by Vince Milam
I plowed south toward New Bern, the mainland on my right and the Outer Banks to my left. Out on the Banks, Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills, and Nags Head passed—their night lights dim across Albemarle Sound. Boat traffic was light, the occasional tug-and-barge combination my only companions. Autopilot allowed me to move about, fix a sandwich, prepare for the trip. Past images swept by: the team assembled, committed, and professional. Bo, Marcus, Catch, Angel, and I. We worked one challenging environment after the other. Marcus, several years older than the rest of us. Fair, tough as nails, and with an absolute commitment to the mission at hand. He displayed leadership attributes we operators looked for.
Bo, point man for high-fire situations. Marcus recognized in him some special juju, a reckless fearlessness coupled with a seeming immunity to bullets. A wild man, indomitable. Catch engaged the unexpected, the surprises. He never failed and ended threats with violent finality. Angel was the serious one, seldom joking or pulling pranks. Marcus kept Angel on our flanks, alert to rear actions and enemy subterfuge. My job—engage and accomplish after Bo’s initial violent contact with the enemy. Bo had my back. They all had my back.
Yemen, Colombia, Indonesia—we were sent to hot spots around the world. A small tight band, and we sliced like a machete. Extreme prejudice. Then exit, mission accomplished. We’d never lost a man. Until now. The current situation cast a new urgency. They’d come before, the bounty hunters, and were eliminated. But now they’d gotten to one of us. Murdered one of us. And it could have been Angel. The ultimate betrayal. It wouldn’t happen a second time. Not on my watch.
Chapter 27
The Ace soothed, rolled, chugged its deep rumble belowdecks. I’d started a slide toward deep-regret land when the laptop beeped an incoming message. Jules. Target?
She’d glommed on to my concern that Bo might have been collateral damage—I was the main target. And her response answered, at least for the moment, whose side she was on. If Jules guided the bounty-collecting exercise, she wouldn’t have posed the question. Unless she was playing me like a Stradivarius. A possibility. I lived in one messed-up world.
I contemplated a response but voted it down. Her question of target was now stamped food for thought. The night salt air washed through the wheelhouse, and trusting the GPS autopilot, I moved to the foredeck, stared at the stars. Legs bent at the knees, riding the Ace’s roll, letting go, alone.
Agent Abbie Rice called. A quick glance at my cell-phone clock showed it was long after working hours. I answered after two rings.
“Hi, Case. Hope I’m not bothering you. But I’ve got a question.”
“Not a bother.” I focused on release and dissipated the killer mind-set, aware my voice carried it—tight, low.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Sure. Yeah. Glad you called. What’s up?” I was glad she’d called. And I didn’t want her experiencing this side of me.
“Our analysts have arrived at some interesting scenarios.”
“I bet.”
“And I was wondering if you might validate any of them.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a naval port in Paramaribo,” she said.
The CIA had hit the frantic switch, with scenarios and vignettes gamed out. This phone call attempted a semblance of confirmation.
“A possibility.”
“Any thoughts on how possible?” she asked.
“Lots of factors to consider.”
She sighed. “Do tell.”
I couldn’t help but crack a smile.
“I just got home,” she continued. “Poured a glass of wine. Thought I’d give it a shot, calling you.”
Another woman’s voice sounded in Abbie’s background, asking a question. A roommate, or a friend.
“Call any time. I like talking with you.”
“Unless it’s about naval ports,” she said.
It was an easy picture to paint of her. Pixie haircut, feet up, tired after a long day. Maybe wearing sweats, a run contemplated, then discarded as wine won. And a roll of the eyes in response to my obscure answers.
“Let’s just say you’re barking up the right tree. End of that discussion.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “I appreciate it.”
Silence dangled, so I jumped in. “I’ll be in your neck of the woods before too long. How about sharing a bottle of wine?”
No subtlety, blurt it out. Whether circumstances drove the direct approach or it was a style I’d adopted over the years, I couldn’t say. But I meant it, and perhaps she’d recognize my sincerity as having some value.
