"Understood, sir." Moyer paused, then added, "How do we insert into Siberia?"
Mac smiled. "You like fishing?"
CHAPTER 4
"YOU GOT TEN MINUTES," Captain Tim Bryan said. "I wish it could be more."
"Not your fault." Moyer's mind believed the words, but his heart was not so agreeable.
"Follow me." Tim led them from the elevator and down a long, wide corridor with a floor polished like a mirror. The footfalls of seven men echoed off the hard surfaces. Tim stopped at a door marked Accounting 105, turned the knob, and swung it open. Inside, two airmen and one lieutenant sat at computers. Were they really doing accounting work or something more covert?
The three came to their feet the moment Tim stepped into the room. "At ease, gentlemen." Tim faced the officer. "I need the room, Lieutenant."
"Excuse me, sir?"
"Lock down your stations and then go get a cup of coffee."
"Um, yes sir." The officer turned to the airmen in the room. "You heard the captain. Secure your computers and desks."
The man's puzzled look brought a smile to Moyer's face. He did his best to hide it.
As the three accountants filed from the room, Tim stopped the officer. "I need five more rooms with phones."
"Sir?"
"In about ten minutes, these men are about to take a long trip. I want them to have a few minutes to make a phone call."
"But, sir—"
"You ever been in Minot, North Dakota, in January, Lieutenant?"
"Five rooms empty and with phones, sir. Got it."
Tim turned to Moyer's men. "The lieutenant will escort you to offices where you can make your calls. He'll show you how to get an outside line."
Moyer looked at the former Air Force Spec Ops warrior. "Are you going to get in trouble for this, Captain?"
Tim shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about." He slapped Moyer on the shoulder. "For me, this was always the most difficult part of any mission." He chuckled. "When I was wounded, my first thought wasn't if I'd live or die. I was worried about explaining it to my wife."
"I got one of those wives too. My men and I appreciate this." Moyer held out his hand and Tim gave it a man-to-man shake, the kind of handshake that says more than words.
"Come on, Sergeant Major. Let me see if I can't get you an outside line."
Sixty seconds later, Moyer stood at the lieutenant's desk, phone in hand. He was having trouble drawing a deep breath.
"Hello." The voice was like silk: smooth, cool, and soft. It also carried a hint of suspicion. The voice cut Moyer's heart like a sharp knife. He had been through this before. The caller ID at his home read: UNKNOWN.
"Hi, babe." The image of his wife, shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair, sparkling eyes, and million-dollar smile, flashed on his brain.
"Eric? I thought you . . . oh."
"Yeah, my business trip has been extended. I have to make another stop or two before I can make it home."
Stacy had been a Spec Ops wife for years, but it wasn't something a woman could get used to. Eric knew this because she made it clear several times. Never in anger; never in an accusatory tone. Her love bathed her words the few times they discussed the work he did.
Such discussions were always vague, something required by security, not just for Moyer and his team, but also for his family. Truth was, only a handful of people knew about any mission his team undertook. Not even the president knew when a mission began or ended unless he was the one who called for the action. The military survived on invisible compartments. Captain Tim wasn't being snide when he refused to say what operation he was on when he was wounded. Moyer knew a lot about Spec Ops activities, but the fact he was a team leader didn't give him access to what other teams were doing.
Most men could discuss work with their families: the good, the bad, the frustrating, the layoffs, the awards, the contracts. Moyer and men like him could say nothing to family or friends. Those who know what he did—and they were few—could only watch the news and guess if their son, husband, or father was somehow behind the story.
Moyer didn't want to count the number of times he was called up with just enough time to kiss his wife good-bye and wonder if it would be the last time he ever did so.
"I see. Should I push Gina's birthday party back a week or so?"
Moyer could hear the sadness in Stacy's voice; he could also feel the red-hot emotional knife the question plunged into his gut. "That's a week away. I'll try to be back by then." He paused. He had no idea when he'd be back. "Let her decide. If I can't make it back in time for the party, then we'll do something special when I get back in town." He lowered his head. "Is she there now?"
"She's about to leave for the library."
"Put her on."
"Hang on."
A moment later a familiar, chipper voice poured over the phone. "Daddy!"
"Hey, kid. You doin' okay?"
She put on a Jersey accent. "I do fine. How you doin'?"
Moyer had to laugh. "Listen, munchkin, I'm being called to a special meeting so I won't be home tonight."
"Oh. Okay. I understand."
"I'm still going to try to make your birthday party." His stomach tightened into a knot. "If I miss it, we'll do something special. I know, we'll go to your favorite restaurant." Another second-rate offer to compensate for missing another important date in his family's life.
"Can I bring a boy?"
"Do you mean to be dinner or join us for dinner?"
"You know what I mean."
"Only if I can call you baby names through the whole meal—in front of him."
"Never mind." She sounded pouty and loosened Moyer's heart.
"I'm just kidding."
"I know. Me too. Be safe, Daddy. I miss you. Gotta run. My ride to the library is here."
"I miss you too. See you soon."
Stacy returned to the phone. "You made her day."
"She made mine." Moyer chuckled. "You know, I think she's the only person her age who goes to the library voluntarily."
