Hide and Seek

by Jeff Struecker

  COLONEL WEIDMAN TOOK THE satellite phone from his aide. “Weidman.” He listened for a moment. “Why aren’t you dead?”

  “I haven’t got that far down my to-do list, sir.”

  Weidman chuckled, then he laughed loudly. “This has been one lousy day, but you just put a bow on it. I can’t tell you how good it is to hear your voice.”

  “Thank you, sir. Is the base secure?”

  “For now, but we have quite a gathering out front.”

  “I’m ready to report, sir.”

  “Save it, Master Sergeant. Your mission isn’t over. Something’s come up.”

  J. J. DIDN'T LIKE the sound of that. He looked around the small communications room in the basement of the building. It smelled of warm electronics. He didn’t feel ready for more shocking news. He digested the last bit served up by the ambassador. Nonetheless, he said, “Ready, sir.”

  “There was an attempted bioagent attack at the front gate. A sharp-eyed local cop prevented its execution and was somehow able to take control of a canister filled with a still undefined agent. The local police took the man into custody. Somehow they or the local military or Intel group got the man to confess. I have a feeling the details are unpleasant.”

  Weidman lowered his voice. “They learned there is more of this stuff stored away and maybe in the streets. The perp was persuaded to give up the location. You are ordered to the location to render the facility inoperable. Reload and move out immediately.”

  “There are active bioagents in the building?”

  “Yes. It’s an old Soviet-era mid-rise building not far from your location. As I understand it, the plan is to release the agent at our base, in front of the major government building, and near the embassy.”

  “Why would someone do that to their own people?”

  “The United States isn’t the only country with a domestic terrorism problem. Best guess, they plan to infect the protesters and then blame the Americans. I’m sure China and/or Russia would be happy to confirm the bug or chemical—whatever it is—was American made.”

  “Do I have time to call Colonel Mac?”

  “You do not.”

  “Understood, sir.” J. J. let a second slip by. “Sir, the last mission was to rescue an American in danger, this is—”

  “Don’t finish that, Sergeant. This is well above your pay grade. Besides, you just saved the president’s daughter. We should get a little leeway. Now move.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  J. J. hustled down the hallway and up the stairs to the cafeteria floor. His men were still downing chow. “Scarf it down, men. We gotta move.”

  “What?” Aliki stopped mid chew.

  “I’m afraid this is just halftime.” He faced Lee. “Mr. Ambassador, I’m going to need a favor from your Marines. I need to borrow a little ammo and a few other things. I also need a car and a satellite phone.”

  “When do you leave?” Lee asked.

  “Yesterday.”

  PRESIDENT MEKLIS OSKONBAEVA MOVED through the tunnel linking Ala-Too Square with the White House. At his side, a silver-haired beauty of sixty years walked with her head down, dabbing a handkerchief to her eyes.

  “We can’t leave our Jildiz,” she said. She repeated the phrase fifty times and Meklis imagined he would hear it many times more. He didn’t mind. A very loud voice in his head was screaming the same thing.

  He explained things; explained about the impossibility of her making it into the White House and that she was most likely hiding until things settled down. “Perhaps the woman who rescued her took her to friends and she’s waiting for the phones to come online again.” He left out the part of the shot-up and burned vehicle the news was showing.

  “This is cowardice.”

  “No, Love, it is not. We went over this when I took office. Presidents and key leaders have to be able to move from their offices in time of war or terrorism. Every modern national seat of government has means of escape. It is vital to maintain leadership. This is the right thing to do. The choice has been made for us.”

  “But where are we going?”

  “To a safer place.” He didn’t tell her about the bioagent.

  Fifteen minutes later, they, and several aides, were aboard a customized Kamov Ka-62 helicopter. Sixty seconds later they were airborne for the short flight to Kazakhstan.

  Ten minutes into their northward flight a beeping rose from one of the briefcases. Meklis’s personal aide retrieved a sat phone and answered. He listened. He blinked. Then held it out. “It’s the president of the United States, sir.”

  “How did he get access to this number? . . . Never mind, they know everything.” He took the phone. “I’m a little busy right now, Mr. President.”

  “Not too busy for this, my friend.”

  One minute later the Ka-62 turned and flew south.

  To the U.S. Embassy.

  COLONEL MAC CALLED ALAN Kinkaid into his office. “Sit down, I need advice, Sergeant, and I need it now. I just got a call from Colonel Weidman at Manas—”

  “The team is alive, sir.”

  Mac blinked several times. “I just learned that. How did you know? You’d better not have a tap on my phone. There are special prisons for people who do such things.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Colonel.” He smiled. “I just got word from the president’s office. His chief of staff called. The FBI discovered something in the video.” Kinkaid’s smile broadened. “They discovered what was bugging me.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  The master sergeant delivered the news in short order.

  “I should have thought of that.” Mac rubbed his chin. “My proof is better. Colonel Weidman called from Manas. He’s spoken to J. J.”

  Mac’s aide closed his eyes for a moment, then looked up, and whispered, “Thank You.”

  “The news couldn’t be better, Sergeant, but I still have a problem—a procedural problem.”

