Angels Fallen

by Francis Smith

  Commander Robinson knew they would hesitate at the platform. They always did. Hell, he had hesitated himself. But he grew to learn that you perform as ordered with no hesitation. It could be a matter of not only yourself being killed but also the troops with you. They will learn that lesson the hard way, raising his weapon at the recruits.

  “Oh, is that all, little man. A little tuck and roll?” Commander Robinson yelled. He walked down the line of recruits sneering at each one. “Maybe I can put out a few pillows down there for you to jump on or a mattress, wouldn’t that be nice? Let’s get one thing straight. When I order you to jump, you damn well jump. Do you hear me?”

  He approached the daring recruit only inches from his face. “You never, ever, question what I say. Questioning what I say in the field could get you or me killed, and I would not like that very much. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He removed the safety from his weapon for all to see, pointing the weapon menacingly at the startled recruits. “I will give you all until three before I fire this weapon.”

  A shout from his aide, Corporal Bellows, saved the men for the moment, his aide holding aloft a cell phone. “Commander Robinson, you have an emergency call from General Parker. It sounds like you are a go within the hour for a three-man show.”

  Commander Robinson smiled. “Damn fine day it has turned out to be, Corporal Bellows, to be in action again. I guess we better get cracking.”

  “Corporal, could you please take over this operation for me? Make sure these lads keep jumping off this wall until at least one of them breaks something, I don’t care what, a leg, arm, wrist, it does not matter. Understood?” He purposely said it loud enough to be overheard by the young recruits.

  “Perfectly, sir,” the Corporal replied.

  Each recruit nervously eyed the other wondering if joining the SAS was such a brilliant idea after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ABOARD THE “JACOB”

  The summer winds picked up, gently rocking the barge from side-to-side at its mooring point alongside the bank of the canal.

  Dan had decided to end the sailing day at an early hour in order to perform a thorough review of the maps one last time. They were once again hunched over their NATO ordinance map, sharing its space with dishes left over from their evening meal.

  “As far as I can tell, we can tie up about fifty meters from this point here,” Dan said, pointing to a blue line on the map which indicated a distant portion of the canal only a few kilometers off. “From what this map states and according to my sources, there is a small dirt road that runs parallel to the canal. Looks like a road only locals and tourists similar to us would probably use.”

  Dan pointed to a predetermined spot on the map marked by a bright red cross before continuing. “If we moor up here, we won’t be noticed by anyone unless someone is actually searching for us. If you notice the terrain, it is isolated, with several farms on both sides combined with a natural bend in the canal. There should also be shrubs and trees to provide perfect cover for us and this big tug we have here.”

  Jim allowed his finger to traverse the map to the town of Weimar trying to gauge the distance from the canal. “What do you estimate the time frame for our travel to the farm?”

  Dan applied his metal compass, expertly measuring the distance from the expected night’s mooring to the town of Weimar. He then applied the distance to the legend at the bottom of the map. With pencil in hand, he performed a quick calculation.

  “If we hit no traffic and average about ninety to a hundred kilometers per hour, we should be there about midnight,” he replied confidently. “And if we immediately get to work, we could be out of there by 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. Then if my calculations hold-up, we should be back here five or six hours after that.”

  Jim looked over to Dan, seeming to concur. “We have to hope your man comes through for us,” he said.

  Dan’s expression turned serious at Jim’s off-hand comment, rising slowly, allowing the map to roll up unaided. “I assure you on my life, young Dieter, we can depend on this man. He is a cousin on my mother’s side, God bless her soul. He owes me a great deal for some actions I performed for him a long time ago. It’s another one of those stories that I would tell you, but someone with your American attention span would probably get bored very quickly.”

  Jim could sense he hit a nerve, and knew it was a subject to drop right then and there, nodding in acknowledgment. “Sorry, Dan, I didn’t mean to insinuate anything by my comment.”

  Dan proceeded to the bar, withdrawing a bottle of Irish Mist, pouring two generous shots. He wiped the rim of the glasses with a freshly cut orange piece providing one of the filled glasses to Jim, raising his glass in toast. “To our families, wherever they are. May they always find solace in their family’s conversation and eternal presence.”

  In his own way—accepting Jim’s apology.

  “To your health,” Jim replied, raising his glass accordingly, drinking its contents in one quick swallow. “You Irish are so damn poetic. Can you just say cheers and let it be?”

  “But I need to drink to the success of my cousin,” Dan said, a slight grin evident upon his face. “That was a solemn blessing in disguise.”

  “Sorry, it just sounded so poetic,” Jim replied.

  Dan poured two additional shots of Irish Mist. “Allow me to provide dignity to the author and finish the toast,” he said, repeating the same process of sliding an orange piece around the rim of each glass before raising it in the air—“And if they do not, may they die a painful and lonely death.”

  Vatican Special Action Team, Rome, Italy

  The Vatican Special Action Team job description essentially mimicked that of the U.S. Secret Service; to give their lives, if need be, for their protectee. The Action Team also had one additional assignment added to its tasking during the late ‘80s; to act as an elite, mobile, fighting force.

