Fallen Angel

by Jeff Struecker

  "Has this happened before?"

  "There have been collisions, but this seems to have a different purpose. We now suspect the Chinese waited until just the right time to knock down Angel-12. If our space warriors hadn't tried to move the bird before impact, it would have landed in the heart of China. The last-minute maneuver changed its impact area. Which means—"

  "The Chinese targeted that particular bird." Mac rubbed the back of his neck, the closest the man ever came to showing emotion. "But why?"

  "They couldn't know." Helen Brown looked at the president. "Could they?"

  CHAPTER 7

  CAPTAIN SCOTT MASTERS FOUGHT the urge to writhe. Throughout his life he had experienced pain: a broken leg acquired on a ski slope, cracked ribs from a fall during basic training, and scorching agony from an abscess in his jaw. The moment made all of those events seem like mere annoyances.

  Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and wetted the side of his face. On his back and strapped to his bed, he could do little more than shift from side to side. He was being observed and his captors would consider every groan a victory.

  Behind him he could hear the gentle beep of the IV stand and, if he turned his head enough, he could see the still-full bags of antibiotics and the limp, clear line that should be connected to his arm. Bags of life hanging just out of reach, just close enough to provide mental torture.

  The pain in his side seemed to be expanding. The skin around his wounds, especially the facial injury his captor used as an ashtray, grew warmer by the hour. Masters had no doubt the seeping injuries were infected.

  How long before the infection spread to his blood and to his organs? Would it reach his brain? Infect his heart or liver?

  He thought about Egonov's threat of gangrene. Masters saw gangrene during a tour in Afghanistan. A boy, no more than eight, was wounded by shrapnel from a suicide bomber. The wound wasn't life threatening, just a deep cut to the right forearm. His parents decided to nurse him themselves. Medications were in short supply and the injury festered. When the boy's parents approached Masters and his team as they swept a village, the wound was gangrenous. Masters's team transported the boy to the nearest functioning medical facility. The last time Masters saw the boy, he had only one arm.

  What would need to be cut away from his body to save his life?

  He heard a scream. Distant. Muted. Familiar. He had been hearing such agony-laced cries every few minutes. Hearing another human beg for mercy was soul crushing; it was worse when the voice was recognizable.

  Stu. A young sergeant. Tough as nails and fearless in a firefight. Funny. Always ready with a joke, especially off-color jabs. Masters never met a man who liked to laugh more.

  The laughter was gone. Just wails and screams and weeping.

  It came from the room next door. Masters could hear the door open and close. It would open and a few moments later the pleading would begin. Later the door would open and close again and all would go silent. He knew what they were doing and he hated them for it. They were bringing his men into the adjoining room so Masters could hear them being tormented.

  He understood the plan. They would let pain and infection torture his body and let the cries of his men fry his brain.

  Masters wanted to pray for release, for rescue, for miraculous intervention, but his prayers ran a different direction. "Five minutes, God. Just give me five minutes alone with Egonov; just five minutes to make my point."

  MOYER AND HIS TEAM stood on the pitching deck of the destroyer looking at the thirty-three-foot-long, rigid-hull inflatable boat rising and falling in the swells of the discontent North Pacific. He raised his gaze and looked across a quarter mile of churning sea to see a rolling Japanese fishing boat.

  J. J. said what Moyer was thinking. "I thought the skipper said the seas were calm."

  A narrow chief with a square jaw looked puzzled. "These are calm seas."

  "Be honest," Rich said. "You're just trying to have some fun with the Army boys, right?"

  The chief shrugged. "The SEALs don't seem to mind. By the way, that's their boat, so don't do anything stupid like shoot the rubber hull. Those boys are a tad sensitive about their equipment."

  "We won't hurt their little toys, Chief." Rich took another look at the boat.

  "Toy, eh." The chief huffed. "You would perhaps like to swim?"

  "We wouldn't dream of hurting your feelings." J. J. exchanged glances with Rich. "You look a little green around the gills, Shaq."

  Rich frowned. "Black men don't get green around the gills."

  "If you say so, big man, but I know green when I see it."

