by Sean McFate
Now we were on final approach to a small country airstrip somewhere in Shenandoah Valley, Virginia. The rural airport closed at dusk, making it an ideal point of entry for anyone wishing to avoid customs. Dulles was not possible for me, at least not now. We flew over the polar cap and down though Canada, avoiding Homeland Security’s gazing eyes. They looked southward, at the Latin American smuggler routes. Not many smugglers came from Canada, especially by air.
“Pilot, what’s our ETA?” I asked over the intercom.
“Twenty minutes,” said a voice in a thick Bulgarian accent.
I picked up the phone and made a call, then switched back to the intercom. “The runway lights will be on in fifteen minutes.”
“Affirmative,” replied the pilot.
One-fifty grand bought me a fixer on the ground, local transportation, and a temporary safe house in Washington. It also got me an amnesiac airport employee to throw the light switch and flee.
The plane’s cabin attendant fumed quietly in a forward seat, eyeing me. It had been this way for nine hours. Over the course of the flight, I had turned the corporate jet’s posh interior into a Guns and Ammo centerfold. Black duffel bags were seat belted to leather seats, and the polished wooden tables were overloaded with tactical gear and things that go boom. Now it was all packed into a small ballistic chest, two duffel bags, and a weapons case. Only the M32 revolver–type grenade launcher lay on the couch, snug in its tactical bag. It was too big to pack. We made a quick stop in Beirut to pick up some choice items from an arms dealer who owed me a solid. Then we stopped in Cyprus, a hub for oligarchs and people like me.
The flaps extended with a whir of hydraulics, and the landing gear released with a clunk. I could feel the plane slow down in my gut, and I peered out the window. Farmland, patches of trees, some houses, a ridgeline in the distance. It looked lush compared to my two years in the Middle East. I never thought I would come home again, especially this way.
The plane nosed up as the ground drew closer. Power lines passed uncomfortably close to our landing gear, and the dark horizon and sky merged into one color. The plane wobbled in midair as the pilots brought it to near stall speed before there was any runway beneath our wheels. The turbines throttled up and down in rapid succession, and the ground came up fast. The attendant was gripping the ends of his armrests, staring straight ahead.
“Short runway,” said the flight attendant, fear in his voice. “Not made for this size aircraft.”
“I know.”
We touched down hard at 2250 and the pilots slammed the brakes, causing spare ammo magazines, loose rounds, and cocktail napkins to hurtle forward. The reverse thrusters kicked in, and I felt my body weight strain against my seat belt. Things behind me crashed to the floor and one of the galley cabinet doors flung open with a crack. The plane edged left and right as we rapidly decelerated. Out the window, I saw the small terminal building zoom by; it marked the halfway point on the runway.
“Too fast,” said the flight attendant, shouting over the blast of the reverse thrusters. “We’re running out of runway!”
The brakes squealed, and the plane shimmied until we skidded to an unnatural stop on the grass, just past the runway’s edge. The pilots throttled the starboard reverse thruster and port engine simultaneously, causing a violent U-turn back onto the runway.
“I hope we didn’t wake up the entire countryside,” I said.
“If the police show up, you’re doing the talking,” said the attendant. I had asked our fixer about this contingency, and he said it’s the one thing he could not fix. Getting caught in an unregistered jet flying from the Middle East full of smuggled weapons and cash and landing in the dark of night in rural America is hard to explain to local juries.
“I need to ghost in ten minutes,” I said, and the flight attendant nodded in vigorous agreement.
The Gulfstream taxied back up the runway to the small terminal, where the pilots cut the engines. I opened the fuselage door and aluminum stairs unfolded gracefully to the tarmac. The air smelled sweet and cold.
“It’s good to be home,” I said, walking down the stairs in a tailored suit and carrying a SCAR assault rifle with sound suppressor at the ready. I would have preferred nonlethal weapons, but they had no range. Plus, Middle East smugglers rarely stock such items. Turning around, I saw the Gulfstream dwarfed the small, single-engine planes near it. The small airport’s frequent flyers were recreational pilots, and I wondered if a jet had ever landed here before.
