The Protector
Page 8
They descended the stairs with the ease of men used to walking in dark tight places. Jazz wondered what was down there that would constitute a war room.
“They told us this place’s always activated, no exceptions. There’s no light because the whole way has warning sensors for any intruders using flashlights or lanterns,” Dirk, who was closest to Jazz, explained quietly. “Anyone planning any sneak attack would have to literally sneak in.”
“I’d just throw in a couple of flashbangs and smoke out anyone down there,” Jazz pointed out. The use of the pocket-sized CS gas containers was popular for use in extraction activities. The stinging chemical usually incapacitated the enemy, and sooner or later, they would run out of any hole they’d chosen to hide in.
“They have a two-foot-thick metal door down there, Jazz, that would take quite a bit of explosives to break through. Everything here is just a façade. It may look like some kind of crummy factory on the outside but the facility is A-combat ready.”
They reached the bottom. Jazz couldn’t see much in the darkness.
“Here, put these funky glasses on,” Cucumber said, tapping him on the shoulder. “We saved this for last so you would be properly impressed, sir.”
“These aren’t the ones you got from D.C., I assume?” Jazz asked as he slid them on. Immediately the whole room changed, like a bad photograph brightened digitally. The darkness became opaque and Jazz could see pinpoints of light crisscrossing parts of the small space ahead of them. The glint of some kind of metal door to his left caught his eye.
“Some toy, huh?” Cucumber asked.
“Infrared?” Jazz asked.
“Something like it. Mink thinks it’s similar to a PAS-7 infrared viewing system, except that these are glasses.”
A PAS-7 had thermal imaging capabilities. Jazz glanced around, checking out how his teammates looked through his glasses.
“Cool, huh, Jazz?”
It was indeed. “Hell, Cumber, I can see your balls,” he remarked dryly. “They’re glowing red.”
The men laughed. Through the special glasses their movements looked like patches of energy masses.
“We need some of these in the field, man,” Cucumber told him. “Tell the admiral to get some for us.”
“So who are these people and why are we here?” Jazz asked, as he followed the others climbing through, and avoiding, the crisscrossing blue laser beams. He didn’t need to be told if he touched those beams, hell’s bells would start ringing and he would be one red-faced SEAL. They reached the steel door.
“Some outfit named GEM. Hawk hasn’t volunteered much info yet. But he did say they were mostly American.”
“So these are government-issued equipment? We’re on American property?”
“No idea, Jazz,” Dirk answered, as he slipped a keycard into a slot. “It’s all in English so I assumed they are American-friendly. But we’re definitely preparing some kind of mission with them. Hawk communicated with Mad Dog using their systems, and that amounted to quite a bit of trust on both their parts.”
Yeah. Both Hawk’s and Mad Dog’s trust were very difficult to earn. The two men very rarely used equipment belonging to any team but their own, especially when they worked with foreign agencies. That GEM, or whatever, had their confidence in their communication systems pointed to a lot of respect on both Hawk’s and the admiral’s parts.
Which brought Jazz’s mind back to a certain lady. Who the hell was she? She wasn’t just some UN liaison or whatever spiel that clerk told him when he had asked during his release, that was for sure. And the way she had taken charge of his men had been very revealing. She showed the self-assurance of someone who was used to giving orders to guys. Her body language had changed too. And Jazz didn’t like the way she and Hawk looked at each other.
Damn Hawk. Jazz knew that his friend would view someone like Vivi as a challenge. He frowned in the darkness just as the steel door slid open and they entered an elevator.
“You can take off the glasses now.”
Cucumber keyed in another code and the opposite side opened with a slow, smooth motion, revealing a well-lit modern room. Jazz stood there as the others went in, a habit of his to go in the rear, as it was his usual role to take in everything and anything as his teammates made their way ahead of him. His mind was still on Vivi as he checked out the massive space. War room. This was what his film noir woman had finally led him to—a secret underground facility that seemed to house some pretty nifty electronic gadgets, from what he could see. A huge electronic screen with zoomed-in aerial and satellite photos dominated the room. Another screen was tracking some kind of electronic movement…courtesy of a spy plane, he suspected.