  "Yeah? Well, I feel good enough to throw you all the way to the fishing boat."

  "Stow it, gentlemen." The chief moved to the edge of his ship. "We don't want to spend any more time here than we have to. It's dark, but not dark enough for my liking." He pointed skyward. "Who knows who's watching."

  "God?" Crispin said.

  "I think he means spy satellites, Hawkeye."

  "Oh. I knew that."

  "Sure you did, kid." Rich put a hand on the shoulder of the newest member of the team. "You know, the new guy goes first, right? It's tradition and this unit is big on tradition."

  "But just think of how much I can learn from watching a professional like you."

  "Hawkeye?" Moyer said.

  "Yeah, Boss?"

  "Get your butt in the boat."

  "Yes, Boss."

  The chief and a petty officer helped Crispin climb down a ladder to the RHIB. A sailor at the foot of the ladder took hold of the young man's arm and helped him aboard. Crispin looked up the side of the ship. "See, Shaq, there's no need for you to be afraid anymore."

  "I'm gonna kill 'em, Boss."

  "He's just trying to be encouraging." Moyer caught the chief grinning. "Why don't you go next?"

  "I don't mind bringing up the rear."

  "You know, you do look a little green. It's gonna be worse in the dingy so let's shake a leg. You'll feel better on the fishing boat."

  "No, he won't." The chief was still grinning. "No stabilizers on that craft."

  "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Shaq's voice had lost its edge.

  "Who? Me?"

  A voice came over a loudspeaker. "Speed it up, Chief."

  "If you don't mind, Sergeant Major. Your team is putting me on the skipper's dirt list."

  "Understood, Chief." Moyer turned to Rich. "In the boat, pal."

  Two minutes later, a petty officer in the small wheelhouse of the boat hit the throttles, sending the rubber-hulled boat skipping over the swells and white caps. Moyer began to feel like Rich looked.

  It took only a few moments for the RHIB to cross the distance from the Michael Monsoor. Standing at the gunwales were three Japanese men. One looked to be in his forties, the other two in their twenties. As the transport craft neared, the younger Japanese fishermen dropped a rope ladder over the side.

  The petty officer at the wheel slowed and turned to Moyer and his men. "This is the dicey part. I have to get close but not smash us into the boat's hull. We're going to get bumped around some, so be careful of your footing. One person on the ladder at a time, no more. Get up to the deck as quickly as possible but be careful of your step. You really don't want to go swimming."

  "You got that right," Rich said.

  "Who's first?" the petty officer asked.

  "That'd be me." Moyer stood and moved to the port side of the craft. "Let's do this, sailor."

  "Aye, aye." He feathered the engines so the RHIB inched closer.

  The cold wind whipped around Moyer and bit at his ears. He was glad it wasn't winter. He pointed at each of his men, giving them the order in which they would climb the ladder.

  "Stand by." The petty officer turned the boat sideways as he neared the larger vessel. A swell lifted the craft and slammed into the fishing boat's metal hull. "Go." The man didn't yell, but he made sure he could be heard.

  Moyer didn't hesitate. He scra
mbled to the ladder. Ocean spray stung his eyes and as he took his first step on a tread, the RHIB dropped from beneath him as swell turned into trough.

  "Whoa!" Moyer tightened his already viselike grip on the ladder. The fishing boat tipped toward the trough and the ladder swung away from the hull before the trough became swell. Moyer wasted no time moving up. Before he reached the ship's rails, two pairs of hands seized him by the arms and yanked. Before he could speak, Moyer was seated on the deck, everything intact but his dignity. He pushed himself to his feet and moved to the rail. Below were his wide-eyed men. "Piece of cake."

  "Yeah, bet me." Shaq shook his head.

  Next up was J. J. He grinned the entire time and made it look effortless. Moyer hated youth.

  The others followed, each helped over the rail by the crew. Rich was the last aboard and the moment his foot hit the deck, the RHIB roared away.

  "Welcome aboard the Komagata Maru." The speaker was the older of the three men, Moyer saw as they approached.

  "Thank you. Um, your English—"

  "Thanks, I've been working on it. It's not hard. I was born and reared in Michigan."