No time for a security sweep. I need to find my ride, I thought. There were a few small hangars, some Cessna 150s, and a glorified snack bar that passed as the terminal. No one was here but us.
I saw the black BMW M5 competition sedan tucked in between hangars, waiting for me, right where the fixer promised. I felt under one of the wheel wells and peeled off the keys taped inside. Seconds later I was in the driver’s seat, and the twin-turbo V-8 came to life with a throaty roar.
“Magic,” I said, a phrase I had picked up in South Africa. The Beemer looked like a standard Washington lobbyist’s ride but had the soul of a track car. The fixer had it enhanced, too, adding horsepower and removing the antitheft tracking device. There was no GPS or anything else that could talk to the internet. A road atlas and street maps of Washington, DC, sat in the front seat. Perfect for my needs.
I spun around to the G-IV and backed up to the plane’s stairs. The attendant stood at the top, arms crossed, glowering down at me. It took us a few minutes to unload the aircraft.
“That’s it,” I said, walking down the stairs with the M32 grenade launcher and throwing it in the trunk. The BMW sagged slightly in the back under the weight of the weapons and ammo. It would affect evasive maneuvering at speed, causing the car to fishtail around corners. Once I reached Washington, I would make a weapons cache separate from my safe house.
I checked my watch again. Nine minutes. Pretty good.
“Time to pop smoke,” I said, nodding to the attendant who grinned and waved as he retracted the stairs and sealed the door. The jet engines whirred to life.
I got behind the wheel and strapped in. The Gulfstream’s turbines crescendoed, and the plane began rolling forward. I accelerated out of the way and toward the airport’s exit, a chain-link gate conveniently left wide open by the fixer. The Gulfstream took off and thundered over my head, its landing gear retracting, as I sped down the country road.
It’s good to be home, I thought.
Chapter 11
Of all the prestigious private-member clubs in Washington, DC, the Cosmos Club was the most elite. Like all clubs of its genus and species, it was unassuming to the casual eye. No sign announced its existence. Only those who “mattered” in vanity-obsessed Washington recognized the belle époque mansion on Embassy Row, flying its own flag.
A black Mercedes sedan sat in a line of luxury cars waiting to be valet parked. Membership was highly curated, and an invitation to dine at the Club was rarely refused.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said one of the valets as he opened the Benz’s passenger door. An antique cane stuck out, followed by a leg. The man grunted as he maneuvered a second, stiffer leg onto the brick pavement. With focus, he rose to his feet.
“Welcome back to the Cosmos Club, sir,” said another staff member with a smile. The tall man ignored him and hobbled into the mansion. Despite his age and limp, he bore an impressive physique, like a retired linebacker. People moved out of his way as he lumbered forward and made his way through the club. The ballroom looked like Versailles and the library like Oxford.
He passed through a corridor covered in pictures of members who had won a Nobel, Pulitzer, Presidential Medal of Freedom, or other prestigious recognition, including the Cosmos Club Award. There were hundreds. Then there was an alcove of framed postage stamps with members’ faces on them. The tall man ignored it all.
“Sir, your guest is already seated,” said the maître d’ as the man shuffled past him and into the dining room. W
hite tablecloths with complex settings lined the room, but none too close together. The scent of grilled steak and truffle potatoes filled the air, as did the glug-glug of wine being poured into glasses. The Cosmos Club’s seal was subtly ubiquitous: a winged earth flying over clouds but under stars, with a Masonic-looking eye beaming light down upon the cosmos.
“Please follow me.”
They passed senators, diplomats, generals, judges, clergy, CEOs, lawyers, foreign dignitaries, and others locked in quiet conversation. The Club was a safe haven for privacy and a neutral ground for meetings, away from the hoi polloi of the press and public. The Club prohibited electronics, business cards, and notetaking. It was a back room where deals were cut in the DC swamp.
