Moon Mask

by James Richardson

  “Whoa,” he breathed to himself as he laid eyes on the monstrous machine filling most of the hanger’s space.

  Over one hundred feet long and thirty feet high, the Sikorsky CH-53K was the newest member of the United States military’s ‘Super Stallion’ helicopters. While having flown both the 53E and the navy’s equivalent, the Sea Dragon, he was still taken aback by the sheer enormity of the military’s newest helicopter. He hadn’t even been aware that any of them had yet come off the assembly line, let alone were in active service.

  With a speed of almost two hundred knots, the new and improved Super Stallion was powered by state-of-the-art GE38-1B engines and featured a composite rotor blade system. It had twice the lift capacity of its predecessor and was almost thirty knots faster. Unlike the endless array of analogue dials and gauges found in most cockpits, the 53K was outfitted with a state-of-the-art ‘glass’ cockpit. Essentially, the interior looked like something ripped off of the bridge of the Starship Enterprise; LCD screens and touch-screen plasma panels scrolled through pertinent information while a sophisticated flight management system simplified the operation and navigation of the craft, allowing the pilot to concentrate on the mission objectives.

  As Raine watched, a black, unmarked Humvee roared up the helicopter’s rear loading ramp and vanished into its cavernous interior. Like flies buzzing around a cadaver, dozens of technicians swarmed over the aircraft, seeing to its every need. Refuelling had been completed but the technicians ran their final operational checks, ticking off a long list on durable tablet computers.

  Raine had only been out of the game for three years, yet he felt like a dinosaur surrounded by the military’s modern gadgetry.

  Whatever happened to a simple clipboard? he wondered.

  That was when the first soldier spotted him.

  Laurence Gibbs frowned as David Sykes cut off his report in mid-sentence. He was just about to reprimand him when his eyes drifted in the direction the other man was looking.

  An immediate swell of anger churned in his gut.

  Nathan Raine stood just inside the hanger, slowly removing his mirrored sunglasses and looking just as cool and relaxed as ever.

  After everything that had happened in that cursed jungle four years ago, he looked for all the world like a man with a clean conscience. And, indeed, why should he appear any other way? He had gone rogue, sided with the enemy and killed members of his own team. He had betrayed the men under his command as well as the United States of America. And, for all his troubles, he had been handed a big-fat presidential pardon. His crimes had been swept beneath a rug, swatted out of existence just like the lives of the soldiers he had taken. So, Gibbs realised, why should he look like anything but the smug bastard that he was?

  I have learned to hate all traitors, he recited the words of the ancient Greek tragedian, Aeschylus, and there is no disease that I spit on more than treachery.

  Almost like a domino effect, Sykes’ silence spilled over to Gibbs and in turn to the other six members of his special operations group. Even the technicians, busy readying the mammoth chopper, seemed to sense the icy awkwardness and glanced in Raine’s direction despite being oblivious of his actions.

  The shock of seeing Raine in the middle of the Venezuelan jungle had quickly twisted to fury, followed by a sense of pride in bringing in the traitor for a second time. For it was himself and his second-in-command, Rudy O’Rourke, that had apprehended Raine when he’d gone rogue. Gibbs was happy to put a bullet in his head there and then but O’Rourke, filled with the naive idealism of youth, had insisted they bring him back to America to face justice. In Venezuela, witnessed by the civilian scientist and waving the nansy-pansy flag of the U.N., he’d been forced to follow procedure again and apprehend the bastard.

  If only he’d followed his gut instinct, he growled inwardly, filled with loathing. Raine would have been a rotting corpse, being picked apart by the scavengers of the Amazon. Instead, he was now a free man.

  Sykes cleared his throat and continued his report, briefly outlining the team’s route. From the ‘Moon Mask Mission’s’ new jumping-off point, Fort Leavenworth - a site picked purely because it was where Raine was incarcerated – they would head south. After a brief refuelling stop in Gibbs’ home state of Texas, they would continue south-east across the Gulf of Mexico.