She hesitated. “Great offer. I may take you up on it. We can swap tales.”
“Exactly.”
“And discuss our business relationship.”
“I was thinking we’d keep it social. As in, go out on a date.”
The light sea chop slapped the bow of the Ace, the wind clean, a hint of fall, temperature dropping. Abbie mulled it over.
“So. Here’s the deal,” she said.
“We don’t always need to speak in terms of deals.”
She ignored me and continued. “This is a major, major decision on my part.”
“It’s a date. Maybe dinner.”
“The decision regarding us teaming. I would appreciate it if you didn’t approach it with such a cavalier attitude. Wait.”
“Wait?”
“Wrong word. Not cavalier. Dismissive.”
It was time to end the conversation, headed down the wrong path. So I copped out.
“I’m tired. On edge. Could we discuss this some other time?”
She spoke to her female friend. “A little more.” Wine poured into a glass.
“Sure. Sure we can discuss this another time. As long as it’s about our partnership.”
The Ace’s deck rolled, sea legs rejoined my repertoire, and stars curtained the sky. The air fresh, salty, crisp. My spot in the world.
“Gotta go, Abbie.”
“Back to that date thing.”
“Thought we’d left that.”
“I have a partner.”
It was inevitable. Someone like her wouldn’t be unattached.
“Got it. Sorry if I pushed.”
“She’s here with me.”
I suppose she’d skirted it with the partnership talk and sent signals that flew right over my head.
“Got it. Sorry to push.” Case Lee, man of intrigue and insight. Case Lee, Esq.—moron.
“No need. It’s flattering to have you ask me out.”
“Maybe you and your partner would share a bottle of wine with me sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
Romance dissolved, she still held appeal. A good person. And I was sincere about the three of us having a glass or two.
“Me too. And sorry again about, well . . .”
“Chill, Case. It’s okay.”
“All right. We’ll talk later.”
We signed off. A tug and barge passed to my port as the night dragged on. We moved into Pamlico Sound. The moderate breeze was welcomed as this body of water—fifteen miles wide and seventy miles long—could get rough with windy conditions. I followed the buoy markers along the Intracoastal Waterway. Salt air, the grumble of the diesel engine, and playing possibilities filled the space and time—as did acknowledgement of the defect that allowed me to mourn and seek female companionship at the same time. It was strange, peculiar behavior, recognized and chalked up to need. A need for positive human connectivity. A need for normalcy.
I checked the GPS, assured our position in the Pamlico, and reassumed lookout on the foredeck, nose to the wind. Moonlight, stars, and ancient connectivity with boats plying saltwater. Slow movement and peace. A headshake, musings of a messed-up world. Bo gone. Mom and CC in hiding. Thoughts of Rae, and thoughts of companionship. Female companionship. Taken as a whole, I’d screwed things up royally.
I looked skyward and sought connectivity. A tiny speck of humanity, rolling with the waves, insignifica
nt beyond comprehension. If there was a plan, a path, laid out, I couldn’t see it, feel it. Too much violence, too much hatred pierced my life. If the great master, the universal force, held a lifeline I could grasp, hold on to, it eluded me. But the twinge and nagging sense of something else pulled and tugged at me. A sure presence on the periphery of my being—one I failed to join, grasp. Yet I’d been blessed or lucky or fortuitous beyond my grief and hard knocks. Others—millions—fared less well.
It was three a.m. when I entered the mouth of the Neuse River and made for New Bern. Two hours later my preferred dock for the Ace showed empty in the moonlight. New Bern was a regular stop, and a favorite. I’d enjoyed it numerous times as an anchor, a resting spot. Now, at this moment, it would provide a launchpad.
I slid a note for the dock’s proprietor—an old acquaintance—through the mail slot, letting him know I’d return a few days later. He’d look after the Ace. I added a line to please water the tomatoes. They were doing fine, and thoughts of Bo’s ministrations brought back redheaded laughter and love and a painful grip on my chest.
