by S. M. Butler
The door opened and a quick peek inside proved she wasn’t there.
His stomach roiled, but Irish told himself not to worry. She was probably in the mess hall, getting lunch or a drink. With the desert sun beating down on him, he ran to the mess hall and burst through the door.
At a little past noon, the dining hall was teeming with soldiers, marines, sailors and air force personnel in PT gear or every pattern of desert camouflage. Irish searched for a blond-haired civilian among the military personnel.
“Looking for the pretty doctor?” Tuck stepped up behind him with the rest of the crew.
“Yeah. She wasn’t in her quarters.”
The group spent a couple minutes searching the sea of faces.
“I don’t see her,” Big Bird said.
“Neither do I,” Tuck added.
The longer Irish looked, the worse he felt about the situation.
“You think she might have gone to the Post Exchange for clothes and toothpaste?”
“Maybe.” Irish prayed that was where she’d gone. This post was bigger than some. Nevertheless, it shouldn’t take long to find her.
“I hope I didn’t piss her off too much by asking her to leave.” Tuck clapped a hand on Irish’s back. “Surely, she’ll get over it.”
“She’s an adult, I doubt she’d take offense to being excluded from an operational planning session.” At least Irish hoped she hadn’t taken offense. He knew how much she cared about Dr. Jamo. She only wanted to see him rescued and freed from the clutches of a ruthless terrorist.
“I’ll go check the Exchange,” Tuck offered.
“I’ll run by the shower facility,” Dustman offered.
“Yeah, right.” Swede laughed.
“I won’t go in. I’ll just stand outside and ask if anyone inside saw her.” Dustman winked.
“I’m running back by the clinic,” Irish said. “Being a doctor, she might have gone to check on the samples the courier had tested.”
Tuck glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Meet back at my quarters in five minutes.”
Every man looked at his watch, nodded and took off.
Irish arrived at the clinic a minute later, having run the entire way. The white pickup was gone, and no one hung around outside in the heat. He opened the door and went inside.
“May I help you?” a female army private first class asked from behind the counter.
“Did a blonde come in here about an hour ago? She would have been wearing a dark T-shirt and blue scrubs.”
The female tipped her head, touching her finger to her chin. “An hour ago, you say?”
Irish nodded.
The woman smiled. “Yes. She said she was waiting on someone.”
“Did you see where she went when she left?”
“Not really. Maybe to the right, around the side of the building. I thought I saw someone out there through the window.” The young woman gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
Irish stepped outside and shaded his eyes to the sun. The right would have taken her to the pharmaceutical truck, if it had still been there. Holy hell, surely she didn’t try to accost the courier? He hurried back to Tuck’s quarters. All his worry would be for naught. One of the guys had to have located her at the Exchange.
Irish made it back to Tuck’s place first. Even Tuck hadn’t returned so he waited outside his quarters, pacing.
“Not at the Exchange,” Tuck said behind Irish.
Dustman jogged up. “Dr. Boyette wasn’t at the shower facility. I had a really hot lieutenant check to make sure.”
Shoving a hand through his hair, Irish walked to the end of the row of housing containers and back. “Where would she be? Camp Lemonnier isn’t that big.”
“Do you think she left to find Dr. Jamo on her own?”
“How? She didn’t have transportation to get there?”
“Could she have hitched a ride?” Tuck asked, his voice low, intense.
A lead weight settled in Irish’s belly. “You mean with the courier?”
“We wouldn’t let her go with us,” Tuck said, shaking his head. “What would stop her from finding her own way out to where they could potentially have taken the Somali doctor?”
“Guys, we have to prepare for the mission tonight,” Nacho said. “We’ll keep our eyes open for her return.”
“I’ll show up in time to pack my gear. Until then, I’ll be turning over every damned rock in this camp to find Claire.”