Yeah. Like the unpredictability of his beloved jazz, his film noir woman had just morphed into female operative. Time to change the tune and up the tempo.
CHAPTER
6
Vivi wondered what Jazz was thinking. He had shown neither surprise nor anger as he stood there, although she suspected that he wasn’t pleased that he had been left out of the loop. It couldn’t be helped. Information was her business, and everything had to be done a certain way or chaos would reign. He should understand that. Military procedures were all about doing things a certain way, right? She frowned. Why the hell should she care?
“Do you want to give the Warning Order as well as the Patrol Leader’s Order?” Hawk suddenly asked her in French. His golden eyes glinted with barely suppressed amusement. “If you need any general info on how we execute, I’d be glad to help out.”
“Let me guess,” Vivi replied, her lips curving mockingly. “Over dinner?”
“I don’t like talking work when I’m dining. Bad manners to discuss things with my mouth full.”
She cocked her head. “After dinner then?”
He gave her a slight shake of the head. “Bad for digestion.”
“Monsieur Lieutenant Commander McMillan, earlier, you did say you have more to tell me over dinner tonight,” Vivi said, arching a brow. “What were you planning to tell me if it has nothing to do with our work?”
“You’ll have to come to dinner to find out, wouldn’t you?”
The man was a smooth operator. What was more, he sounded like his friend. The two of them must have honed their pick-up lines together through the years.
Vivi abruptly changed back to English. “I’m afraid I have other plans.” She nodded at the envelope in Hawk’s hand. “Shouldn’t you read that first before we head down below? As for the Warning Order, I think you should go ahead and issue it. It’ll allow me to observe and learn more about how your team works.”
Without taking his eyes off her, Hawk tore the top of the envelope off. “Come to dinner,” he said softly. “I want to talk about Rose. And help a few other girls her age.”
Before Vivi could answer he turned away, walking off toward the underground facility. She stared after him for a moment. These men really wanted to help.
Jazz didn’t like it one bit. They had been in the war room for almost an hour now, and while he got caught up with what was happening, Hawk and Vivi appeared to be comparing notes from the papers in their hands as they stood close together. The room had good acoustics; he could hear them talking in bits and pieces. They were speaking in rapid French.
He and Hawk were two of the few SEALs who were trained in foreign internal defense and unconventional warfare, having undergone extensive linguistic training sessions at DLI, the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California. Hawk could speak a couple of languages like a native. And French was one of them, damn it. Jazz remembered how snooty Vivi had been when she heard his own Cajun accent. She didn’t seem to have the same condescending attitude with Hawk.
As usual, sensing his thoughts, Hawk glanced in his direction briefly. Jazz and he always had that mental link. One look was usually enough for both of them to know the next move in any combat situation. Jazz gave Hawk his best inscrutable expression. He wasn’t in combat mode…yet.
“Have a seat, men. It’s show time,” Hawk announced, moving toward the seating area around a big screen.
The seats were arranged in a semicircle, behind long, curved tables. There were notepads and pens for each person. The men picked their seats. Jazz sat in the back, stretching his long legs out under the table as he watched Vivi and Hawk getting ready in front.
Hawk pulled a disk from an envelope and inserted it into the computer mainframe on the front desk. Vivi punched some buttons, and the screen behind her lit up as the lighting in the room dimmed.
“Can you hear me?” she asked, after clipping a small mike to her collar.
“Yes, ma’am.” The men’s tone was now respectful, anticipating action in the future.