  "Oh, sorry. I assumed—"

  "That's the idea. Every member of the crew is U.S. born." He held out his hand. "Commander Sam Sasaki, United States Navy. I'm the skipper of this fine vessel."

  "I don't mean to be rude, Commander, but to my untrained eye, it looks a little worse for wear."

  "It took a lot of taxpayer money to make it look this way."

  Moyer nodded. Camouflage applied to more than uniforms. "We appreciate the ride. Is the whole crew Navy?"

  "Maybe." Sasaki smiled. Moyer didn't press. "I understand you're on a tight schedule."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I've received word the package you're looking for is off schedule. Impact is expected sooner."

  "Then we had better put the pedal to the metal."

  "Sorry, no can do. We must keep up appearances."

  Moyer tilted his head. "I don't understand."

  "We're supposed to be a fishing boat. If I go screaming across the ocean, it might draw attention on someone's radar. We're small but noticeable. I can get you close in a few hours."

  "Close?"

  "I can't sail into Russian waters." The commander shrugged. "That'd put an end to the mission pretty quick, and we'd all be answering questions we don't want asked. I can explain my Japanese crew, but I can't explain armed soldiers. If you catch my drift."

  "I catch it. Please do what you can, Commander. There's a lot at stake."

  "So I've been told."

  CHAPTER 8

  J. J. LOOKED UP from the small Bible he was reading and watched Crispin slip into the booth on the opposite side of the table. The Komagata Maru's dining area was a cramped space next to an even smaller galley. How a crew of six could sit in such a tiny space and eat meals was beyond J. J. Until Crispin entered, J. J. had the space to himself, something for which he was grateful.

  "You by yourself?" Crispin slid across the worn Naugahyde bench.

  J. J. glanced around, then grinned. "I don't see anyone else."

  "Yeah, I realized how stupid the question was as soon as I said it. Let me try again: Where is everyone else?"

  "I'm not sure. Rich is trying to sleep off his seasickness. I think Boss is topside. Maybe the wheelhouse."

  Crispin looked at J. J.'s now-closed Bible, his place held with a finger. Crispin nodded at the small black book. "Let me guess. It's too thin to be a full Bible so it must be just the New Testament."

  "Right. I was reading—"

  Crispin held up a hand. "I'm not done impressing you."

  "That a fact? All right, carry on."

  "Your finger is marking a spot near the back, so you're reading one of the epistles. The apostle Paul wrote most of the books of the New Testament, so the odds are good you're reading one of his letters." Crispin eyed the little book. "Not far enough back to be Revelation. Maybe one of Peter's letters, but I'm going to go with . . ." He put a finger to each temple as if trying to read J. J.'s. thoughts. "Wait, it's coming to me." He grimaced as if in pain. "You're reading Second Timothy . . . yes, Second Timothy, chapter two . . . verses . . . wait, wait, here it comes. Got it. Second Timothy chapter two, verses three and four."

  It took a few moments before J. J. could speak. "Wait, you must have seen the page when you entered."

  "Nope."

  "You stood at the door and peeked over my shoulder."

  Crispin shook his head. "Nah. That'd be cheating."

  "Then how?"

  Crispin tilted his head back and closed his eyes as if he dozed off. "'Suffer hardship with me, as a good soldier of Christ Jesus. No soldier in active service entangles himself in the affairs of everyday life, so that he may please the one who enlisted him as a soldier.'"

  J. J. opened the Bible and read the passage he had just been studying. "Okay, you've amazed me; now tell me the trick."

  "No trick. I've known quite a few Christians in uniform. Many of them read that passage before each mission. It gives them the sense God is watching over them."

  "That doesn't explain how you can quote the verses word-for-word."

  "My father made me memorize it when I was a teenager."

  "Your father?"

  Crispin looked away. "Yeah. He's an Episcopal priest. He did two years with the Marines, then went to college and seminary."

  "Did he see any action?"

  "Some. First Gulf War. I think it was what turned him religious."

  "That's an interesting phrase: 'turned religious.'"