"She loves it. You know her, books are everything."
"You'll have to cover for me if I miss the party. How many times have I had to do that?"
"Stop it, Eric. Your . . . business is important. Don't beat yourself up." She paused. "Leave that to me."
"You could probably do it."
"Probably? Probably? No probably about it, bub."
Moyer laughed, but it was mirth mixed with regret. "Rob behaving?"
"Yes. Oh, he got that job."
"Flipping burgers?"
Stacy said yes. "He thinks he can earn enough money over the summer to buy an iPhone before he starts college."
"When did I get old enough to have a college-aged kid?"
"Many years ago."
"Watch it." The image of his tall, lanky son played in his mind. Just two years ago he and Rob were at each other's throats, but events changed him; that and some wise counsel from J. J.'s chaplain brother.
"It's good to know he's there for you. I don't suppose he's there."
"No. They're at that age, Eric: always gone; always doing something. Do you remember when we were that way?"
"I remember everything about you."
The conversation fell silent. "Yeah. What you said. Me too."
Moyer chortled. "You are a romantic."
"You know how I get when you make these kinds of calls."
He did know. Two years earlier, Stacy started having nightmares when his work separated them. It began while he was on mission in Venezuela. The dreams returned while he and his team were in Europe and then in Mexico. Stacy kept the last set of dreams from him for three months after his return.
"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry."
She sniffed and he could imagine tears welling in her eyes. His eyes began to burn. He looked at the far wall, as if doing that would take the sting out of his heart.
"Don't be sorry. It is what it is. You were in the Army when I married you. At our
wedding I got a husband and a large branch of the military. I'm proud of you and what you do. What you do isn't easy."
"What you do may be more difficult."
"Of course it is, but I'm a woman. I can take it."
"There is not a doubt in my mind."
Another pause passed without words but heavy with meaning.
"You know I love you, right?" Her voice was a decibel above a whisper.
"It's my reason to get up in the morning. Well, that and scrambled eggs."
"And the kids?"
"Let them get their own eggs."
She laughed. "Hug yourself for me."
"You too."
Moyer hung up, then spent a minute stuffing his emotions into the basement of his mind. The conversation was tough, but something tougher was coming. He had to get control of his emotions before he stepped back into the hallway to meet the rest of his team. In order to keep his emotions in check, Moyer practiced a trick he learned years ago—stop thinking about his family and start thinking about everything he needed to do to keep himself and his men alive for the next mission.
A dozen deep breaths later, he emerged from the office. His team waited in silence. Rich stood the farthest down the hall. J. J., who had been married less than a year, had his hands in his pocket and his face turned to avoid eye contact. Jose Medina, who was doing his best to bring up his own basketball team, gazed at his smartphone looking at pictures of his children. Pete, like J. J., had been married a short time. Crispin was unmarried, but he showed the good sense to give the others whatever time they needed.
A few steps away, standing at the mouth of the corridor, Tim waited, his hands clasped in front of him. In the lobby, the displaced office workers stood in a group and off to themselves.
Moyer and Tim made eye contact.
"You good to go?" Tim asked.
Moyer inhaled deeply and faced his men. "We ready to rock?"
"Hooah!"
Moyer turned back to Tim. "All right, Captain. Let's catch the first thing smokin' out of here."
TESS RAND-BARTLEY CONTINUED TO stare at the phone as if she expected it to come to life, or better yet, ring again with her husband's voice saying, "Just kiddin', kiddo. Turns out I'll be home tonight after all."
But she knew it wouldn't. She might be a new Army wife, but she had been around the military enough to know she wouldn't hear from J. J. until he was off mission. Unlike other Army wives, she was often "in-the-know." Her basic work didn't require keeping secret her identity or function. Those who saw the petite, auburn-haired twenty-something woman would not suspect she was an expert in terrorism, female suicide bombers, and international affairs. Although younger than most of her peers, none doubted her right to teach at the War College in Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania.
Her exceptional expertise brought her to the attention of the military where she often served as a military consultant to Spec Ops. Although the material she had to deal with was emotionally distasteful, what she did often helped to save lives—including that of her new husband.
Next to the phone was a military mug shot of J. J. in his dress uniform, colorful ribbons across his chest. It was a new photo and among the medals on his uniform was a Purple Heart. The wound that almost took his life left him with a slight limp. Doctors saved both life and leg, but if you asked J. J. what they really saved was his career.
The phone rang again, and for a moment Tess's heart skipped with hope. "Hello?"
"Tess, it's Mac."
Always first names and informal on the phone. "Yes, Mac."
"You probably haven't heard—"
"He called a short time ago. No details of course, just that his trip was extended."
"Right. I need you on this. Can you handle that?"
He was being obtuse, but she got the meaning. He wanted to know if she could consult on a mission that involved her husband. Bad form. Bad policy. But sometimes necessary.
"Yes. I'll have to check with the dean—"
"Already done."
She smiled. "Did you ask him or inform him?"
"Is there a difference?"
"Not in your world, Mac. Not in your world."
"YOUR SOURCE IS GOOD?" The thickly padded leather chair made no noise as the man seated in it leaned back and formed a steeple with his fingers.