Hawk came to the point, issuing the Warning Order, something Jazz and the others were used to. It was the same old–same old, whereby a selected special operations team was taken to a secured area and the unit commander gave a brief description of the coming mission; general instructions that included weapons, chain of command, schedule, and rehearsals; and specific instructions for individuals. Everything followed a set of standard operating procedures—actions on contact, reaction to ambush, individual activities—that each SEAL team member could execute without a word ever spoken.
No, Jazz was currently only interested in the Patrol Leader’s Order, in which all the unique details of the operation would be revealed. He looked forward to listening to Vivi Verreau’s French-accented voice telling him and his men about radio frequencies, rendezvous points, routes, and commander’s intent. At that moment she looked straight at him again.
Jazz leaned back, one hand playing with a pencil, and gave her a lazy wink. Oh yeah, let’s see what else was up her sleeve.
“Merci.” Vivi took the glass of water from Hawk. The refreshment was welcome. She had spent most of the day talking people into doing what she wanted. She looked across the room at Jazz sitting at the back. He winked at her. Okay, some of the time was spent trying not to do what she wanted.
She took her time with the drink, deliberately studying the men in front of her. Eight pairs of eyes regarded her with different levels of interest. Eight male psyches and egos to convince to follow her orders. She wasn’t nervous because she had done this before, had faced hostile males and amused intimidation during a few of those missions. But these were SEALs, notoriously antifemale in their little male world. They weren’t Interpol or CIA operatives used to paper shuffling. She would have to tread carefully.
“I’m Vivienne Verreau,” Vivi began in a crisp, businesslike voice. “I have different responsibilities to different organizations. Currently I’m the French liaison for a group called United Third World Against Exploitation of Women. They’ve hired me to observe and report how the UN is doing with the new directive. You saw part of the function of this particular watchdog group when Lieutenant Zeringue was taken into custody. To CIVPOL, I’m nothing but a useless nuisance because I’m supposedly doing nothing. As of today, to you all, I’ll play negotiator/translator in an operation that involves a drug deal. I’m passing down files with relevant information. Please take a few minutes to read through them before I continue.”
“What is CIVPOL?” Jazz asked from across the room.
“It’s the UN international police force. It has a division called Drug Trafficking and Prostitution Investigation Unit, headed by a man named Sun. He doesn’t particularly like the new UN directive.”
“Why?”
The man really liked to ask questions, Vivi decided. “The UN directive is like a tracking device,” she explained. “The peacekeepers and soldiers who are caught committing sexual crimes against the local women are handed back to their own authorities. There isn’t any world court system to put these men on trial, Lieutenant. You saw how you were released almost without paperwork. You were innocent, but those who aren’t don’t stay too long in there, either. The directive is aimed at stopping the act but not the criminal gangs that perpetuate the crime. Mr. Sun considers it a waste of time.”
“Do you agree?”
Jazz’s blue gaze was sharp and clear, and Vivi felt as if he could see right through her. She instinctively closed off her emotional response whenever it came to questions too close to home. “My job with the United Third World is as an observer. I have no say over whether the directive is a good one or not,” she informed him politely. She didn’t add that she also worked as a volunteer for their field program in placing orphans.
“We’re straying from the subject at hand,” Hawk interrupted quietly. “Let’s stick to the file. You can ask other personal questions later.”
“Actually, we aren’t straying off too far,” Vivi countered. “CIVPOL wants the same man you’re after. He is just now moving into Asian territory because of the drug business but his main business ID in Eastern Europe is the sex trade.”
“We don’t care what CIVPOL wants,” Hawk said.
“I know that, Lieutenant Commander. Your men know that, but CIVPOL also knows that Dilaver is headed to Asia, and I assure you, Mr. Sun or someone under him, is hot on his heels. It’s always good to keep in mind third party interference.”
“Absolument.” Hawk nodded at her. “Third party duly noted.”
Hawk’s quiet agreement was deceptive. Vivi was aware that all his men were watching their discussion with interest. He seemed bent on testing her, provoking her into sounding defensive. She, on the other hand, wasn’t going to give an inch to this kind of manipulation.