  As the man spoke, however, Gibbs found his thoughts drifting back to that blood-drenched jungle. His vision darkened, his heart beat faster. He didn’t realise it, but his fists clenched at his sides.

  The President himself had spoken personally to Gibbs, explaining Raine’s release. Just like Raine, his immediate predecessor, such direct communication with the president was common-place. As the CIA’s ‘flag-ship’ SOG team, their orders were often received straight from the Oval Office, hence earning the team the nick-name ‘The President’s Private Little Army.’ Some conspiracy circles had come to refer to them as the ‘Phantoms’ due to their seeming lack of existence. The scientists they were supporting on this mission had been given only the most limited information about their military escort in an effort to keep information about the Special Operations Group restricted.

  The six men and one woman that formed his team also seemed to struggle to keep their attention away from the handsome newcomer. While only he and O’Rourke knew the details of Raine’s history, the others had all heard the rumours. The best of the best had gone bad. And now they were being asked to place their lives in the traitor’s hands.

  “I don’t want to do it, Laurie,” the president had said to him after explaining about his former commander’s apparent immunity to the tachyon radiation. “But if you can’t handle him on this mission, then I’ll find a temporary replacement for you. We need him.”

  It was this last statement that truly hurt. We need him. It was what went unsaid which wounded him, a loyal soldier, the most.

  We don’t need you.

  He had reluctantly agreed to take Raine on his team and to provide him the same level of protection that he would any of the civilians. It was absolutely necessary that the U.N. secured the Moon Mask and Nathan Raine, even Gibbs hated to admit, was the best way of doing that.

  Nevertheless, Gibbs didn’t have to like it. And, while he had vowed to offer the same protection that he extended to King and the scientists, he would not offer the same accommodation.

  Nathan Raine was a traitor. He couldn’t be trusted and, the moment he showed any attempt to deceive he would put a bullet through his skull and face the reprimand later.

  Dropping his duffel by the helicopter’s ramp, Raine strolled up to the gathered soldiers. His intense blue eyes analysed each of them in a fraction of a second. They looked young, Gibbs knew, fresh faced. But he knew that Raine wouldn’t take them at face value. These weren’t slack jawed recruits on their first mission. These were handpicked from Delta Force, the Navy Seals, Marine Recons and Army Rangers. They were young, because generally one didn’t live long enough to grow old in that elite force of men and women.

  The hairs on the back of Gibbs’ neck stood on end, irked as he realised Raine’s eyes loitered on the curves of Kristina Lake a fraction longer than anyone else. Always the dashing hero, Nathan Raine had been the charmer, the womaniser. Scarred by terrible acne, pock-faced Laurence Gibbs had always been like his little troll, scuttling after his commander’s every whim.

  Not anymore. This was his team now. And Lake was his bitch. He’d pictured her often enough in the shower, his lecherous eyes absorbing every curve of her luscious form, the curl of her blond hair, soaked as he made her shower with the men. If women wanted to be in special ops, they had to be treated the same as their male counterparts. Lake, for her part, was tougher than any of the men on the team. While her cheer-leader good looks had been hardened by years in the field, she’d never hesitated to strip off and get down and dirty to prove her macho-ness.

  “Hey Gibbsy,” Raine said jovially, a crocked grin splitting his f
ace. Gibbs’ stomach clenched in irritation. He ground his teeth, glowering at the other man.

  “Reporting for duty, boss,” he finished, emphasising the last word.

  The whole team eyed the traitor, glancing between him and their commander, expecting a fist-fight to break out any second. But Gibbs forced his dark fury back under control, contemplating the president’s direct order.

  Briefing over, with an almost physical degree of effort, he turned towards the enormous helicopter, barking orders.

  “We move out in five!” he shouted, stalking away into the shadows. Then he turned and pointed to one of his team. “West! Get him on board! And don’t let the bastard out of your sights or I’ll bust your balls so hard they’ll get lodged in your throat and choke you to death! Got it?”

  “Got it, boss,” West replied in a heavy Brooklyn accent but Gibbs had already vanished behind the Super Stallion.