  With five additional personnel having been added to Perluci’s team, the bunker office operated at a feverish pitch. They were busy working phones and computer networks looking for any possible leads and scouring all friendly sources for relevant information on Dieter and Flaherty.

  The Vatican hierarchy was also busy calling in favors culled from years of service in order to locate Dan and Jim, making this a true priority red.

  “Mr. Perluci,” shouted one of the new office personnel, a rather large woman in her early 30s who seemed to always emit an odor of garlic. “One of our people in the French office of Interpol has just contacted us. They have located two possible suspects in the Burgundy region on a sailing barge called the Jacob.”

  Perluci clasped his hands in exaltation. “Excellent. Fine work, Miss Aniti,” he said. “Acquire all of the details and send them our deepest thanks.”

  Turning to his left, he observed his military assistant, Lieutenant Lern, of the Swiss Guard, having just arrived. “Lieutenant, you are just in time. I want you to call the airport and make preparations for the jet to fly in the morning.”

  Perluci consulted one of the many detailed maps on his office wall before continuing. “From Burgundy to Weimar should take three to four days by barge if they go full-out, motor ten to fourteen hours a day. I want our team to be there ahead of schedule just in case they have something up their sleeve. This is our big break. If all goes according to plan we should be in the area of Dieter’s farm by 5:00 p.m. tomorrow.”

  Lieutenant Lern was familiar with Perluci’s tact for planning an operation without consulting its members or its executive officer. Who knows better than Perluci than Perluci? Was a common joke in the bunker. Having been his second-in-command for several years, he relished the day when Perluci would retire so he could take command and employ newer-style tactics.

  “Mr. Perluci,” Lieutenant Lern replied. “I have been familiarizing myself with the area surrounding Weimar, and would suggest we concentrate all of our resources down by the river. If they approach by the river, it would be easier for us to locate
and then follow them. We could allow them to depart the barge unmolested, locate our product, and return with our product to the barge. They would be performing all of the work for us. We then reallocate the product and in the process capture our suspects.

  Perluci pondered the man’s suggestion for a moment.

  “Excellent idea, Lieutenant. Why should we divide our forces in the town of Weimar when they must sail up the river? We could then choose to follow them to the farm or wait on the boat and allow them to bring the gold and paperwork to us,” he said as if it were his own idea.

  “You are a wise man. I can see that with you in control, this operation should proceed smoothly,” Lieutenant Lern replied, turning away, knowing who would receive credit for his suggestion.

  French Interpol along the Canal Road

  The boxy Citroen auto requisitioned from the government carpool suffered from a common compliant typical of most low-end European autos. It was small and drastically underpowered. The car would be a perfect choice for a trip around a crowded city, but it was not built to handle rough country driving, especially off-road driving. The car was no match for the small, winding, pot-hole-laden roads prevalent throughout the rural regions of France, where a secondary road could still consist of dirt or crushed stone.

  Rebecca had the dubious distinction of scanning the canal banks for their prey as Inspector Jacko drove the auto at a steady 25 kilometers per hour.

  “Inspector, we should have rented a powerboat instead of chasing them in this car,” she said, appealing to the inspector’s better judgment

  “Wrong, Mrs. Lenine. This is the way to go,” the inspector snapped in retort. “I know it has its drawbacks, but the auto is faster and more maneuverable for this type of operation. Plus we could lose the element of surprise. The people we are trailing would undoubtedly hear a powerboat from over a hundred meters away. No, I think this is best. That is why I am the inspector and you are the detective. You could learn from me, Mrs. Lenine. Now stay in your pay grade and watch the canal.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes in response to the inspector’s comments, not wanting to antagonize the beast any further.

  If not for a flat tire and then an unfortunate encounter with a herd of sheep blocking their route, they quite possibly could have caught up with their prey in the light of day. Now, with the evening hour fast approaching, they would have to apprehend their subjects in a nighttime environment, never an appealing prospect in police work.

  “Mrs. Lenine,” Inspector Jacko said, “If our friend Arto was correct in his assessment of the boat’s maximum speed and course, we should be able to overtake them in a few hours.”

  He looked to her for confirmation.

  She smiled curtly in response.

  “Damn it, Mrs. Lenine, I just love the idea of an attack in the dark. We will have the element of surprise on them.”

  Rebecca Lenine pondered her boss’s comments for a moment—wondering who would be surprising whom?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  FORTE LOCKS – BURGUNDY, FRANCE

  The Euro Star’s short journey under the English Channel arrived on schedule, to the minute. Upon reaching Paris, the SAS team switched to an indiscriminate rental van for travel to the Forte Locks.

  A few hours’ drive on the main highway enabled them to cover the distance in a relatively short time, pulling into the Forte Locks’ parking area by late afternoon.

  “I want you three to stay with the van, and let me talk to the lockkeeper alone,” Commander Robinson said to his men. Exiting the van, he walked to where the lockkeeper was busily performing his duties.

  Two wooden seven-meter pleasure craft were presently in the lock. Aligned side-by-side, they demanded the full attention of the lockkeeper as he prepared to open the doors to the upper level of the canal and allow the boats to be on their way.