“Here you are, sir,” said the maître d’, opening the door to a private dining room lined with bottles of wine behind glass and a crystal chandelier that filled the small space. Inside sat a man wearing a bespoke suit who was only slightly younger. The average age of Club members was seventy. The man with the cane moved forward without acknowledging the maître d’, who rushed to seat his guest and then slipped out. Once they were alone, the two men regarded each another.
“Good to see you, old friend,” said the man with the cane.
“And you too.”
“What shall we talk about?”
“You know exactly why I called you here. We have a problem.”
The other man nodded.
Chapter 12
My safe house near Capitol Hill was underwhelming. A real estate agent would describe it as: “lots of living space,” “great potential,” “unique design,” and “lots of possibilities.” Translation: a dump. The place was a dilapidated taxi warehouse abandoned to pigeons in the industrial part of the city. Neighborhood features included an eight-lane highway overpass, railroad tracks, a coal power plant, abandoned cars, and trash. Lots of trash.
But it was home. For now.
A garage door opener was clipped to the BMW’s sun visor, and now I knew why. After pressing it, the mammoth garage door opened and I drove in, headlights on. The interior was a concrete cave, and the dank air assaulted my nostrils. It smelled of axle grease and rotting rubber. I donned my night vision and SCAR and conducted my security sweeps. Ten minutes later, I discovered the biggest threat was tetanus.
At the center of the warehouse sat an RV trailer, arranged by the fixer, that would serve as my tactical operations center. The front door creaked open, and I flipped on the interior lights. home sweet home, read a sign on the fridge in fake needlepoint. I opened the fridge door and found a six-pack of cheap beer and a cold pizza.
“Thoughtful,” I said, grabbing a slice of pie. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. Four laptops sat on the table, across from a large monitor on the wall. These laptops were special because they could probe the internet anonymously. I opened one. A few clicks later, the wall monitor came alive with feeds of low-light cameras around the warehouse. Rats were the only thing moving outside.
“Now to find some friends,” I said, working the keyboard.
Hours later, I sat in the corner of a coffee shop, sipping a triple espresso. Morning commuters were rotating through, when two men walked through the door. They were not like the others. The first was colossal. He wore sideburns and dressed like a lumberjack; all he needed was an ax. The second was wiry and shopped out of mountain-climbing catalogs. Sun had engraved lines into his face, making him look older than he was. Both moved like athletes.
“Tom!” said the lumberjack in a gravelly baritone.
“Lava, Tye!” I said, standing up. We shook hands, firm grips all around, and took seats around the café table.
“I couldn’t believe it when you said you were back,” the big guy said, smiling. No one knows where he got the nickname Lava. He was a West Point quarterback turned special forces legend, eventually commanding the U.S. Army’s most elite unit: the Combat Applications Group, aka Delta Force. After retirement, he was scooped up by Apollo Outcomes, taking a lot of guys with him, including Tye. When I first joined Apollo, I was lucky enough to be an operator on Lava’s team.
“Hi Tom,” the wiry guy said, in a faint Southern accent. He grew up in the green hills of Tennessee and enlisted in the army at seventeen. A few years later, he was selected for Delta and spent a career fighting America’s secret wars. Tye was a patriot to a fault; he only saw the good versus evil in his missions, and never the ocean of in-betweens. I never understood why a guy like him joined Apollo, and owing to this, I didn’t fully trust him. But Lava did.
“Heard you was dead,” said Tye.
“Turns out I’m hard to kill. It takes more than Russians and ISIS to eliminate me,” I said, and gave them a quick update of my missions involving Ukraine and the Islamic State.
“Sounds like you’ve been in some sticky places,” said Lava, not fully convinced that I was relaying everything.
“Lost my team, Lava. Outside of Donetsk. We were ghosts, and there’s no way the Russians could have tracked us. No way.”
“Sorry about your team, Tom. What do you think happened?”
“Someone inside gave away our position.”