Vivi picked up the video control and clicked the button. Behind her a giant picture of a man appeared on the screen.
“This is your target. Dragan Dilaver, a notorious kingpin in Eastern Europe. Headquarters is in Velesta, Macedonia. As you can see, except for the dark blondish hair, he looks more Asian than European, with Asiatic eyes and high cheekbones. He is in his late thirties or early forties, about five feet, six inches, heavyset, probably one hundred seventy to two hundred pounds depending on the description from sex slaves who escaped his hellholes. He has several brothers who work for him on and off, and they have been expanding the family business beyond Europe these past couple of years.”
Vivi looked at each of the men in the eye before continuing. “My outfit is GEM. We’ve been contracted to stop a certain shipment of these girls crossing the border. Admiral Madison wants Dragan Dilaver. Our operations cross paths because Dilaver himself is bringing these girls. My concern is to get this shipment out of his hands safely. Your own operation will be outlined by your commanding officer.”
“Why is Dilaver bringing these girls personally?” Jazz asked.
“There’s a rumor that he’s meeting with some local Triad members to negotiate territory and expanding drug trade,” Vivi replied. “Even criminals have their own politics. Dilaver is bringing some girls as a peace offering.”
“Let’s blow him up,” Cucumber chimed in, his voice full of disgust.
“That would be nice,” Vivi agreed readily. Her notes on Dilaver made her retch. “However, my contract’s orders are very specific. I’m only to make sure the girls get out of the way and leave Dilaver to the SEALs.”
“We can do that ourselves,” Dirk chimed in. “We’ve extracted prisoners before.”
Dirk was the quiet one, Vivi mentally noted, the one everyone listened to whenever he spoke. “You have your own mission,” she told him. “I think you’ll have a clearer idea after Lieutenant McMillan briefs you. Besides, I speak the local dialect, and believe me, you’re going to need me in this extraction.”
“Since we a
ren’t negotiating, why would we need you?” another one of the men spoke up. “Not arguing here, Miss Verreau, just wanted to understand your role within our group.”
“I have no role within your group, save that you will need me where the safety of these girls are concerned,” Vivi said.
“Frontline combat is no place for women.”
Jazz’s quiet comment sliced through the growing edginess. Vivi didn’t look at him immediately, choosing to study the others’ reactions first. Some of the men hid their surprise well. A few of them had the smiles of cocky males in agreement. Arms folded, Hawk remained impassive, but his eyes were watchful. And all of them were waiting for her eruption.
Vivi leaned a hip against the nearest table in the front, then deliberately crossed her legs. It was all about power, she told herself.
“I’m not going to be shooting and running around with you guys, if that’s what you’re afraid of, Lieutenant. But if need be, I’m handy with a weapon. I can run the army standard requirement of two miles in seventeen minutes and fifty-five seconds maximum. But, I’m sure you’re all faster than that, so let’s breathe a sigh of relief that you don’t have to worry about my pretty ass out in the field with your big Uzis, hmm?”
That caused a laugh, which was what she wanted. She understood how testy the situation could get if the men had to adjust to someone new, and a woman at that. So she didn’t reveal that she was more than qualified, since speed was one of her strong points. No. She would have to prove that to these men. They would only sneer at the five minutes’ difference that the army generously gave to female recruits. Men were men, after all.
“Our preferred choice of weapons are either the M16 or the CAR-15, Miss Verreau,” Jazz came back. “If need be, which type would you be carrying?”
Vivi cocked her head. “It depends on the situation, Lieutenant.”
“Target acquisition, let’s say.”
“Depends on the duration of the operation.”
“On foot, let’s say, with the surroundings similar to our environment—mountainous and thick jungles. Then a stakeout and surveillance. Perhaps a firefight ground-combat situation. Then an immediate extraction of target and continual rapid-mobility track back to point zero.”