  The Commander waited until Arto had the lock doors fully opened and the passengers had boarded before approaching him.

  “Good day, sir,” the Commander said in impeccable French, garnered from his years at Sandhurst. “I am trying to gain information on some company you may have had recently.”

  Arto untied the small boats port lines thus enabling both boats to get underway at the same time. “Just give me a second, young man, while I cast this rope off,” he said, tossing the ropes onto the departing boat’s deck.

  Arto turned slightly to the Commander as he spoke in a hushed tone, waving politely to the now-receding figures. “These damn tourists are an impatient lot and tend to get a little mad if I do not devote my full attention to getting them on their way. Can you believe those people? They would not even look at my flowers or vegetables for sale.” He pointed to his neatly arranged wooden boxes of brightly colored roses and fresh produce situated alongside the canal’s towpath. “How do they expect me to survive at this job without selling something on the side?”

  The Commander simply nodded.

  “My apologies; I sometimes go off on a tangent. Must be old age getting to me. Now you were saying something about the company I may have had recently?”

  Having practiced his ruse for the past hour with his troops on the drive down from Paris, the Commander stood ready to play his role. “Yes, sir. My brother said he was going on holiday. He mentioned something about renting a barge or some kind of large boat. I honestly wasn’t listening at the time, but I did pick up that he would be motoring on about this region of France. Unfortunately, my mother has suffered injuries in a terrible car accident that has put her close to death.

  Arto tapped the commander on his arm before speaking. “You say that you are related, eh. Why don’t you do us both a favor and cut the bullshit and tell me the real reason you require information on the Irishman and the American? I can tell by your accent you are not Irish.” Arto stepped back, surveying the Commander from head-to-toe. “Also, by the look of you, I’d say you’re either a cop or in the military, possibly anti-terrorist or SAS if my wits are still about me. Let’s start again with a second introduction.” Arto extended his hand in greeting. “My name is Arto. I am a retired policeman from the Paris Gendarme.”

  The commander looked slightly embarrassed as he shook Arto’s hand, taking time to wave to his cohorts in the van, a prearranged signal that indeed everything was okay.

  “A retired policeman? I should have known better. I apologize for trying to deceive you. Let’s give it another go.” He produced his British Military identification for Arto to inspect before continuing. “I am tracking a possible terrorist. And those gentlemen in the van behind me are my team members,” pointing over his shoulder to his anxious mates.

  Arto waved to them before focusing on the Commander’s identification badge, fingering it for any alterations that could prove it a forgery.

  “If we could get some basic information, we will be on our way,” the commander said.

  “You are the second group to come through here inquiring about my visitors,” Arto said, realizing his comment would peak the Commander’s interest and possibly up his expected generosity. “Interpol came through late this morning, and I only told them what I will tell you, that the suspects are on their way toward Dijon,” pointing past the lock towards the canal. “They were using the barge’s motor when they came in and when they left. In my best judgment, they should be a good 50 kilometers from Dijon—that is if they stuck to the main canal and are still operating at full speed.”

  Arto started to rearrange his assortment of carrots and tomatoes, in doing so calling attention to his produce. “They were also kind enough to buy some of my vegetables for their reefer and flowers for their table,” he said, waiting for the Commander’s expression to change from serious to one of understanding.

  “Would you be offering any type of reward for this type of information?” Not waiting for a reply, Arto continued. “Interpol, those cheap bastards, provided me nothing for my information.” He spat on the ground in disgust.

  The Commander realized Arto wa
s holding back on something else, waiting to throw his trump card down if it were lucrative enough. “Yes, I think that something could be arranged, Mr. Arto.”

  Turning toward the van, the Commander yelled to his second-in-command. “Sergeant, please bring 500 pounds over here for our new-found friend,” he yelled. “I wish to reward this man for valuable information to her majesty’s government.”

  Arto eyed the sergeant as he jogged to where they stood, a bundle of notes wrapped in a paper band from the Bank of England in hand. “Thank you, kind sir,” he said to the Commander, grateful for his generosity. “The English have always been my best customers through the locks. They are always so kind and generous. They usually purchase all of my flowers when they are in season.” Arto eyed the sergeant hand over the new bills to the Commander who in turn handed them to Arto.

  Arto placed them in his vest pocket. “You know what else, sir? He continued. “Since you were so kind with your reward, I would like to provide you with something else that may assist you in your mission.”

  The Commander’s hunch was correct. The little man was holding back on some valuable information and just wanted a little money to pry it loose. This was one of the first lessons he learned at counter-terrorism school, money or booze will prompt even the most faithful to talk. The bait having been provided, it was time for the fish to jump into the boat.

  “Any information that you could provide would greatly benefit us,” the Commander said, casually dismissing his sergeant with a nod.

  Arto pointed back over to the Commander’s van. “Well, the French police are driving down that side road,” he said. “And it runs parallel at most points to the canal where it provides you with decent enough coverage to see below. The possibility still exists that you could drive past the barge if it were, say, nestled in a grouping of trees or scrubs.”