A strange geographical angst struck hard as well. I was leaving the Ace of Spades, the Ditch, home. Tight canals and saltwater bays. Headed for big-sky country. Collecting, preparing, when maybe I should have been hunting here on my turf. I was angry, lost, and sick and damn tired of being sick and tired. But Marcus Johnson offered team and friendship and a united front.
An Uber driver waited for me, the pickup scheduled for a Raleigh airport delivery. I slept hard during the flights and landed in Billings early afternoon. Before nodding off, I ruminated on how much Marcus had changed. Visits to his lair were a semiregular affair, and each time I was struck by how well he fit into the local landscape. Physically and mentally, he’d become part of the Montana fabric. Live and let live, no ripples. A far cry from when we were operators.
***
A group of college kids on a marine research vessel had departed Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, and sailed for Singapore. The five-day learning-at-sea excursion, with stops for marine-life sampling and research, should have been the highlight of their summer. Instead, it turned into a nightmare.
Malaysia borders one side of the Straits of Malacca; the large island of Sumatra, the other. It is still an important passageway between China and India for commercial ship traffic. And the thousands of tiny coves and islets along the five-hundred-mile coast of Sumatra had held pirates since time immemorial.
They struck at night, boarded the research vessel, and took twenty-one college kids as hostages. Europeans, Americans, Malaysians, Singaporeans. Tossed into fast pirate vessels, they’d disappeared into one of the hundreds of pirate enclaves that lined the Sumatran coast.
One of the kids had the great sense, as they motored toward the pirates’ hideaway, to take multiple GPS coordinates on her cell phone. She’d texted them to her parents before everyone’s cell phones were confiscated. Extrapolating from their direction of travel, authorities pinpointed a general location on the Sumatran coast where the kidnapped students might be found.
The pirates were well versed in kidnapping protocol. They contacted parents and government officials in Europe, America, Malaysia, and Singapore with ransom demands. Parents panicked, distraught beyond measure. Governments dithered. From past experiences, the pirates expected a large sum of money handed over and an exchange of the students consummated. What they didn’t expect was a Delta nightmare unleashed.
Our Delta team deployed. An overnight Singapore flight, then we were helicoptered to a navy support vessel. Six hours later, a Special Ops boat, the Riverine, was lowered into the water near the Sumatran coast. The five of us joined a crew of four boat operators. The Riverine fit the bill perfectly. Small, at thirty-three feet, it could maneuver through the bays and inlets of the coast. At fifty miles per hour, it could scoot.
The pilot manned the controls. The other three crewmembers locked and loaded an M2 .50-caliber machine gun and two M134 Miniguns, each capable of firing six thousand rounds a minute. A badass vessel, with a well-trained crew. And things would only get worse for the subject of our ire if the five of us exited the boat and hit the beach.
Marcus had mapped a string of villages in the suspected area, and we began paying visits. There may be honor among thieves, and clannish ties of protection, but impending devastation loosened lips. At each pirate village, under Marcus’s orders, the Riverine’s crew fired a five-second burst of several thousand rounds over the pirates’ heads. Opening negotiations. Then Marcus waded ashore and delivered the stone-cold assurance of nightmarish retribution unless they released enough information to point in the right direction of the kidnappers.
Three pirate enclaves later, we had a target, five miles away. Ten minutes later, the boat crew dropped us off a half mile down the beach from the suspected kidnappers. Angel skirted toward the back of the village and covered our flank. Catch followed us, crouched near the beach, and guarded against the unexpected. Bo, Marcus, and I approached through the jungle.
Sixteen college students were huddled inside bamboo cages, scared shitless. I couldn’t blame them. Thirty-plus men wandered about or rested in hammocks, each armed with automatic firearms of all stripes. Evening sounds—insects, the clanging of cooking pots, low laughter—filtered through the foliage. I could smell fish cooked over a fire.