Everyone took off to gather his gear, except Swede. “Sorry about the doc. I hope you find her before we shove off.” Then he gave Irish a hand-held electronic device. “In case she hitched a ride with the courier, you might want to keep this on you. Maybe he’s headed to the same place we are.” The big blond man pointed at a blinking dot on the screen. “He’s already about sixty clicks from here and moving fast.”
“Too fast to catch him?” Irish asked, his grip tightening on the device.
“Probably. Unless you could commandeer a helicopter to intercept.”
The thought had crossed his mind, but the plan was to commandeer military aircraft for the unsanctioned mission that night. They could be in a whole lot of trouble for that if things didn’t go well.
Irish drew in a deep breath and tamped down the urge to grab a vehicle and race after the courier. “I’ll keep looking for her here.”
“She’ll turn up,” Swede reassured him.
Irish sure as hell hoped she did. The alternative could get ugly.
Chapter Nine
‡
Claire didn’t awaken until whatever it was she was bouncing on came to a stop, putting an end to the breeze keeping her relatively cool under the heavy blanket draped over her body.
Forcing open her eyes, she blinked several times. She couldn’t remember going to sleep, and she didn’t recognize where she was. Her head hurt and the heat was becoming unbearable beneath the blanket.
She tried to raise her hand, but her muscles felt heavy, listless and difficult to control. Persevering, she managed to capture the edge of the blanket only to realize it was a canvas tarp. Turning her head, she recognized a hard plastic case she’d seen before. Then the events came back to her. She’d been sneaking a peek into the back of the pharmaceutical courier’s truck when something stuck her in the arm. The bastard had drugged her and shoved her into the truck bed. Hell, Irish would be beside himself.
Claire willed her muscles to work and tried to push to a sitting position. Footsteps in gravel sounded and the tailgate of the truck dropped with a metal clank.
Heart pounding, Claire rolled over, aiming to fall out of the back of the truck and run. Where? She had no idea. But sticking around wasn’t an option. Anyone who would drug another person was bad. If he was connected in any way to Umar, her life expectancy would be short.
Concentrating all of her efforts, she rolled toward freedom.
Hands caught her before she hit the ground.
Facing the dirt, all she could see were a dozen dark feet in sandals and dark shoes, green, dusty trousers and more legs.
She was set on her feet, facing the courier. Then she turned, and her heart fell to the bottom of her stomach.
Umar stood among the dark-skinned men, glaring. “Woman, you have caused much trouble. I should have killed you long ago.”
Though Claire shook inside at the sheer anger in his face, she responded, “If you had, you would be dead yourself.”
His eyes narrowed, and his hand rose to press against his belly. “I think you poisoned me.”
With nothing but bravado to defend herself, she lifted her chin. “You poisoned yourself with evil. You have a black heart. One day it will kill you.”
He laughed out loud. “Big words for one who will soon die.” He jerked his head and spoke swiftly in Arabic to the courier.
The man grabbed her arm and jerked her toward a walled compound.
As she entered through a guarded gate, she looked up at an opulent palace with four cy
lindrical turrets, one on each corner. At the center of the structure, a huge domed roof rose three stories into the desert air. This had to be the palace of Prince Yohannis.
Her pulse raced and hope blossomed. If it was the palace, Dr. Jamo could be somewhere inside. And the SEALs would be on their way to this location that night to free the good doctor and maybe Claire, if Umar didn’t decide she wasn’t worth keeping around.
She was led around the side of the palace past guards dressed in dark green uniforms, their heads swathed in dark green cloth, carrying wicked-looking guns. Claire shivered, praying the SEALs didn’t incur any casualties in their night raid. She just had to find Dr. Jamo and hold out long enough for a rescue.
The courier led her through a door into the back of the palace and down stone stairs to another door. A guard with a rifle guarded it. The courier spoke to him and then reached for what looked like a round steering wheel like those used to secure doors on a submarine. He turned it and a sucking sound ensued. Then the heavy door opened to a long tunnel-like corridor leading in what Claire guessed was away from the palace itself to an underground complex. Once they passed through, the guard secured the door behind them.
