American Op

by Roger Weston

  “Who is? Who are you talking about?”

  “He was looking for Brandt. Might … come back.”

  “I’m gonna get help.”

  “I’m … I was stabbed.”

  Stuart pulled up his shirt. “Hold on.”

  The captain raised his hand. “Watch out. He’s…vicious.” Then his hand fell. He shuttered and went limp.

  Stuart checked his pulse. The captain was dead.

  Stuart closed his eyelids. He wiped a tear from his own eye. Then he lifted his pistol.

  He decided that he could not wait here. He would call in a recovery team for the captain, but Stuart had to try and help Brandt. If he failed, the bodies were going to number in the thousands.

  He would get a new E.T.A. from his teams and then return to the San Pedro Airport.

  CHAPTER 19

  Fisherman’s Wharf was a big recreation area. Dante Brulé could hardly believe it to see places like this. It was unbelievable. There were dozens of people on the beach, sitting under umbrellas. There were a couple of restaurants. People were walking around. Everyone was happy. They were all oblivious to the fact that there was a dying or dead man over on the tugboat.

  Brulé looked at the tugboat tied to the pier. He had to check the boat to see if Brandt was back. Brulé should’ve just waited there, but he’d followed his instinct and left the boat. He’d been walking up the road, checking parked cars, but Lazar had called and ordered him to double-check the boat in case Brandt showed up.

  Dante was hungry to finish the job. He wanted to kill Brandt more than he wanted to breathe. His hunger would be satisfied.

  He knew he was playing a double game: Save himself because Lazar would not tolerate failure. Brulé was also desperate because Brandt was a big job. Brulé would be in a position to do even more lucrative hit jobs.

  He knew that Brandt was a legendary operative. Brulé wasn’t afraid of him or any man. Normally Brulé would take special pleasure in humiliating a man like Brandt. Brulé would typically reduce a target to a quivering coward and make him beg for mercy.

  This time, he couldn’t play games. There were people around. Fortunately, he didn’t see any cops, which was no coincidence. He would blow Brandt away, take a picture, and then walk away.

  Then everyone would know he was the big gun. His reputation would spread beyond South America.

  Every dictator and oligarch would be bidding up Brulé’s prices for future jobs. Brulé would be feared at a new level.

  Fear me, Brulé thought. His very name would inspire fear around the world.

  Brulé felt excited about what he was about to do. He was motivated by fear of Lazar and his Black Cobras. Nobody in South America wanted to mess with those sick bastards.

  Brulé ran his binoculars over the whole area, but he was focused on the tug boat at the end of the pier. Yes, he must go back there—even though he knew the body was in the foc’sle.

  Yes, Brulé could practically smell blood.

  Death was unacceptable to Brulé. His whole life was death. His light was darkness. He planned to kill Brandt. Brulé had a Beretta 92FS under his belt and a suppressed Mac-10 machine pistol in his shoulder bag. The pistol would be handy, but the Mac-10 would guarantee Brandt would not get lucky.

  Brulé headed for the tug.

  He walked out on the pier. There were people around. It was a terrible place for a hit, but he was ready to do anything to kill Brandt. If he had to shoot a few others, no problemo. He would strike fast and leave fast. Unfortunately, Brandt wasn’t onboard.

  Brulé was on his way back to the parking lot his phone rang. It was Lazar again.

  “What happened?”

  “He’s still not back,” Brulé said.

  “Alright. We’ll get him later. For now, I need you to hurry to the airport. Things are happening fast now.”

  Heads Up: Thank you for reading this far! The next book in the series, GLOBAL TILT, is now available on Amazon. Grab a copy today. Now back to AMERICAN OP.