Marcus signaled for us to spread, away from the bamboo cages. Any return fire from the pirates would be aimed at us, the students out of harm’s way. He hand-signaled Bo—wait two minutes while he and I repositioned. Then unleash hell.
It was over within ten seconds. Angel joined the melee, firing from the rear of the camp. Catch cut loose from behind us. Operators rarely miss, and the quick dispatch of a half dozen pirates facilitated immediate peace negotiations. Hands airborne, weapons tossed on the ground, the pirate band stared wide-eyed as Marcus, Bo, Angel, and I emerged from the jungle, Catch from the beach.
We released the sixteen students, and I asked the whereabouts of the other five. They pointed to a shack, offset from the main camp. Five pirates had dragged five of the students, young women, up the small rise to the privacy of the shack. Marcus drew his pistol, signaled Bo. The two approached it and entered. Five shots in rapid succession rang out. Then they exited with the five kids, all disheveled.
“Had they started raping them?” I later asked Bo.
“No. Close, but no.”
Then Bo pointed at Marcus, made the sign of a finger pulling a trigger. “I never fired,” Bo said.
No fuss, no muss, and no press covered the aftermath of the event. Delta slipped back into the shadows.
***
Marcus met me at the airport. The only black guy in the receiving area, tall, statuesque. More gray at the temples peeked from under his cowboy hat than the last time I’d seen him.
“Welcome to Montana.” He smiled and delivered a big hug. It felt good and right, and for the first time since the Dismal Swamp, I didn’t feel alone.
“You’re not getting any prettier, Marcus.”
“The hell you say. I’m becoming distinguished. You, on the other hand, look like refried turds.”
We both laughed, and as we made our way to his Chevy Suburban, I said, “I’m feeling a few pangs of guilt. Involving you.”
“I’m already involved.”
Reiterating his point, the Chevy’s back seat held two Colt 901 rifles and several semiautomatic pistols. Ex-operators don’t scare. They fight.
Chapter 28
We rode forty interstate miles and turned onto a seldom-used hardtop toward the tiny town of Fishtail, thirty miles distant. Marcus’s ranch was another ten miles of gravel road to the southwest of that tiny burg. High-country sagebrush, bunchgrass, and antelope casting a wary eye from the distance. Huge mountains loomed on the horizon. We didn’t see another vehicle once we turned off the interstate. Both the Beartooth and Absaroka ranges, another twenty and fifty miles distant, had a dusting of fresh snow. We were thirty miles as
the crow flies from the northern border of Yellowstone. Big, big country, and a long, long way from the saltwater estuaries and boundary islands on the Atlantic.
Geography imprints a heavy hand on culture. Tides, wind, and water marked events on the Ditch. Here, space and isolation dominated. North Carolina, where I’d parked the Ace, was one-third the size of Montana but held ten times the number of people. It requires a mental shift to accept taking a long drive and never seeing another vehicle. The theme song of tires on gravel provided a backdrop to life out West. With folks here, lonely wasn’t a word. Alone was a more apt description. Privacy and leave me be.
“Cast and blast,” Marcus stated as we drove. “Perfect timing, Case. Although any time is good, and I’m not sure what I’ve done to piss you off and keep you away.”
He referenced a combination fishing/hunting trip while I was here. I explained other matters had greater import at the moment and changed the subject.
“How’s Miriam?”
Miriam, Marcus’s on-again, off-again lady friend lived in Livingston, ninety miles away.
“She’s doing fine. We had dinner and saw a god-awful movie the other night. I fell asleep.”
“I’m sure she appreciated that.”
“Then maybe she shouldn’t suggest a flick that lacked something called color. Set in London. During winter. Gray all the time.”
“Probably wasn’t important to the plot.”
“They might as well have shot it in black and white. And constant rain.”
“Listen to Mr. Cinematography.”
“And the actors droned on about relationships. Constantly.” He removed the Stetson, scratched his head.
“Stories. Relationships. What did you expect?”
“The whole thing was the film version of Ambien.”