The long corridor opened into a larger room lined with doors and some glass walls overlooking what appeared to be laboratories. As she passed the glass windows, she could see people dressed in full body suits and hoods worn when working with hazardous materials. Her heart fluttered, and a sense of dread washed over here. This had to be the place they were developing the biological weapons.
The courier was met by yet another guard. He passed Claire off to him. The guard gripped her arm and shoved her toward a door, opened it and pushed her inside a small room with two cots pushed up against the walls.
A dark-skinned man rose to his feet, his eyes sad. “Oh, dear God. Dr. Boyette.”
Claire walked toward him, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Dr. Jamo, I’m so glad I found you.”
He held up his hands and backed away. “I wish I could say the same. Unfortunately, you are now just as much a prisoner as I am. And worse.”
“We’ll get out of here,” Claire insisted.
The door closed behind her with an ominous click, belying her words.
“It won’t matter to me.” Dr. Jamo stared at Claire. “I am infected with the disease they have been using to kill entire villages.”
*
Night hadn’t come soon enough. Irish spent the day combing the entire length of Camp Lemonnier. Each passing minute drove home the fact Claire was nowhere within the boundaries of the installation. The only hope he held onto was that the blip on the tracking device led to the very location they would hit on their mission to put an end to Umar and his reign of death.
Tuck leaned close in the back of the Black Hawk helicopter as they hovered over their landing position a mile away from their target, tucked in the rolling wasteland of the Ethiopian desert. “We’ll get her out,” he promised.
Irish nodded without speaking, his entire focus on the mission ahead. He went over everything they’d learned about the palace, the lay of the land and the armed men they would encounter. Langley had come through with vivid satellite photos of the palace and what appeared to be air vents from an underground structure located to the east of the palace.
They’d deduced that if an underground laboratory existed, the entrance was either camouflaged or only accessible through the palace. Rather than hunt over the land for a hidden entrance, they’d chosen to slip into the palace and enter from there.
Intel also indicated the Ethiopian Prince Yohannis was not in residence at the time, lessening of a possibility of the raid creating an international incident.
Irish didn’t give a rat’s ass about the Ethiopian prince. If anything, he’d rather the prince was there so he could blow him up in the palace with his murderous comrade, Umar. Anyone in bed with Umar was equally evil and deserved to die. Experimenting with biological warfare on innocent villagers was beyond contemptible.
The helicopters hovered thirty feet above the ground, and the SEALs fast-roped to the ground and headed for the palace on the other side of the hill.
Irish had chosen to take point, anxious to get there, find Claire, kill Umar and blow up the entire operation. Between him and the others, they carried enough C-4 to take out an entire city block in downtown Manhattan.
Less than an hour was needed to climb the hill and slip up on the palace walls, surrounding it on all sides. Dustman, Nacho and two others had chosen positions farther out and set up as snipers while the rest of the sixteen-man team moved inside.
“There’s a guard on each corner and one on the gate.” Tuck’s voice came through Irish’s headset.
“Southeast target in my crosshairs,” Dustman said.
“I’ve got the man on the gate,” Nacho confirmed.
The other snipers reported in, targets acquired, awaiting orders to pull the trigger.
“You can bet security cameras will be in place. Once we move in range, we have to make it quick. Let’s do this. Ready. Fire.”
The soft crack of rifles going off at the same time could only be heard by someone listening really hard for the noise. The distance helped muffle the sound.
Irish watched through his night vision goggles as the guard nearest him slumped to the ground. The team moved in, breaching the gate, setting off a small explosion to trigger the automatic opener.
The SEALs hugged the inside of the outer wall and surrounded the palace.
Irish, Tuck, Big Bird, Fish and Swede approached the rear entrance. The rest of the team hung back to provide cover.