“Inside Apollo?” asked Tye.
“Possibly,” I said with caution. The CEO, Brad Winters, sold us out, the double-dealing opportunist! I wanted to scream but couldn’t. Up to this point, I had left Winters’s name out of it. Winters and Lava got along, and I needed to know where Lava’s loyalties stood. If I wanted help, I needed to win over Lava. Tye and others would follow.
Lava looked away, and Tye to the ground. That’s weird, I thought.
“You been flying nap of the earth for a year now?” asked Lava, referring to when military aircraft fly under the radar. It was a soldier metaphor for operating undetected. “You landed five hours ago, and no one knows you’re here? You’re sure about that?”
“Yes,” I said, puzzled by his suspicions.
“Well, your timing’s shit,” said Tye.
“What do you mean?”
“Follow me,” said Lava, and we got up and left the coffee shop. Outside was a black up-armored Chevy Suburban. They were ubiquitous in Washington.
“Get in,” said Tye, holding open a backseat door. I clambered in and reached for a seat belt. I didn’t like where this was going. Tye got behind the wheel and Lava in the front passenger seat. Seconds later we swerved into traffic, and Lava turned to face me.
“Who else knows you are back?” asked Lava.
“No one, I swear. I called you first. You told me long ago that if I was ever in trouble, call you first.”
Lava starred at me. Judging me. I took it.
“No one?” repeated Tye, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
“No. One.”
Lava turned around, facing forward as we crossed the National Mall and turned onto Constitution Avenue. Patches of frozen snow lay on the ground and there were a few geese.
“The situation is worse than you realize, Tom,” said Lava. “Do you know what we were doing last night? Hunting. For the past six months we’ve been hunting splinter cells across the metro area.”
“Terrorists? Foreign nationals? Russians? The Chinese?”
“Worse.”
“Worse? Who’s worse?”
“Apollo Outcomes,” said Lava, turning to me. Tye eyed me through the rearview mirror, gauging my reaction. My head exploded. Did I just walk into a trap?
“I don’t understand,” I stuttered. “I thought you still worked for Apollo.”
“We do,” said Tye.
“Then who is Apollo working—”
“Apollo is secretly at war with itself,” interrupted Lava. Silence followed as I absorbed the implications.
“You’re telling me an Apollo team has gone rogue? Here, in DC?” I said, not believing it. I just couldn’t see how this was possible.
“Not just a team,” said Tye. “A whole squadron.”
“And they’re working for a foreign client. No one knows who,�
�� said Lava.
“And Tom, you are listed as one of the rogue operatives,” said Tye. “KIA last year, along with two others.”
“Boon and Wildman,” I said quietly. I hadn’t heard from them in months and assumed they were in hiding. Perhaps they were dead.
“Affirmative,” said Tye, then added sympathetically, “Wildman was a friend.”
I slumped in my seat, daring to trust them. Lava had never lied to me before, why would he now? He was no Brad Winters.
“There’s a kill list,” said Lava. “You’re still on it, even though you’re listed as KIA. I never understood why, but now I know. It’s because someone got sloppy. They thought you were dead but had no confirmation.”
“It’s why we were shocked to get your call,” said Tye, “and why it’s good you haven’t contacted anyone else.”
I sat stunned.
“You really didn’t know, Tom?” asked Tye, in amazement.
“No.”
We turned around at the gate of Arlington Cemetery and headed back toward the Lincoln Memorial and the Mall.
“Well, I guess I should not be surprised,” I said. The time had come for the whole truth. “After all, it was Brad Winters who sold out my position to the Russians in Ukraine. He also issued a kill contract on me, when I was in Syria and Iraq. But he got what he deserved.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lava.
“Winters backed a failed coup d’etat in Saudi Arabia, and I exposed him to the Kingdom’s security services. They captured, tortured, and beheaded him. Wish I was there to see it,” I said with satisfaction.
Tye started laughing, and so did Lava. Their laughing grew louder.