  He relayed the news Weidman had passed on, including the new mission.

  “What to tell the families?”

  “Exactly.”

  Kinkaid did as Mac knew he would. He reduced the problem to its simplest terms then listed the most likely courses of action.

  “One, we tell them the news report was false and their husbands are alive and well. But then we would be forced to keep secret the fact they are on another mission, one just as deadly. Two, we tell them nothing at all. On the one hand we let them continue in their misery; on the other we give them hope then may have to tell them they died later.”

  He thought for a moment. “Security prevents us from telling them they’re on mission, to reveal that information could be bad for your career.” Another beat passed. “I could tell them without your knowledge—”

  “Forget that. If anyone risks a career, it will be me.”

  “In that case, I advise you to tell them nothing.”

  Mac nodded slowly. “That’s what I came up with, but it seems cruel.”

  “It is cruel, sir, and there isn’t anything we can do about that.”

  “It’s times like this that make a career in real estate seem good.”

  The corner of Kinkaid’s lip rose a notch. “With all due respect, sir, you might be good at the job. Think of the hundreds of couples you could intimidate into buying a home.”

  “Intimidate, eh? Dismissed, Sergeant.”

  Kinkaid rose and started for the door.

  “Alan . . . thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  CHAPTER 31

  MORNING BECAME AFTERNOON AND afternoon was morphing into early evening. Tess did the mental calculation. It would be sunup soon where J. J. was . . . where J. J.’s body was.

  Weariness engulfed her like the ocean swallowed
a sinking ship. Is that what she was? A sinking ship? The rational part of her mind said, “Nonsense. Life will go on. You still have your work and your unborn children. Invest yourself in them. You’ll get over this.” The words were hollow, small, lacking conviction. It was the kind of thing well-meaning but insensitive people said to the grieving. “Don’t cry. It’s going to be all right.”

  Garbage.

  It wasn’t going to be all right. Not by a long shot. Sure, she would move on, get on with life. Who knows what the future held? She was strong, determined, self-reliant, and moved through life on an even keel.

  She was also broken, her soul strewn around her like shattered glass. She was empty. Weak. Shaky. Depressed. Angry, and filled with a hunger for revenge.

  The image of the burned bodies and car playing on the news shows was set in a constant loop. She saw it when she closed her eyes; saw it when she gazed into the distance. Worse, when the emotional exhaustion forced her to doze, she dreamed it. That was the worst. In her dreams she could hear J. J. screaming her name.

  Over and over. Loud and clear and full of excruciating pain.

  “God . . . dear, dear God . . .” Her prayer had dissolved to just two words. She would have to trust that God got the idea.

  A knock at the door.

  She didn’t want visitors. Ignore it. Turn your back. Hide in the bedroom.

  All good advice. All the desire of her heart. Instead, she went to the door and opened it.

  “Lucy?” The woman’s Hispanic skin looked two shades paler, her eyes were swollen, puffy, and red.

  Tess steeled herself for an onslaught of anger, maybe even a slap across the face. After all, just this morning she told Lucy their husbands were safe on a military base showing off the new surveillance drones and meeting their two new team members.

  “Tess—” Lucy’s lips quivered until she pressed them into an angry frown.

  Wordless, motionless seconds passed, then Lucy covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Tess . . .” Sobs rolled from the woman.

  Tess led Lucy into the apartment and closed the door.

  Then she took the woman in her arms.

  Sob joined sob.

  TRANSPORTATION HAD IMPROVED. INSTEAD of broken-down delivery vans, the embassy had a pair of black Range Rovers. Again, J. J. split the team, dividing human assets in order to increase the odds of success. Both vehicles came with GPS units, making finding the building easy, despite the lack of streetlights.

  A strip of salmon-colored light stretched across what horizon he could see, which wasn’t much. The Stygian black of night had turned a shade grayer. Sunrise was not welcome. Already, J. J. noticed more cars on the road. Not many, but the number was sure to increase as dawn approached. More vehicles meant more civilians and more eyes on them.

  Nagano was the designated driver for J. J.’s Range Rover. Crispin sat in the back working on his toys.

  By J. J.’s estimation, they were five minutes out. His mind vibrated with thoughts. One stream of thought was a recent memory:

  “I’m going with you.” Amelia made the statement sound like a fact, taking J. J. by surprise.

  “No, you’re not.” He tried to sound authoritative. “You’ve seen enough action for one evening.”

  “I’ll decide that.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I have no doubts about that, but I’ll decide who goes with the team.”

  She crossed her arms. “I may be a Foreign Affairs Officer now, but I still hold the rank of Captain. Last I looked, my bars outweigh your stripes.”

  “That they do, ma’am, but I have a bird colonel back home who would gut me like a fish, tan my hide, and hang it in the sun as an example to all the other spec ops leaders.” He drew a deep breath. “I can’t tell you how much you’ve impressed me and my team. Truth is, most of them are afraid of you. That being said, you’re not going.”

  “You need a translator. Do you speak Kyrgyz or Russian?”

  “No, ma’am, and that is a very persuasive argument.”

  “I’m glad you agree.”

  “You’re not going.”

