression told him everything she needed to know.

  This Ella was dead.

  Mather-Pike, tense and heaving, stilled as the chilling voice passed through the phone’s speaker.

  “This is your fault,” Morgan stated. The line ended, and the phone fell from Mather-Pike’s grasp and clanged against the floor. The large man, his mind swirling with grief and anger, looked blankly into Affré’s eyes. The Frenchman’s gaze sowed compassion in return, and he moved to his side.

  “He killed her,” Mather-Pike mumbled. Affré had never heard the proud man speak in such a way. The words rolled off his tongue lazily as if he had forgotten how to speak. Affré’s brow furrowed, and he turned toward Shaw after he had eased Mather-Pike back into his seat. The South African, upon touching down, exploded into powerful sobs. De Jager quickly rushed to Mather-Pike’s side and embraced him.

  “Oh my boy,” he said, sympathizing with his pain. He knew his man was likely dead as well.

  “Silva will seek medical attention before rendezvousing with his supplier,” Affré shared with Shaw. Affré’s mind raced toward damage control. He thought as quickly as he could, but he soon realized that in their failure they had doomed themselves. Perhaps the two Americans could provide the assistance he knew they would soon need.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Shaw asked.

  “You want him dead just as much as I do,” Affré replied. Shaw nodded, beckoning him to continue. “He will wish to continue his business, of that I have no doubt. He will meet with the supplier to discuss what he will acquire as merchandise and negotiate the costs.”

  “Who is his supplier?” Shaw asked.

  “I want your assurance that when this is over you let us walk,” Affré countered. Shaw looked at the whimpering South African and nodded.

  “You have it,” he promised.

  “Silva’s supplier is a Marine Corps major general by the name of Linus Weber.”

  Part Three

  The Officer

  38

  A round of 00-Buck would not have hit Shaw harder. The name that passed through Affré’s lips slowed time for the seasoned Marine captain. His mind immediately clouded as it subconsciously rejected the information presented. He fought through the haze, finding his voice and regaining control of his faculties.

  “What name did you say?” Shaw asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He rose from his seat and took a step toward the Frenchman.

  “General Linus Weber,” Affré repeated, alarmed at Shaw’s reaction.

  “Major General Linus Charles Weber?” Shaw probed. Affré tilted his head in confusion before he nodded.

  “Yes, the same.” Shaw grunted and stumbled backwards as if kicked in the chest. He caught himself on an empty chair and guided himself slowly into the seat. All those men, his brothers, dead at the hands of the man they all revered above any other.

  “How could he do this to us?” he murmured to himself. How many others had fallen to Weber’s deception? His life mentor had betrayed good men to their deaths. He glanced at Wyatt. His friend wore the same bewildered look of one betrayed.

  “Do you know where they will meet?” Shaw asked.

  “I do,” Affré answered. “General Weber owns a property in the Abaco Islands; specifically, on the south side of Green Turtle Cay.” Shaw knew the property all too well. He and Caroline had sailed there many times. The entire thought enraged him.

  “I’ll help you get Silva, if you help me get Weber, and then and only then, will we go our separate ways,” Shaw stated firmly.

  “What assurances can you give to insure you will keep your word and not reveal our identities to your people?” Affré asked.

  “Done,” Mather-Pike stated strongly, rising from his seat. Affré’s eyes snapped toward his companion. The South African, a man whom Affré had grown to care for as a friend, bore a determination t
hat Affré had not seen on his countenance. If he was so committed, then Affré would commit himself with the same effort. Besides, his fortune dangled in the middle of this mess, and he did not intend for it to slip through his fingers.

  “Agreed,” Affré added. Shaw nodded.

  “We need to get back to the United States,” Shaw said. Affré turned to de Jager, his look beckoning for his assistance.

  “I can take you to Cape Town, and you can secure transportation to the States. I got to lay low for a while anyway. Might as well see the family.” Affré nodded, satisfied.

  “There is a US Consulate General in Cape Town,” Shaw said. “We can secure transportation through them.” Affré nodded again. “And there’s someone I need to call.”

