by Trevor Scott
“Where are we heading?” the general asked.
“Palma de Majorca,” Gomez said. “Have you been there?”
“Years ago. I was stationed in Italy at the time and it was a great place to get away. Lovely island.” The general sipped his Scotch.
“Yes, it is. I spend a lot of time there.”
General Graves took in a deep puff from the cigar and then let out a couple circles of smoke and watched them rise upward. Then he said, “Do you have any progress on Jake Adams?”
“Just from my flight crew in Gibraltar,” Gomez said. “It seems Jake and the woman, Sirena, took a ferry to Tangier.”
The general raised his brows. “Why that shithole?”
“Adams didn’t explain himself. Just something about a contact that might be able to help.”
“Hmm. I understand there was a meeting of The Bilderberg Group this morning.”
None of the members called their gatherings by the pejorative name The Bilderberg Group. They left that up to conspiracy advocates. But how had General Graves found out about the meeting? Maybe he was fishing. No. One didn’t fish in a barrel of empty water. The general had better sources than Gomez thought.
“You know we don’t call it that,” Gomez said.
“I know. But I used the term for brevity. Did this mission come up?”
“Not exactly,” Gomez said. “But in broader strokes.”
“You mean the unrest in Europe,” Graves said. “Like what happened in Berlin recently.”
My God, Gomez thought. This man felt the pulse of current events like no other. “You could say so.”
“Listen,” Graves said. “There’s a war coming. Hell, it’s not coming. It’s here. Governments across Europe just don’t see it yet. They’re like the ostrich with their heads in the sand. And if they keep on appeasing the enemy their heads will be cut off and literally be in the sand. The Caliphate is worldwide.” The general focused his eyes like lasers onto Gomez as he took another sip from his drink.
“You’re an astute observer, General Graves,” Gomez said. He drank down the last of his Scotch and went to the bar to fetch the decanter. Then he refilled both of their glasses and set the crystal decanter on the table between them.
“Please, call me Tom.”
“And me Carlos.”
The two of them nodded, picked up their glasses, and clicked them together before each took a healthy drink.
“So,” Graves said. “What’s the plan beyond the rescue mission? I’m here to help in any way I can. And I’m assuming you didn’t ask me aboard to micromanage Jake Adams and his efforts.”
Hesitating for a moment, thinking he needed to put the general on his regular payroll, Gomez smiled now. Then he said, “Again, you are correct. Our Group is looking at the big picture. The governments of the world seem to be paralyzed to inaction. They can’t even define the enemy for fear of insulting a billion Muslims.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Graves said, and he did just that. Then he continued, “So the Group wants to do something. But what?”
Could he trust this man? The general had found him Jake Adams, but that man’s efforts had yet to be favorably adjudicated.
“Listen, Carlos. I’ve held the highest level security clearance in the U.S. government, including nuclear secrets. Anything you tell me will stay in this thick skull of mine.”
Gomez considered his options. Perhaps the general could be of great help to his cause. “All right. We are building a private force to counter the Jihadists. We will build this force with former military and intelligence officers from around the world.”
The general shifted forward on his chair and took a sip of Scotch. “Seriously?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Funded through your Group.”
Gomez nodded.
“And you need me for. . .?”
“Your contacts,” Gomez said. “We have already recruited many ground forces, but we need air support.”
General Graves shook his head. “That’s not easy collecting aircraft and pilots to fly them.”
“I understand. But we are not talking about traditional aircraft, Tom. I’m talking about armed drones. They’re cheaper, easier to hide and deploy, and much easier to acquire.”
Smiling, the general said, “It’s my understanding that the owner of an American drone manufacturer is a member of your Group.”
Gomez puffed on his cigar, trying his best poker face. “I can neither confirm nor deny any member of the Group.”
The two of them sat in silence now, each trying to read the reaction of the other.
The general finally said, “Okay. Let’s say I can get you a few drone pilots. What then?”
“Then your pilots will train more pilots.”
“That’s great. But can you get the drones and ordnance?”
Gomez smiled now. “You leave that to me. It will not be a problem.”
“What kind of timeline are you considering?” General Graves inquired.
“As soon as possible.”
“Outstanding.” The general raised his glass and then took a healthy drink of Scotch.
•
General Graves got back to his cabin lit up with expensive Scotch and nearly giddy with the news he had just gotten from Carlos Gomez. When he first became associated with the man, Graves had a feeling the billionaire was a visionary. Now he knew it was the case.
Graves and his think tank had been trying to pressure his own government to make bold moves to counter the Islamists. But action would have required acknowledgment of a problem. And his government seemed to be peopled by pacifistic, paralyzed fucktards. If the president wouldn’t act, then they had no choice but to do the right thing. And that right thing was to bring down those assholes running amuck throughout the world cutting off heads, raping and crucifying women and children, and perpetrating a Caliphate upon the innocent. Islam was not a peaceful religion. It was a fucking abomination.
