“Shoot,” Gol ultimately said. It benefitted him if Yulov moved the case forward.
“It confirms that the Afghani trucks were but a ruse to have us chase our own ears.”
“Tails, chase our own tails.”
“Yes, yes, right,” Yulov said then hurried on. “But they talk about safeguards they have put into place on the missile.”
“Such as?” Gol asked.
“I do not know,” Yulov said. “It is a complicated code and I have only broken the first third.”
“Well, you better break it all before you go in front of Qanti with it.”
Yulov nodded. “That is what I thought, thank you.”
“Anything I should know about?” Qanti asked from the other side of the room. Seriously, did that guy have eyes in the back of his head?
“No,” Yulov said. “Not yet.”
Qanti grunted. “Then get moving on your project rather than fraternizing with Gol, he has his own work to do.”
Gol didn’t argue. He still had a satellite to retask over Sri Lanka. Unlike Afghanistan, which had possibly the most scrutinizing satellite coverage besides Pakistan, the small island nation south of India was only passed over twice a day. Not nearly enough for a delicate mission as this.
He’d already hacked a German satellite that was supposed to be covering Burma and a North Korean one that was focused on Laos. Now he just needed to “borrow” a Chinese satellite monitoring those pesky, rabblerousing Tibetan monks.
Then, and only then, would Gol have the coverage he needed. He wanted to be more than prepared for whatever “safeguards” the terrorists had put into place.
* * *
Van lifted her arms into the air, trying to stretch out all the kinks that brutal six hour flight had implanted in her body. She leaned side to side, coaxing a spasm in her rib cage to let go.
Her efforts were completely ineffective. Giving up, she looked around at her fellow passengers, or more aptly described, fellow prisoners. Each face held a grimace or frown. Only Neali walked out of the plane as if she’d been sleeping on a Tempurpedic mattress the whole time. She flung a silk scarf over her shoulder making her look ready for the theater.
Give Van six hours and a dozen stylists and she could never look that effortlessly beautiful.
Doyle finished his own stretch and nodded to the left. “The other team should be arriving any moment at gate three.”
They might as well wander over there. Then they got to look forward to a three hour car ride on dirt roads into the jungle. For joy. Her job was so glamorous.
“Van?” a deep voice asked from behind her.
She knew that voice. Too well. Her heart broke at the sound of it.
“Brandt?” she said as she turned. It really wasn’t that much of a question as it was a confirmation.
His chiseled features seemed confused and hurt? Only for a moment, then the mask of the eternal soldier slipped back down, hiding his feelings. When was it any different?
From behind her broad-shouldered ex-fiancé came Lopez. “Chica! Van!” He caught her in a hug and squeezed her tight. “It hasn’t been the same without you!”
Davidson, skinny and nearly as young as Lori, came around the corner. “Ma’am,” he said with a nod. The kid always made her feel so old.
Svengurd was there as well, his stark blond buzz cut standing out against the sea of brunettes around him. He gave her a curt nod, which from him was like a Catholic getting a shout out from the Pope.
“So what has the mother of my future children and award winning housekeeper been doing?” Lopez teased, “Oh wait, that’s what Brandt thought he was getting.”
“Lopez!” Brandt barked.
“What? Too soon? Seriously, it’s been three years and I still can’t joke about it?”
Apparently not, as Brandt’s frown only deepened. She squeezed Lopez’s hand. “It’s okay, I’ve been great.”
“So, what’re you doing here?” Lopez asked.
“The same as you,” Van answered trying to avoid eye contact with Brandt.
“You ditched that?” Lori whispered from Van’s side. BQ was not helping the awkward situation any.
And Van wouldn’t characterize it as ditching, she simply broke off a week long engagement before it went any further. She knew though that Brandt’s mother wouldn’t see it like that. She had seen it as one of the first signs of the apocalypse.