  • • •

  Tampa, Florida

  The runner’s shoes fell lightly in a steady rhythm on the abandoned river walk. Sweat bled through his heather-gray shirt on which Marines was printed in large, black capital letters. His shirt was tucked into his nylon PT shorts, and his aged muscles shook as each step sent waves of energy radiating up his legs.

  General Linus C. Weber’s mind remained restless as he kept up his vigorous pace. Had he done the right thing selling out Shaw and Wyatt to Silva? It was only a matter of time before Shaw discovered his involvement. At that point, the situation would progress into a kill or be killed scenario, and Weber had simply struck first. However, his preemptive strike meant taking out Wyatt as well; it had to be done. The two men were inseparable, and neither would let up on their crusade, especially if the other perished. That meant they both had to go. He convinced himself he had done it for Denise and Caroline’s future.

  Caroline.

  How would he explain this to her? Shaw was encroaching on his family’s way of life. Neither Denise nor Caroline knew that though. Weber touted that his wealth came from smart investments in the markets, but he had made his fortune selling phased-out Marine Corps weaponry over the last ten years.

  He thought of his older brother, and his mouth turned bitter as his mind dwelled on him. Donald Weber was the founder and CEO of Brightmark Industries, a multi-billion-dollar, international enterprise. Weber’s anger increased. He was twice, no three times, the man his brother was. Had he entered the private sector instead of the military he wondered how his life might be different. Would he own multiple yachts? Perhaps a private jet or two? A penthouse suite in New York City? It was impossible to know, but Weber was determined to make up for lost time.

  Shaw had simply gotten in the way. He tried to convince himself again that he had done the right thing, but the pang of guilt wasn’t so easily defeated. It was done now. There was no turning back. Weber locked his gaze forward and continued his run.

  He neared the end of the boardwalk and slowed as the sun crested the horizon. He laced his hands over his head and panted heavily before stretching out his legs. He was not a spry Marine anymore, but he still managed to run five miles every morning. He placed his hands on the railing and watched the water turn from dark black to rich gold.

  “I’m so sorry, Caroline,” Weber said.

  “She’ll get over it,” came a calloused voice from behind. Weber recognized the owner and didn’t turn to address him.

  “Yes, she’s strong.”

  “Like her old man,” the voice said. Weber chuckled and finally turned around. The man he beheld was a man for whom he cared little but appreciated greatly. “You tell her the same thing you’ve told the other families. That her beloved died heroically on the field of battle for this great nation.” Weber easily deduced the sarcasm that filled the man’s tone. He was not amused.

  “Did you find out anything, Mr. Roark?” Weber asked. Connor Roark smirked and approached the railing.

  “Yeah, she’s in Atlanta. Lives in an apartment complex near Centennial Park.”

  “And?”

  “It’s been arranged,” Roark replied. Weber sighed.

  “She may not know anything,” the general countered. Roark laughed.

  “Can we take that chance?” Weber knew he was right. If she published a story with CNN detailing her experience in Yemen, then a congressional investigation was bound to follow. He couldn’t afford to have that hearing summon anyone to testify. He wouldn’t have to act against them if Kathryn Byrd was eliminated.

  “Fine,” Weber replied. “And what about Natalie Hale?”

  “She’s a tougher nut to crack, but I’m working on it.”

  “She was on the op with Shaw and Wyatt. She knows too much. She’ll be landing at Andrews this afternoon. Get it done,” Weber hissed. The threat was not lost on Roark, but before he could react, Weber jogged off, back the way he had come. Roark let it go and checked his watch. He grinned.

  Almost showtime.

  39

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Kathryn lay awake in her bed thinking of Wyatt, as she did every morning before rising for the day. Atlanta’s radiant, morning glow filtered through the sheer curtains and dimly lit the dark studio. She thought of Yemen and the insurgent she had killed. His eyes no longer dominated her memory, and she was truly grateful for her weekly therapy sessions. She had taken up Muay Thai in addition to her consistent firearm practice at Stoddard’s gun range.