Laying back onto his bed, the general considered the prospect of what needed to be done. He had a feeling he would have no problem finding drone pilots. Every former military officer he knew was frustrated by the appeasement of their government. No, he could fill the skies of North Africa and the Middle East with private drones armed to the teeth. He just hoped like hell that Carlos Gomez could get the drones and the ordnance needed for the mission. Based on his conversation with the man, the general didn’t think that would be a problem.
15
Tenerife North Airport, Canary Islands, Spain
With a flying distance of approximately 825 miles from Gibraltar to Santa Cruz, it took Jake and his gang a little less than two hours of flight time. By the time they had spent another night in Gibraltar, Gomez’s flight crew had become a little surly. But Jake guessed they were used to hanging out and waiting for instructions from Gomez, picking up all kinds of people and flying them around the world.
Before going to bed the night before, Jake had texted his friend Kurt Jenkins a photo of Jean Paul Talbot to do a background check on the Frenchman. Just before getting on the Gulfstream that morning, Jenkins had finally gotten back with Jake. Talbot was who he said he was, but he also had a few black marks in his file. It seems, like his dead brother Jacques, Jean Paul had a rebellious streak in him. It was confirmed that the man was suspended without pay for disparaging remarks and insubordination to a superior officer. That made Jake smile, and he had a newfound respect for the scrappy young French intelligence officer.
After a late night of drinking and discussion, and the confirmation by the former Director of the CIA, Jake had finally agreed to take the French officer along on this mission. He had a feeling he might need all the help he could get as they closed in on the terrorists holding the medical workers.
Before landing in Santa Cruz, Jake had given Jean Paul as much information as he knew about their upcoming mission. Jean Paul was excited to be a part of this, but Jake couldn’t help being concerned for the younger man. If
the younger man somehow got himself killed, Jake guessed brother Jacques would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Once they hit the tarmac, Jake got a call from Carlos Gomez.
“We just landed,” Jake said.
“I know,” Gomez said. “I have an app on my phone that tracks my planes.”
Planes? “Wonderful. Where do we go from here? It looks like we’re in the mountains.”
“It’s just a short drive to Santa Cruz de Tenerife. You stay there until we get a confirmed location,” Gomez said. “I have arranged for you and your people to stay at a villa I own near the city center.”
Jake explained that he had picked up a couple of people, the former British MI-6 officer and the French intelligence officer, but he gave his current employer scant background information on either of them.
“Will that be all you need?” Gomez asked.
“I believe so,” he said. “At least for now. But we will need some weapons and communications equipment.”
“You’ll find everything you need at the villa,” Gomez assured Jake. “Anything else?”
“Money.”
“There will be no ransom paid,” Gomez said powerfully.
“I know that. I’m talking about walking around money, and possible pay off for information.”
“I’ve heard you have ways to make people talk,” the billionaire said with a slight chuckle.
“True statement. But sometimes it’s less messy and quicker to just slip folks a little money.”
“I understand,” Gomez said. “There is a Deutsche Bank two blocks from the villa. I will have a proper amount waiting for you there.”
“Sounds good,” Jake said, knowing he would get just under ten grand in cash. Jake saw that the rest of the folks in his group had their bags and were heading toward the private terminal. “Anything else for me?”
Gomez started to say something and then hesitated. “No. Not at this time.”
“Wait. We’re to wait here for an answer. What about the jet?”
“They stay there with you, Jake. As I said before, they are at your disposal. I just texted you the villa address.”
Wow. Jake had never gotten this type of treatment. When he worked for the Agency, he would get dropped off and the plane might refuel and take off within minutes.
Jake’s phone buzzed and he looked at the address. By the time he got his cell phone back to his ear, Gomez had hung up on him.
Jake found his duffle bag and caught up with the rest of the crew. After a quick trip through customs, they found a shuttle van waiting out front. The Gulfstream crew got into a taxi. They would be staying in a downtown hotel and wait for Jake’s call.
Sitting just behind the driver, Jake told the older gentleman their address. The guy nodded and pulled away from the curb.
Sirena asked the driver something in German, and the driver answered in Spanish that he didn’t speak that language. So she turned to Jake and said in German, “Good. My German is not great, but I thought we might be able to speak freely.”
“All right,” Jake said. After working and living in Germany and Austria for so long, his German was perfect, with a bit of a Tyrolean accent. At least that’s what his German girlfriend Alexandra told him. “What do you want to know?”
“I got a text from the Agency just as we landed,” Sirena said.
“I hope it was from the main man himself.”
“It was.” She hesitated, as if she might be wondering if she could speak freely here. “They have satellite confirmation of a camp. But they don’t know if it’s ‘the’ camp. They will continue to monitor it until they can be sure.”
That was good news, Jake thought.
Switching to English, Jake said, “Your German is quite good. You learned from a low German speaker.”
“Yes, Hamburg.”
As the van cruised closer to the coast, they crested a mountain and started down toward the city center. Jake had never been to the Canary Islands before. He made a note that Alexandra might like the place.