“Great, so you have no idea either?” Lopez queried. “We got rousted from a siesta after an all-nighter without even a ‘how do you do.’”
Van turned to Doyle. “You didn’t tell them?”
“Need to know,” the Scot answered.
“I think this is kind of need to know for everyone.”
The inspector shrugged.
She turned to Brandt. “We’re after a rogue spear.”
Van shouldn’t have been surprised that his expression didn’t change. She’d just told him they were searching for a stolen nuclear weapon, and all he did was nod.
“Cool,” Lopez said, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve wanted to go after one forever.”
“Location?” Davidson asked.
“A jungle enclave,” Neali said in that smooth British accent of hers.
“Good, lots of perches then,” Davidson responded, not seeming to be under the siren call of the interpreter.
“Is that a modified M40?” BQ asked Davidson.
If they weren’t both packing about a hundred pounds of weapons, the two of them would look like the perfect Midwestern young couple.
“Yes, but I’ve got a Zastava M76 scope.”
“Impressive,” BQ said, moving away from Van to join the fellow sniper.
Van let them have a sniper fest while she turned to Doyle. “Any pictures of the compound yet?”
“Gol’s got a few satellites in place, but he needs a few more to get a complete picture.”
Van knew avoidance when she heard it. “But he must have some kind of preliminary numbers.”
Doyle wouldn’t meet her eye.
“What is it?” Van asked. What could be worse than a rogue nuke?
“He’s counted at least fifty men,” Doyle said.
Van tried not to choke. “Fifty? In the jungle?”
“Yes, and they appeared trained and organized for the terrorist summit. They brought their best men.”
“Fifty?” Brandt questioned, his eyes narrowing.
Doyle nodded. “And he is waiting for a new angle, but there may be another bunker with another twenty. We won’t have confirmation for another hour though.”
Brandt turned to Van. “I know that you are going to disagree, but I suggest that your team stay here with the civvies.”
Van had to count to ten. This was her problem with Brandt. He was a fine specimen of a man and a soldier, but he was constantly trying to save her. And she outranked him. The gall.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” she answered, trying to keep the bitterness from her tone. “You are going to need all the help you can get against fifty.”
Brandt’s jaw muscles tightened. “Actually, a smaller team might be advantageous. Get in and out quickly.”
“And what? You’re Iron Man now? You can carry that nuke out?” Van challenged.
Brandt took in a deep breath, he probably was counting to ten right about now.
* * *
Typical Van. She refused to see that he might be right. She was so busy proving something to herself she didn’t notice that no one was questioning her ability.
This was a logistics problem, pure and simple.
He’d known her long enough to know she would never back down. She was going, to hell with his concern. Brandt turned to the Scot. “And I suppose you feel you are essential to this mission as well?”
“Trust me, matey, I would rather stay here, but unless you are as knowledgeable about nuclear bombs as you are buff, I’ve got to go.”
“And her?” Brandt asked. There was something about the quiet woman that bug
ged Brandt. Like she was looking down her nose at all of them. She had the air of an academian.
“Neali, you don’t have to go,” Doyle stated, taking her hand. Looked like there might be more going on than they wanted to let on.
“You will need translation,” the woman answered.
“We’ve got all the major dialects covered,” Brandt informed her. They were in and out of the region all the time.
“Really?” Neali stated then spoke a series of words that made no sense.
Brandt looked to the rest of his team. Each man shook his head.
“I just said that Micronesia has over three hundred dialects and even I am only fluent in twelve of them.”
Damn it. Brandt hated it when he was out maneuvered. “Svengurd is point though. That is non-negotiable.”
“The guy can kick in a door and take out the vanguard before you can blink,” Van stated. “I insist he’s point.”
Brandt was glad that Van could see some reason.
The group had talked as they moved toward the exit. They went through the doors to find a row of four pitch black SUVs.
“Oh, these are never going to do,” Lopez said, shaking his head as he walked around the cars.