Tuck tried the door handle. Locked.
Prepared for this, Irish pressed a wad of C-4 near the locking mechanism and set a charge. The men took several steps away and covered their ears. A small explosion ripped through the lock, and the door swung open.
The SEALs waiting near the walls of the compound moved in.
With their MP5SD sound-suppressed submachine guns leading the way, the SEALs entered the building.
A guard came running around a corner, alerted by the sound of the blast.
Irish aimed for his knee. The bullet hit, sending the guard down, his rifle hitting the floor first, and then bouncing out of his grip.
Tuck rushed forward, kicked the rifle out of his reach and yanked him up by the back of his collar. In Arabic, Tuck demanded, “Where is Umar?”
The man shook his head, crying out in pain.
Tuck pulled his knife from the scabbard at his waist and pressed it to the man’s throat, repeating his question.
Irish aimed his gun at the man’s face as added incentive.
The al-Shabaab guard spoke haltingly.
Irish knew a little Arabic and gleaned the gist of the man’s words. Umar was in a room upstairs.
“What about the doctors?” Irish urged.
Tuck translated.
Before answering, the guard wailed in pain.
The doctors were down the stairs in the laboratory.
Tuck nodded to Irish. “Take Big Bird and Swede. The rest will come with me to round up Umar and his thugs.”
Without waiting for the others, Irish hurried along the hallway in the direction from which the guard had come. He came upon a stone staircase leading to a lower level.
“Go,” Big Bird’s voice said into his headset. “We’ve got your six.”
Irish was already halfway down, moving silently. The staircase curved to the right. His training kicking in, Irish slowed, peered around the corner and noted a guard at the bottom of the stairs, standing beside a large door that reminded him of the ones on ships that could be shut airtight.
The guard spotted him about the same time. Before the man could raise his weapon, Irish fired and the guard dropped.
Grabbing the large round handle, Irish pulled it around, breaking the seal. The door swung open and the men raced down a long corridor. As they neared the end, an alarm sounded, and red lights blinked high
on the walls.
Irish prayed Tuck and the others weren’t running into trouble in the palace. Then he focused on the guard running toward him, eyes wide.
Irish dropped to his belly and fired a burst from his MP5SD, taking out the guard with the first bullet. The beauty of the sound-suppressed weapons was that they could fire in one room and not be heard in the next.
Unfortunately, the alarm system had every guard on alert.
Irish leaped to his feet and ran to the end of the hallway with Big Bird and Swede on his heels. More guards appeared, racing toward them. When they saw the SEALs, they raised their weapons.
Rolling to the side, Irish let loose another burst.
Big Bird and Swede joined in the fight.
The guards were no match for the Navy SEALs and hit the floor, blood pooling around their bodies.
Irish remained on his belly for a moment. When nothing moved, he rose, weapon at the ready. The room he’d entered was lined with doors on one side and glass walls on the other, overlooking a bay filled with tables, microscopes and people dressed in white hazmat suits. One look at the Navy SEALS and they dropped to the floor, covering their heads. Not one of them had weapons, but all of them were working on the most powerful weapons of all. The kind of weapon people couldn’t see with the naked eye.
Pounding on a door near the end of the room caught Irish’s attention. He hurried to the end and pressed his ear to the door. “Claire?”
“Irish!” Her muffled voice came through the thick door. “We’re in here.”
Relief flooded him as he twisted the handle. The door was locked. Rather than waste time searching through the dead guards for the key, he yelled, “Stand clear of the door and hold your ears.” With a small clump of C4 and a detonator, he blasted through the lock, and the door swung open.
He would have rushed in, but Claire and Dr. Jamo both stood back, hands held up. “Don’t come near us.”
“Why?”
Dr. Jamo stood against the opposite wall from Claire. “I’ve been purposely infected with the virus they used in their bio warfare.”
“I don’t know if I’m infected. But it’s best you stay at least three feet away.”