  CHAPTER 20

  Three hours, fifty-six minutes till WMD attack

  After flying from Lima to Punta Arenas, Chile in Lazar’s Tupolev TU 144 supersonic transport plane which traveled at the amazing speed of 1,510 mph, Dante Brulé exited the aircraft and saw two helicopters on the tarmac over by the hangars, so he went over. A few men stood together talking in the airplane hangar. They looked like intellectual types, for which Brulé had always harbored contempt. In the back of the hangar, he approached a man wearing a sweaty white tank-top sitting behind a desk and reading a technical manual. He was a skinny-faced man with greased-back hair. He had glasses, apathetic eyes, and an uncaring expression.

  “Where’s the pilot? Lazar wants a fast delivery. I can’t wait around.”

  “Get in the helicopter—Dragonfly Number One. It’ll leave in a few minutes.”

  “I said I want to talk to the pilot. I don’t like to fly.”

  “There is no pilot.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a remote-controlled helicopter.”

  Brulé grabbed him by the neck, lifted him out of his chair, and shoved him against the wall. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. They should have told you. It’s an autonomous aerial vehicle.” He frantically pointed at his Smart Pad. “I program the destination. It will take you there under its own control.”

  “I want a pilot.”

  “That’s”—his skinny arms flailed in the air—“not an option.”

  “What if there’s a problem?”

  “You can radio us. We—we can change the commands through a satellite link.”

  “I don’t like this.” Brulé shoved him again.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry, sir. It’s Lazar’s orders. This is how all his supplies and manpower are ferried out to the carrier.”

  “What’s wrong with pilots?”

  “Lazar is changing the world. He doesn’t live in the past.”

  Brulé cursed.

  “Please, get in Dragonfly Two, the one with the door open.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “Look, the door’s open. Give me a break, will you?”

  Brulé turned and walked out of the hangar. He found his seat in the helicopter. Three other men also boarded. The door closed automatically. The engines started. Lights flashed on the console.

  The other helicopter lifted off and flew towards the horizon like a missile.

  The man from the hangar came out and opened the door to Dragonfly Two. He said, “You men help yourself to the wet bar. I still have to complete my pre-flight check on this bird. It’ll be another five minutes before take-off.”

  “Take your time,” Brulé said. “Five minutes won’t kill anybody.”

  Five minutes later, the door opened, but it wasn’t the man from the hangar. It was a leather-faced dude who looked as tough as a fencepost. Brulé instinctively disliked him.

  He got in and took a seat next to Brulé.

  In English he said, “Guess we’ll be riding together. My name’s Stuart.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Three hours, fifty-six minutes till WMD attack

  Dropping down towards the retired aircraft carrier, Chuck realized that his helmet and special goggles would do him no good because vision was about ten feet in the snow storm. He had to depend upon GPS. If that failed him, he was about to land in ice-cold water, which meant he was going to die in just a few minutes. He was already freezing. He was shaking from the cold. With gloves, he wiped the ice off his goggles. Frigid air needled through his white-knit face mask.

  He said a prayer for his country. If he missed the ship, then this descent was his burial at sea.

  He drifted down with the snowflakes. It was the most peaceful moment of his life, and that frightened him. In his whole life he had never felt more at peace—and he was reminded of funerals he’d attended where the preacher told the doomed to rest in peace. Was this peaceful descent a portent of his imminent
death? Was he descending into the abyss of the ocean? Chuck prayed that he could stop the attack on America.

  Facing death once again, he was reminded how a man should live. He must live in the knowledge that his life’s journey was about to end—could end at any time. A man must do what he must do today because the bell was about to ring. Chuck was betting his life for others, which gave him hope. It was only the ocean that he feared, the freezing water. That he feared.

  There were many ways to perish today—one being a sudden explosion. Because of the rush, his new “friend” Stuart had only been able to provide Chuck with unstable explosives. Chuck was living on a prayer indeed.

  To descend with the falling snow was an education in humility. Chuck felt at one with his surroundings. He was like a snowflake—so small in the world, leaving such a miniscule trace, such a small ripple upon the oceans of life. Would anyone other than Jeff and a few others even care that he had lived? Would he even be remembered by those he had helped? He did not know if anyone would ever pray for Chuck Brandt. Few even knew when he was in danger. Nor would those he served hear a word when he perished.