“They’re four wheel drive,” Doyle insisted.
Lopez snorted. “For little suburban housewives that want to go over speed bumps in style. These suspensions are never going to survive the jungle.”
“And your solution?” Doyle asked, although Brandt seriously doubted the inspector wanted to know the answer.
Lopez shrugged. “I’m going to go steal something that can get us to the compound.”
“You don’t need to steal it,” Doyle insisted. “We’ve got a black Am Ex and cash.”
“And leave an evidence trail?” Lopez chuckled. “I don’t think so. Come on, Davidson.”
“But, but --” the interpreter stuttered.
“Let it go,” Brandt stated, stepping in front of the inspector who was looking a little green around the gills.
“It’s going to take too much time,” Doyle said, rubbing his midriff.
“Trust me, it won’t,” Brandt responded. Whatever time they lost in Lopez getting the necessary vehicles was going to be made up in the speed at which they could get to the compound. With Lopez leading the charge? More than made up for.
“He’s right,” Van said looking a little sour at having to agree with Brandt. “He’ll be back soon.”
“Then perhaps we should take a moment to use the restroom before the long drive.”
Brandt nodded, although it seemed that Doyle was more talking about himself than the group. Brandt watched as the inspector and his interpreter disappeared back into the small airport.
“How long have you known him?” Brandt asked.
Van looked to her watch. “A little over nine hours.”
“Do you think he’s telling us everything?” Brandt asked.
“What do you think?” Van reflected back. Just what Brandt thought.
“How’s your father?” he asked, changing the subject, there wasn’t any point in continuing it further. These civvies always thought they knew better and that Brandt and his team were just muscle. That’s usually how they got into trouble in the first place.
“How... how did you…” Van stammered.
“He’s a prominent general and news like his diagnosis travels fast in the Special Forces circles.”
Van’s cheeks flushed, reminding Brandt why he had fallen in love with her in the first place. But their love hadn’t been enough. He’d wanted a family and Van was far too dedicated to her career to even think about taking a maternity leave, let alone a few years to raise the child.
The end of their relationship had begun innocently enough. One night in bed he’d simply asked her what her favorite names for a baby boy were. Their relationship had gone downhill from there.
She’d acted like he was some kind of Neanderthal for suggesting she leave the military to raise a family. With all of these career-oriented woman, what was going to happen to the nation if nobody was having babies?
“He’s…” Van’s face fell. All of the defensiveness was gone. She looked like sorrow incarnate. “He’s not well. The doctors have suggested he go into managed care, but mom has been fighting it, although I’m not sure how much longer she can stave off the inevitable.”
“I’m so sorry, Van,” Brandt said, meaning every word of it. Van and her father had been extremely close. She truly was Daddy’s little girl. They both adored the same music, shows and of course, boxing. Van had been an Olympic class boxer in her college days. When they sparred, she’d had him against the ropes a few more times than he would like to admit.
“He was truly a great, great man,” Brandt stated.
“Thank you,” Van said, her cheeks flushing again. “They’re starting a new medication. We can only hope.”
Brandt nodded, not wanting to squash her hope. He’d watched one too many grandparents go through the disease. It seemed that no matter the medication, it could only slow the process, never reverse it. And he’d heard that General Trajen had gotten so bad he didn’t recognize his own assistant let alone the family.
“You know he always respected you as well,” Van continued. “He was really, really, really bummed that he didn’t get a chance to call you son.”
Before Brandt could respond, he heard an engine scream as brakes screeched.
Lopez.
The corporal gunned the vehicle around the corner. It looked like he’d stolen the Partridge Family’s bus after it had been fused to a tank. Brandt swore he could hear the song, Come On, Get Happy in the air.
The contraption rumbled to a halt at the curb. Lopez cranked open the door.
“All aboard!”
Brandt shook his head as the inspector came out of the airport, stopped, jaw dropped, then gathered himself.