  “Well, that was awkward,” Raine grunted as he watched the team leader stalk away.

  “Shut the hell up,” West snapped at him, nodding to the rear loading ramp. “Let’s go.”

  Raine smiled at the young operative, earning nothing but an annoyed scowl from the man. “Well, manners have certainly gone downhill since I was in charge.” He slowly replaced his sunglasses over his eyes despite the gloom in the hanger. “Lead on, West,” he said with a flourish. Around them, the other members of the team dispersed, the blond woman and a dark haired man heading to the cockpit while the rest grabbed their gear and scrambled towards the hold.

  To be part of the CIA’s Special Operations Group, one was trained in all operations to the highest levels of proficiency, however to keep things clear it helped to designate duties to various team members. The woman and the dark haired man were obviously the designated pilots. Judging from the amount of technical gear West picked up, he was the communications specialist. The others, too, would have their own assigned roles.

  Picking up his own duffel, Raine followed West up the loading ramp. Strapped securely into harnesses on the uncomfortable seats in the cargo hold, looking as out of place as a jelly-fish in the Sahara, sat King, Sid and Nadia.

  Raine headed towards them and stashed his bag in the over-head webbing, greeting each of them in turn. “Hey Benny, glad to see you’re okay.” He hadn’t seen any of the scientists since making very physical contact with the butt of Gibbs’ rifle in the rainforest.

  “Yeah, you too.”

  There was something reserved and forced in King’s reply. The sense of camaraderie he’d felt develop during their flight through the ancient city dropped away like a curtain falling. Something in all three pairs of eyes seemed to stab at him accusingly.

  So, they know, he realised.

  While they wouldn’t be privy to all the details, someone somewhere along the chain of command on this mission had felt the need to explain his crime to them.

  Treason, punishable by death.

  Knowing that whatever fleeting sense of friendship had developed between him and the three scientists had gone the way of the dodo, he took a seat away from them as the SOG team piled on board.

  Feeling intense eyes boring into him, he glanced over to see the handsome features of Rudy O’Rourke staring hard across the cargo hold at him.

  Now second-in-command, Raine himself had recruited the man out of the Army Rangers and took him under his wing. Out of the eight-man team that had gone into that jungle four years ago, only three had walked out.

  He could feel the sense of betrayal radiating from the man. A gentle giant, O’Rourke had been described as. Built out of almost solid muscle, he was softly spoken and polite almost to a fault. Even now, Raine didn’t feel the same waves of hatred radiate from the man that did from Gibbs.

  Raine nodded a greeting.

  O’Rourke continued to stare at him for several long moments but then something in his face seemed to soften. An almost imperceptible nod was returned.

  “Right! Let’s get this bird in the air!” Gibbs practically roared as he stormed into the hold, eyes glaring at Raine.

  With a rumble of engines, he felt the enormous helicopter taxi out from the hanger and into the glaring Kansas sun. Vibrations juddered through the steal beast as the propellers began to spin, slowly at first, growing ever faster until eventually the Super Stallion lifted off and banked south, powering down the continental United States.

  Any other man would have shrivelled under the accusing glares that kept drifting his way but Nathan Raine merely leaned back, arms behind his head, sunglasses obscuring his eyes and feet up on the bonnet of the Humvee.

  “So, somebody want to tell me where we’re heading?” he asked.

  Silent exchanges passed between the civilians and the soldiers, trying to determine just how much information the ‘rogue’ agent was going to be privy to. Raine let the seconds tick by, unconcerned.

  Eventually, King spoke. “Jamaica,” he answered.

  Raine’s face broke into a wide grin. “Yeah, mon!”

  25:

  The Kernewek Diary

  Airborne over the Caribbean

  The Super Stallion helicopter swung low over the aqua marine waters of the Caribbean and raced towards the coastline of Jamaica. It banked hard to starboard, swinging almost in a three sixty loop before roaring into a steep climb, coming almost to a halt high above the earth and then plummeting back down like a rock. At the last possible moment the two pilots wrenched the controls and brought the aircraft back under control.