  His name would not make the nightly news. Nor would there be an obituary in the newspaper. He would be gone, and if America descended into chaos due to his failure, nobody would ever know that he’d even tried to save the land of the free.

  He drifted down through freezing clouds, amazed at the peaceful and heavenly descent. Then, thanks to his goggles, he saw a series of lights near the LSO platform. He saw lights, but he was disoriented. He couldn’t tell where the ship’s accommodation island was—the multi-decked superstructure that rose above the flight deck. He could not see the ship’s tower because of poor visibility.

  Then a gust of snow swarmed around him, and he could not even see the runway lights anymore. It was a complete whiteout. His heart pounded wildly. He breathed rapidly. He descended too quickly in full knowledge of the brief life-expectancy in the freezing the Antarctic waters.

  The fog was so thick that even with his special glasses, he missed the island. He realized he was dropping instead toward the freezing water next to the carrier.

  He circled back and caught a glimpse. He steered toward the building-shaped island of the carrier. The roof looked like an antenna farm, and it was too late to land there. He also saw a large antenna mast just behind the island. Radar and communication antennas stood tall in the gloom.

  Then a gust of wind carried him out over the water.

  Looking back, he couldn’t see the ship’s flight deck at all! He could only see water below him and it was approaching fast. If hand landed there, he was a dead man. Count the seconds.

  How could I miss an aircraft carrier? he thought. It was like not being able to shoot the side of a barn.

  He pulled his toggle and curved back around.

  Through fog he saw the deck, but he wasn’t sure what part of the ship it was. At this point, he no longer cared. At this point, he would take any solid ground he could find and count himself as lucky. The good news was that the fog was so thick he couldn’t even see the island now, which meant nobody up in the wheelhouse could see him.

  Because he was carrying unstable explosives, he was concerned about the landing. He was slightly tense, so he started taking slow deep breaths so he could relax even more. It was hard to relax completely when you knew you were about to be vaporized by a massive explosion near Antarctica, so Chuck changed his thoughts. He imagined a smooth landing. Over and over in his mind he envisioned a perfect landing—and he believed that he would have a perfect landing. The fact that he was still alive was proof that every adversity was working in his favor.

  He touched down like a feather. He slowly sunk to his knees and almost kissed the deck but decided not to because he didn’t want his lips to stick to the frozen surface.

  The next question was whether he could move through the ship quickly. It was a small city, but he thought he would be fine. He’d been on carriers before. They were massive ships, but he’d done his homework, memorizing deck and floor plans.

  Working quickly, he unhooked his gear and gathered up his parachute. As he stuffed it hastily into a bag, he heard footsteps.

  CHAPTER 22

  Three hours, thirty-three minutes

  Chuck moved behind one of the many shipping containers on deck and waited until the sound of footsteps faded away. Then he heaved the parachute pack overboard.

  Stepping back behind a shipping container, he opened its door and shined his tactical flashlight into the darkness. The container was empty but for a pile of about forty folded canvas tarps near the back. Chuck very carefully set his shoulder bags full of explosives behind the tarps. He unzipped one bag and looked in. He started to sweat a little. It was a miracle he was still alive, he thought, as he looked at his five-pound block of unstable C4 plastic explosives.

  Then he got out a little gas-fueled Bunsen burner, a common camping accessory. The unit was smaller than a bottle of Everclear grain alcohol. He lit the gas burner and held the little bottle of nitroglycerin about eight inches above the flame. He was heating the nitro because nitro became brittle in the cold air.

  Very carefully, he placed a bottle of nitroglycerin next to the C4. Delicately, he placed a dozen unshunted electrical blasting caps on top of the C4. After repeating the procedure for his other bag of C4, he turned off the burner and started to sweat even more. Just one crackle of static electricity in the air would cause a massive explosion. He knew that there would be static in the air tonight, but he didn’t know just when. It could be any time.

  Chuck activated a homing device and stashed it as well.