“Shot gun!” Van shouted as the rest bumped into each other getting to the odd vehicle.
“No way, it is my turn,” Davidson stated as Svengurd backed away from the confrontation.
“Arm wrestle you for it,” Van offered, putting her elbow on the hood of the car. Davidson pushed his sleeve up, ready for the challenge. Did he not remember three years ago? Van was unbeaten.
The two put palms together and Lopez shouted, “Go!”
There was a mini-struggle at first then Van got that look in her eye and wham. Davidson’s knuckles clanged against the metal.
He shook out his hand. “How do you do that?”
“Five older brothers, Samuel. Let’s just say I never had to do chores once I got good enough.”
Van piled into the passenger’s seat as the rest loaded up. Brandt noticed they didn’t have any seat belts. With Lopez driving. This was going to get interesting. And by interesting, Brandt meant painful.
Lopez gunned them away from the curb, honking as he merged into traffic.
Yep, this mission was going to be a blast.
CHAPTER 3
Van clung to the “holy crap” strap located above the passenger’s side door. She’d was starting to regret winning that arm wrestling match. Actually seeing the insane risks that Lopez took from the front seat? They had nearly gone off the edge of so many cliffs, Van had given up counting.
Apparently, Lopez still didn’t believe in using brakes. He would much rather downshift, grinding the gears, than tap the brake. Maybe he was always this bad, but she had blocked it from her memory.
As the rain beat down on the path ahead. Unfortunately, the Jihad Summit convened in the “wet” part of the island where it could rain up to a hundred inches a month. A month.
Deep grooves in the “road” were filled with water. Each time Lopez hit a pothole, which was at a very regular interval, muddy water would splash up onto the windshield, completely blinding them.
Did Lopez take his foot off the gas? No, he said accelerating helped clear the water faster. Somehow Van didn’t believe that one bit.
&
nbsp; By a miracle of God, they had not yet crashed. They had startled several wild boars and one horrified sloth.
The engine moaned in complaint as they climbed the sole mountain on the island.
“I think this is as far as we can go,” Lopez said, pulling to an abrupt stop, throwing everyone forward.
“Sound?” Brandt asked.
“Yah,” Lopez replied with a nod. “This old girl is a brute, but loud. The camp is on the other side of the ridge. If we get much closer they are going to hear us.”
Van poked her head outside the bus to see the peak that Lopez was referring to. It was pretty high up there without a trail in sight. The rest of the team piled out of the car. Of course, Neali put her hand out and Doyle helped her from the vehicle as if she were royalty.
That chick was really starting to bug her.
“Do we know the layout of the compound?” Van asked.
Davidson showed her his tablet. “All the way down to the heat signatures of the guards.”
“Plan?” Van asked Brandt.
Brandt pointed to the screen. “There are only three likely, and large enough spots, for them to hide a nuclear weapon.”
“Here, here and here,” Svengurd pointed out.
Van assumed they had ruled out the barracks, not even terrorists would sleep with a nuke right beside them.
“Doyle?” Van asked.
“I, along with my colleagues back in New York, believe it’s this tent structure,” the inspector said. “It is the only one with truck access to a large enough entrance to accept the missile.”
“What if they have it on rollers?” Jester asked.
“Then we’re screwed,” Brandt stated bluntly.
Davidson pointed to a couple of tall trees. “I’m going to set up on this side and BQ on the near side. It isn’t a perfect kill zone, but we’ll have to make due.”
“What is our objective?” Van asked
“Neutralize the compound until a larger force with a chopper rigged strong enough to lift that missile the hell out of here.”
Van nodded. This was not a good scenario. Usually, when you were greatly outnumbered you wanted to strike like lightening, then vanish equally quickly. To overrun this large a force then hold that ground? Most people would say it was impossible.
The 3rd Cycle of the Betrayed Series Collection: Extremely Controversial Historical Thrillers (Betrayed Series Boxed set) Page 55