When they reached the edge of a large park, the driver slowed and pulled in front of a three-story building at a corner. The light yellow structure had an ornate façade and was protected by a solid metal gate and a three-meter stone wall.
Jake gave the driver a tip, guessing their ride had been paid by Gomez, and they piled out, grabbing their bags. To any local observer they looked like folks ready for a little vacation. Although February was not exactly the high season. The air was cool, but warmer than it had been in Gibraltar.
An older man waited for them in front of the gate holding a string of keys.
“I am the property manager,” the old man said to all of them, fumbling with the keys. “This is the key to the front gate. I have only two copies for you. And these are the keys to the front door. Again, only two copies. You will have to share.”
Jake took one set and handed the other to Sirena, who went directly to open the front gate. The others followed her toward the front of the villa.
“Gracias,” Jake said. “Can you do anything about the weather?”
“It is February,” the old man said. “You should come in June. Much nicer then.”
“Do you live on premises?” Jake asked.
“No. Three blocks down the street. Just past the Deutsche Bank.”
Craning his neck, Jake saw the bank where Gomez said he could pick up the money. “Wonderful. I can drop the keys off there when we’re ready to leave.”
“Here is my card,” the man said, handing Jake his business card. “Please give me a call and I will come to you.”
Shaking the man’s hand, Jake nodded and watched the man shuffle down the sidewalk, his gait hampered somewhat, as if one leg was shorter than the other.
Jake wandered inside the gate and locked it behind him. Then he went into the villa. The entrance was extremely opulent, reminding Jake of an Austrian palace in Vienna. The main floor seemed to be mostly broken up into a sitting room, a library, a large dining room and the kitchen in the back.
Sirena came up to Jake and said, “I could get used to this place. The bedrooms are on the second floor. Six of them. One for each of us plus a spare.”
“What about the third floor?” Jake asked.
“I haven’t checked that out yet,” she said. “Go grab a bedroom. I’m going to check on the food supply.”
As Jake wandered up the wide staircase, his phone buzzed and he noticed it was from Carlos Gomez.
“Yeah,” Jake said into his phone.
“I hear you got to the villa.”
“I’m there now.” He got to the second floor and Sinclair Tucker stepped out of a bedroom smiling, giving Jake two thumbs up.
“Good,” Gomez said. “You’ll need the four-digit code to access the third floor.” The billionaire gave Jake the code.
“I take it that contains our equipment,” Jake surmised.
“Yes. I’ll let you go. But let me know what you think.”
Jake clicked off and found a bedroom with a view of the sea and the downtown. He set his bag on the bed and turned to find Tucker.
“This is one helluva joint,” Tucker said. “I could get used to this.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Jake said, placing his hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Come on. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
They climbed the stairs to the third floor and found a door that led out to a rooftop terrace. Turning right they saw the door that led to the third-floor rooms.
Finding the cipher lock on the thick wood door, Jake punched in the code and the light turned from red to green. He pulled the door open and saw that it wasn’t solid wood. The center was two inches of steel and the door itself had electronic bolts on all sides, much like the door at his villa in Calabria.
“Interesting,” Tucker said.
The room was entirely dark. Jake found a light toggle switch to the left of the door. When he clicked on the light, his jaw nearly dropped. Three walls w
ere lined with any weapon they might need, from semi-automatic handguns to fully automatic sub-machine guns. Below each gun rack sat metal boxes of ammo in respective calibers. On the far wall Jake found larger boxes. The first box contained flash/bangs. But the second was more interesting—fragmentation grenades. In the corner was a rack with four Barrett rifles. In the far back was a rack full of tactical clothing in shades of tan and black. Under that sat military-style mountain boots in various sizes. Somehow Jake guessed that Gomez would have the perfect pair for each of them.
Tucker picked up one of the rifles and said, “Nice. Fifty-cal Barrett. Tell me we’re bringing one of these with us?”
“If you’re willing to carry it,” Jake said.
Removing the ten-round magazine, and seeing it was not loaded, Tucker said, “Don’t be a pussy, Jake. It’s not that heavy.”
“Over thirty pounds,” Jake said. “That can get very heavy over time.”
“Yeah, but with this scope and these rounds, you can drop your target a mile away. No need to walk over and get closer for a shot.”
Jake couldn’t argue with that logic. “All right. It’s yours. Figure out how many full magazines and extra rounds you might need.”
By now Sirena and Jean Paul had found their way to the armory. They too were like children in a candy store, picking up various weapons before moving on to others.
Then Jake found his way to a corner with communications equipment. There were SAT phones and headsets with earpieces. Everything here was state of the art—the newest equipment available. Jake could say one thing about Gomez. The man knew how to properly spend money on outstanding gear.
16
Atlas Mountains, Morocco
Anna Grasso lay dejected on her cot in the back corner of their canvas tent. Her stomach ached from the lack of proper nutrition. She couldn’t live on couscous and indistinguishable meat boiled in a rusty pot. But others were having a more difficult time. At least she could keep down her food, what little she cared to eat.