  He shook his head. It would be a miracle if he got out of this alive, but it was possible.

  He gently covered his package with a canvas tarp. Stepping out of the cargo container, he closed the metal door.

  And heard more footsteps!

  “Who’s there?” the voice said in Spanish.

  “It’s me,” Chuck answered in Spanish. “I found something.”

  “What is it?”

  Chuck took a deep breath. By now, he saw a form in the fog.

  “Explosives,” he said. Then he ran at the gunman. The shooter, fearing a bomb, also ran, but not fast enough. Chuck tackled him. The man’s head cracked down on the hard deck, leaving him out cold. Chuck dragged him behind a shipping container.

  “Guess you won’t be needing this...” Chuck took his assault rifle. “Won’t be needing your clothes either.” Chuck stripped off the man’s white jacket. If he was dressed like Lazar’s men, he figured that he would fit in better. “What’s that?” Chuck said. “You don’t like …? Should have thought of that before …”

  Chuck put on the white Arctic warfare clothes. “At least your underwear is white. I’ll leave you those.” Chuck thought of dumping the unconscious man overboard. In the old days he’d have done that without thinking. Now, he would show mercy. Even though he knew it was risky, he would leave the killer to frostbite and hypothermia.

  Chuck took his assault rifle.

  Then he heard more voices.

  Sprinting over to the island, he opened another hatch and closed it behind him. He knew he must find out what Lazar was planning and put a stop to it—before the Black Cobras killed him.

  He scrambled up six ladders to the bridge. Nobody was there. Most of the electronics had been stripped out. Wires dangled from the ceiling and spilled out of stripped consuls. Wires dangled from outlets on the walls and the ceiling like veins spilling out of wounds. Evidently these exposed wires were live wires because fluorescent lights were glowing on a couple of pieces of abandoned electronics. He walked over to the starboard side of the bridge by the conning stations and the wheel. He stopped by a chart table … and then walked to one of the lookout positions. It seemed like a good time for a look around so he got out his high-powered mini-binoculars and glassed for the distant glow. Thanks to the falling snow, he could barely see it, just the faint glow of deck
lights, and he thought of the supertanker he’d learned about.

  A level below the pilot house, Chuck found Vultures Row, an open air balcony above the flight deck. A beam extended off from here with flood lights. Visibility was limited due to conditions, but thanks to the floodlights he saw the number of antennas along the edge of the flight deck. They were rotated horizontally as if for flight operations of ghost planes. The wind was light but picking up. The low clouds were thinning. Ice-fog blew past.

  Warily, Chuck descended a stack of ladders and stepped onto the O3 gallery level under the flight deck. He ran a quarter-mile down a long passageway. Slowing down, he wove his way down a serpentine tunnel of steel past staircases, an elevator shaft, past cable racks and mysterious hatches. Clinging to his new assault rifle, he hopped over knee-knockers and passed through water-tight hatches. He passed doors, wires and equipment.

  He came to a large area which had once been the headquarters for a flying squadron. It had been a combination clubhouse, briefing and planning center, and rest area. Much had been stripped away, but historic photos graced the walls.

  It felt like an abandoned ship. Where were Lazar’s Black Cobra killers? he wondered. Chuck was lonely for their company—those who wanted to kill him and brag over his dead body.

  Oh, that was special.

  He left the ready room and headed forward, proceeding less than halfway through the ship to where the tiles changed from gray to bright blue. The blue-tile area was a series of spaces once dedicated to various tasks of warfare—the combat information center, the air traffic control center, the joint intelligence center, and others. That was all history, but the area had been refitted with sprawling banks of computers and electronics.

  Chuck spotted a little man in jeans and a wool sweater. The man looked up from his clipboard and saw him.

  CHAPTER 23

  Three hours, six minutes till WMD attack

  “I’m the new intern,” Chuck said, leaning his assault rifle against the wall. He strolled casually over to the scientist. As he got closer, he got a better look at the man. He had black hair and a swarthy complexion.