  She had taken both Pistol 1 and Pistol 2 training courses with the Warrior Poet Society, and Wyatt had been right. John Lovell was truly a delightful yet disciplined instructor. His welcoming and excited demeanor created a pleasant learning environment, and Kathryn couldn’t deny how quickly her skills had improved under his tutelage. She now outshot most that visited Stoddard’s.

  The journalist felt powerful and capable, yet vividly aware of her own limitations. She still awaited her concealed carry permit, but she had applied for it at the probate court. Having submitted fingerprints and authorized a background check, she was confident she would receive it in the mail soon.

  She hoped to see Wyatt sooner.

  Kathryn hadn’t heard from Wyatt in a couple of weeks, but she never expected she would. She missed him terribly and longed for his presence daily, and to keep her mind occupied, when she wasn’t training, she was writing. She had contacted her editor and informed him she had started her story. He was elated and promised any support he could muster, but she had simply requested time, which he was more than happy to give.

  Her thoughts dwelled on the media release yesterday stating two Marine Corps helicopters in Yemen had crashed due to mechanical failures, killing all onboard. The story had angered her beyond her normal limits. It wasn’t unusual for details to be released by the Pentagon to the press weeks or months later, and considering the classified information revolving around the CIA outpost, Kathryn tried to understand why the government was lying to the public. In the end, it didn’t matter, she knew what happened and would report it in detail. That was the beauty of a free press, and she was grateful CNN was waiting on her story before releasing their coverage of the event.

  Kathryn stiffened at the muffled shuffling outside her apartment door. Her adrenaline spiked. She rolled off the bed and grabbed her Glock 19 in the same fluid motion. Before Yemen, she would have reasoned with her fear and attempted to convince herself that nothing was wrong, but after receiving training, she listened to her gut.

  Her gut told her to get ready for a fight.

  A fear-filled yet exhilarating sensation rolled over her. The disturbance was likely nothing to worry about, but Kathryn wasn’t risking it. With her senses heightened, she listened. A thought immediately entered her mind. Was Wyatt attempting to surprise her? The idea caused her to drop her guard. She lowered her pistol, and a smile traced its way across her face. She moved toward the door. Her excitement growing, she glanced through the peephole.

  She gasped and attempted to recoil, but the door jolted open, slamming into her forehead and nose. Dazed, she stumbled backwards, and the intruder advanced with indiscretion. Blood ran into her eyes, mixing with the tears and blurring her vision. Realizing the severi
ty of her predicament, Kathryn wiped her eyes and blinked rapidly.

  The intruder advanced, and Kathryn’s eyes caught the gleam of steel jutting forth from his right hand. She raised her pistol, and the man hesitated too long. She couldn’t find the front sight, but it hardly mattered; the man was close enough. Falling into muscle memory, she took up the slack in the trigger, finding the familiar wall, and sent the first round into her assailant.

  He grunted but advanced. Kathryn, surprisingly collected, fired again and again. The man retreated backwards a step. Remembering the fatal T box that would “turn out the lights” as her instructor had said, Kathryn finally found the front sight post and trained it on his face. She tightened her grip and isolated her trigger finger. It took more effort than she could have imagined implementing the fundamentals in a state of heightened stress, but she succeeded.

  The intruder’s head snapped backwards, but she hardly noticed having reacquired her sights in the event she needed to shoot again. He fell backwards, a gaping hole replacing his nose. The round had passed through his skull and severed the spinal cord from the brain.

  She rose to her feet and again John Lovell’s words echoed through her mind, Does anyone else want to play? She checked her surroundings, ensuring her assailant was dead and that he was alone. Relieved and yet shaken, she raced toward her phone and dialed 911 before leaving her residence.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” asked the dispatcher.

  “I’ve been the victim of an assault and home invasion,” Kathryn replied breathlessly.

  “Are you in a safe place?”

  “Almost,” she answered. She pounded on her friend’s door at the end of the hall. “Patricia! Let me in!” Patricia, a consistent morning person, answered the door immediately. Kathryn pushed her way inside, and Patricia froze when she saw the gun.