  In the cargo hold the six remaining SOG operatives sat strapped to their seats, ramrod straight, not bothering to hide their amusement at the obvious discomfort of the three scientists. Even Nadia Yashina’s normally icy demeanour seemed shaken by the fierce banking the two pilots threw the aircraft into for no reason other than some testosterone driven need to prove something to the final member of the group.

  To the chagrin of the soldiers, however, Nathan Raine lay slumped in his seat, feet sprawled on the hood of the Humvee, arms crossed, apparently dozing, looking for all the world as though the best efforts of the pilots to shake him loose were in fact boring him to sleep.

  The chopper lurched starboard with such sickening ferocity that even Benjamin’s King’s African skin visibly paled.

  “Is there really any need for this idiotic flying?” Sid shouted angrily over the din of the rotor blades echoing through the hold.

  Lawrence Gibbs levelled his gaze on her. He was not a man used to being spoken to in such a manner but Sid met his beady eyes with her own fierce indignation.

  “All right,” Gibbs shouted, his voice being picked up above the noise of the cargo hold by his ear mounted com-unit. “Sykes, cut the testosterone bullshit.”

  “Copy,” the crisp confirmation of David Sykes snapped over the shared com-link.

  “Boss,” Lake’s voice cut in. None of them referred to one another by rank or title. “Updated E.T.A. to destination is 17 minutes.”

  “Copy,” Gibbs replied then took in his whole team, civilians included. Raine continued to doze in his slouched position as the helicopter levelled out and headed smoothly and surely towards the coastline of Jamaica.

  “Okay, listen up,” he bellowed. “This will be a quick snatch and grab mission. O’Rourke, you and Garcia will take point.” Garcia was the youngest member of the team, stemming from New Mexico, King guessed, based on his accent and the colour of his skin, though no such details had been provided on any of their chaperones.

  “The civvies will follow you,” the team leader continued, referring to the scientists. King listened intently as the man laid out his plan with military brusqueness. “West and I will bring up our six. Nelson, Murray, you’ll take up sniping positions to the east and the west of the main building. Sykes and Lake, keep the bird running hot in case we need a fast get away-”

  That’s enough! King thought. “Excuse me,” he interjected, cutting off Gibbs. He ignored the angry glare he recei
ved in response and continued. “A fast get away?” He frowned. “We’re talking about a seventy six year old obese Jamaican woman.”

  “Ben’s right,” Sid supported him, leaning forward and gripping his hand. He felt uncomfortable as Nelson and Murray saw the demonstration of affection and sniggered like school boys.

  “Don’t you think storming the castle, all guns blazing, is a bit of an overkill?” she accused.

  Gibbs’ face flushed red. “Your job,” he replied, his voice scarcely more than a growl, his Texan drawl elongating his words, “is to identify the target. My job is to get you to it. I suggest you let me do mine and you do yours.”

  “I can’t do my job,” King shot back just as pointedly, “if she dies of a heart attack before I locate the target.”

  Gibbs glared, his voice dripping with thinly veiled contempt even over the direct com-link. The small transmitter/receiver unit King had lodged in his ear was surprisingly comfortable but he’d much rather be listening to the sounds of Jailhouse Rock than the drawl of the soldier over the din of the engines.

  “You yourself said that the proprietor would be uncooperative-”

  “I can try and reason with her,” he suggested. “Bargain with her. Langley said I’d have the full disposal of the U.N. Security Council behind me, including their financial clout.”

  “You said she wouldn’t sell when you approached her in the past.”

  “Anything’s for sale at the right price,” a new voice cut in.

  All eyes turned to Nathan Raine. He hadn’t moved a muscle nor opened his eyes, but he was far from asleep.

  King saw Gibbs’ eyes flash with intense hatred and he wondered what the exact source of such hatred could be. Sure, he had been told about Raine, in so far as he was ex-Special Forces and had subsequently been convicted of high treason, but there seemed to be something deeper in Gibbs, something that went beyond patriotic indignation.