"It's good." The man who spoke wore a suit and a yellow power tie.
"What's being done?"
"A team is being sent. They should arrive before the satellite makes earth-fall."
"That's unfortunate."
"For us?"
The man leaned over the desk. "For them."
CHAPTER 5
THE TEAM HAD HABITS. All Spec Ops teams did. One such practice was to sleep as much as possible before a mission. If they weren't planning, they were snoozing. It only took a couple of missions to know sleep was as rare as emeralds. Moyer learned to sleep anywhere and at anytime. The rumor was he could sleep through a flash flood. This evening, despite his best efforts, he proved the rumors wrong. The phone call with his wife unsettled him more than usual. He had no idea why. He had such conversations before, and while they left him sad, he was always able to focus on the upcoming mission. Now all he could do was think of his family.
He rose from his seat in the C-20 Gulfstream IV and walked the narrow aisle, doing his best not to disturb his sleeping men. He had been seated at the front of the aircraft. It was the second time he and the unit were transported in the customized corporate jet. This plane, like a handful of others, was SAAM designated: Special Assignment Airlift Missions. The Navy, Coast Guard, and Air Force used them for special transport. Usually the passengers included people with stars on their shoulders.
"Can't sleep?"
Moyer looked at Rich, his large body pressed into one of the rear seats. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."
"Who said you woke me? An active mind like mine runs all the time."
"Hmm, that explains why your mouth runs all the time."
"Hey now, Boss. That was unkind. Accurate, but unkind. If you're not careful, you'll hurt my little feelings."
Moyer smiled. He was not a man who gave his trust away easily. Those new to the unit knew his trust and admiration had to be earned, repeatedly. Not only did Moyer trust Rich with his life, but that of every member of the team, his family, and the key to his liquor cabinet.
Rich pushed himself up in the seat. "Care to join me? I'm not doing anything and I'm planning on doing more of it."
"Thanks." Moyer sat in a port-side leather seat and faced his friend across the aisle.
Rich stretched. "You know, I could get used to traveling like this. It beats sitting in the back end of a cargo plane."
"Last year we rode on TP-01 and Air Force One. I think you're getting spoiled." While on mission the previous year, the team traveled on the Mexican equivalent of Air Force One.
"Some folk just deserve to be spoiled. I'm one of them."
"Probably."
"Uh-oh."
"What?"
Rich leaned forward. "When you start letting me get away with quips like that, I know something is buggin' you. What is it?"
"You don't know me as well as you think."
"Of course I do. Your wife tells me everything."
"Does she now? I'll have to talk to her about that."
"Come on, Boss. Spill it."
Moyer looked away. "I can't put my finger on it. I feel out of sorts. I don't know why. It's not like this is my first mission."
"When did it begin?"
Moyer shrugged. "Can't be sure."
"I bet you can. I'll bet the new guy's paycheck it started when you called your wife."
"Something I've done many times before."
"Uh-huh."
"What? You made the same kinda call."
Rich nodded his big head. "Do you see me sleeping?"
Moyer sighed. "So why is this time different?"
"I don't know. That's something for the shrinks to figure
out, but I got a guess."
Moyer raised an eyebrow. "Which is what?"
"Age and odds, Boss. Age and odds."
"How do you mean?"
Rich leaned forward. "I know I'm preaching to the choir here, but you and I are the old guys in the unit. That means we have more training and experience. It's why you're boss and I'm your better-looking backup."
He pressed his lips together for a moment, as if waiting for the words to ride down a slow-moving escalator from his brain. "Every time we go out, we increase the risk we won't be coming back in a vertical position. I'm sure some statistician could punch holes in my theory, but I don't care. We both know we have the riskiest job on the planet. We do it because it matters and because we're unusually good at it. But . . ." Rich looked at his feet. "But we know every new mission stacks the deck against us."
"We can't think like that, Shaq."
"But we do, Boss. I'd never say this to anyone but you, but with every new mission I wonder if I'll make it back the same stunningly handsome guy I am." His tone softened. "I wonder if I'll have kids. I wonder if I'll make Robyn a widow."
"Are you looking for a transfer?" Moyer already knew the answer. Rich's face hardened to stone.
"No, and with all due respect, Boss, I hope to never hear that question again. I haven't lost a step. Not physically; not mentally."
Moyer raised a hand. "Easy, pal. I had to ask. You know that. I have no doubts about your abilities."
Rich leaned even closer and whispered. "Look, we almost lost J. J. He should be a cripple, hobbling around his apartment on one leg. Call it a miracle, call it whatever you like, but the kid almost checked out on us in Mexico. So did Data."
Jerry Zinsser, "Data," replaced a team member killed in Venezuela. He was a problem from the get-go but came through when it counted. It nearly killed him. Jose, the team medic, had to do an emergency blood transfusion using Rich's blood.
"I get what you're saying." Moyer also leaned forward. "Okay, I'll admit that I can't get my family off my mind. I keep thinking of the kids. They're at important transitions in their lives and I wonder how they will deal with life without me there to ride them about what's right and wrong."
Fallen Angel Page 4