  "I don't recall him being all that spiritual when I was a kid."

  "Battle changes men, Crispin. Some it strengthens; others it drives mad. No frontline soldier can pass through the fire untouched. Your dad wouldn't be the first to find faith while bullets streaked overhead."

  "I suppose. Is that what turned you religious?"

  J. J. huffed. "There's that phrase again: 'turned religious.' No, I was a person of faith before I enlisted. So was my brother."

  "The chaplain Major Scalon mentioned."

  "You were paying attention."

  The new team member acted stunned. "You wound me. I always pay attention." He pursed his lips. "So what's it like having a chaplain for a brother?"

  J. J. shrugged. "Paul is Paul. He's a good man, a good soldier, and a great Christian. He's been a help to me and a few of the unit."

  "Really? This unit?"

  "Everyone knows him. He performed the funeral for one of our members and helped Jose's wife a couple of years back."

  "What happened to his wife?"

  "Life-threatening pregnancy. It all turned out fine, but Jose was a little shook. We were out of country at the time. Boss tried to send him home, but Jose wouldn't go. A team needs its medic and we were already one man down."

  "Killed?"

  "Hit by a car, but Pete survived."

  "Pete? Our Pete? Junior?"

  "That's him."

  Crispin tapped the table. "Interesting. I need to ask him about that."

  J. J. stared at the new man for a moment. "I wouldn't do it."

  "Why?"

  "His physical wounds have healed fine, but he's still a tad embarrassed about it."

  "I see." Crispin seemed to be weighing his next question. "Mind if I ask about your limp?"

  "You mean like you just did?"

  Crispin's face reddened. "You might as well know: I'm not always as smooth as I appear."

  J. J. guffawed. "Really?"

  "Hey, keep the noise down out there." Rich's voice carried from the crew's quarters.

  "Hey, Shaq. You know what's good for seasickness? Raw eggs. Want some."

  Shaq groaned. "Get in here, pip-squeak, so I can pop you one."

  "Maybe later."

  Crispin was smiling. "You guys are pretty tight. All units like that?"

  "I doubt it. We're lucky. We have the best there is and we like each other—most of the time." J
. J. shifted on the bench seat. "Back to the limp. Didn't Boss fill you in?"

  "He said you were wounded in battle."

  "Yeah. Took a bullet in the leg. Stung a little."

  "Stung? A little?"

  J. J. shrugged. "Pain is relative."

  "Relative, eh? You were screaming like a Girl Scout, weren't you?"

  "Of course not. Okay. Maybe a little. Anyway, I was lucky. A little R & R, a few weeks of physical therapy, and more PT than I like and I'm as good as new."

  "Why didn't you bail? You've done your duty. You were injured on mission. No one can doubt your courage."

  "This is who I am; this is what I do."

  "But how do you reconcile it all? I mean, being a Christian and a warrior."

  A pain dug away at J. J.'s stomach. "I don't know how to answer that. I've killed but taken no joy in it. I'm proud about what the team has achieved over the last few years. There are people—including women and children—who are alive today because we were there for them." Images of Dr. Cenobio's family in Venezuela, Delaram in Italy, a dozen heads-of-state at a G-20 meeting, and others flashed strobelike in his mind.

  J. J. looked down at his Bible. "The Old Testament shows heroes of the faith who were also warriors."

  "Like King David."

  J. J. nodded. "For one."

  "But the New Testament is different. You don't find those kinds of people mentioned."

  "True. Did you ever ask your dad that question? How did he reconcile things?"

  "I don't think he did. To tell the truth, I think he became a minister because of guilt."

  "That's a lousy reason."

  "That's what I'm saying. Maybe it's why I haven't been to church since I left home. Seems hypocritical."

  "But you've never spoken to your old man about this?"

  "Not really."

  "Then for all you know, you may have it backwards."

  "I doubt it."

  J. J. didn't hesitate. "But you don't know it."

  "I guess you're right."

  J. J. didn't like the response. He suspected Crispin was just accommodating him. "Look, I know there are some Christians who would criticize what I do. There are some who have been very supportive. I can tell you this: I take Jesus seriously."