  J. J. pushed the memory to the back of his brain. She might make trouble for him but he doubted she would. “Weps, when we’re one block out, pull to the side.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Hawkeye, you about ready?”

  “Sure am, Boss. I’m going to use the Binkster. She has more flexibility and is easier to control. The camera can also aim horizontally not just down.”

  “You’re the expert.”

  “Yes, yes I am.”

  A voice came over J. J.’s earpiece. “Boss, Joker. We’re in position.”

  “Standby.”

  Nagano pulled the Range Rover over, killed the headlights, but left the engine on.

  “Foot off the brake, Weps. Those taillights can be seen from a long way off.”

  “Yes, Boss.” He put the car in park and released the brake pedal.

  “Work your magic, Hawkeye. Make your momma proud.”

  “Momma is already proud of me. Who wouldn’t be?” Hawkeye lowered the rear side window, then handed the sphere of black plastic ribs to J. J. “Hold this out the window, Boss. It’s light. Just set it on your palm.”

  “And if I drop it?”

  “I’ll fire you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, I’ll still admire you.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought I heard.” J. J. lowered his window then extended his arm. The flying ball felt too light to be real.

  A second later the propeller began to spin, sending a column of air rushing through the rib structure and over J. J.’s hand.

  “Did I ever tell you the first model of this was invented by a Japanese engineer who wanted it to search for injured people who might be trapped in a building?”

  “Just five or six times. Less talk, more flying.”

  “Understood, Boss.”

  From the corner of his eye, J. J. caught Crispin extend the antenna of the control out his window. “Up, up, and away. Go get ’em, Binkster.”

  The device rose almost noiselessly.

  “Coming around,” J. J. said. He opened the door. The dome light didn’t come on. They thought to turn that off before pulling from the embassy compound. J. J. slipped into the backseat. Crispin held the controller so J. J. could see the tiny video screen.

  “We’re straight up. You can see our car.” Crispin’s tone was changed. He was often glib and a tad too talkative except when working, then he had the focus of a rattlesnake staring down his next meal. “Advancing.”

  J. J. watched the camera switch to a forty-five-degree angle, allowing Crispin to see down and forward. The target building was a three-story, Soviet-era structure heavy on naked concrete and draped windows. To J. J.’s eye, there was very little design, it was a tall box with windows on four sides. It looked like an old office building waiting to be replaced by something newer.

  Crispin kept the remote-control vehicle high and did a quick circle around the building. His comments were radioed to the others. “Three stories, bars over the first-floor windows. All windows obscured, probably by drapes. I don’t have enough light to be positive.” He kept his eyes fixed on the display. “I see dim light in the building, so I assume they have an emergency generator.”

  Crispin continued. “Windows are fixed, no sliders that I can see.” The device rose and hovered over the roof. “Flat roof, gravel and tar covering. Looks fairly new. Elevator overrun. Just one elevator. Antennas. Junior might be able to identify them. Best guess is standard radio and shortwave. Maybe something more. I count six skylights. Translucent covering and I see light, so someone is on the top floor.”

  He sent the RPV higher and directed it over the street, then slowly descended.
“Time for the money shots. Front door is solid and looks to be metal.” He zoomed the camera. “Looks like heavy-duty hardware, and . . . wait. I’ve got a guard now. Single male packing a machine pistol.”

  J. J. leaned closer. “West German HK MP5 variant.”

  Crispin repeated the designation. “Man looks to be six foot one, maybe six foot two, late twenties.”

  The RPV made another circuit until it hovered over the street at the rear of the building. Unlike the part of the city they were in earlier, this section had no alleys. J. J. couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. Either way, it was what the situation dealt him.

  “Rear door is similar to the front. One guard, maybe midthirties, five ten or so. Packin’ a . . .” He looked to J. J.

  “T91, Chinese. Similar to M-16.”

  “Hardware is the same as the front door. Wait . . . keypad entrance. Front door probably has the same . . . hold . . . just caught a glimpse of two men patrolling the perimeter. They’re moving counterclockwise. Just disappeared around the northeast corner. They’re walking shoulder to shoulder.”

  “Bring it home, Hawkeye.” J. J. leaned against the door and pondered the information, running scenarios through his head.

  Option one: a straightforward street approach. That would require taking out the guards without drawing attention.

  Option two: go in through the skylights. Problem: how to get on the roof without being seen. A one-story structure might be possible but still risky; three stories was impossible with guards walking around.

  Option one and two together: neutralize the guards, make entrance. He paused in his thoughts. There were bound to be more guys inside. J. J. gently tapped his teeth together as he thought. An urban operation like this one was best carried out after weeks of planning, intel, and dry-run scenarios. In a perfect world that was how UOs worked. This wasn’t a perfect world. They had almost no time. J. J. was making this up on the fly. Lousy way to run a mission.

  “Listen up, team. All visible combatants have radios. You know what that means. We have to assume there are more hostiles inside. Be prepared for CQC.” His men were trained for Close Quarters Combat, and that went for Aliki and Nagano. J. J. wouldn’t have accepted them had they no experience in dynamic entry and continuous flow. “Here’s how this is going to go down . . .”