Fallen Angel

by Jeff Struecker

  "Can you explain your men, Colonel?"

  "Sir?"

  "I'm starting to feel like the fourth runner-up in a three-man race. Why is the team behind the Russians?"

  "I don't have specifics, sir, but I can assure you they're doing everything they can."

  "You know what my fear is, don't you?"

  Mac grimaced. "My guess is you would have several fears."

  "I do, and right now they all center on one thing: Is the team behind because of Moyer? Has news of his daughter hampered his ability to lead the mission?"

  Even over the video link, Huffington could see Mac's expression sour. "Sir, such news would knock anyone off their pins. Moyer is reporting in just as he should, and I'm sure he's doing the best possible work given the circumstances."

  "So what do we do about the Chinese?"

  "Sir, on my first mission I learned one thing that has guided my leadership through the years. A soldier is at his best if he concentrates on what is in front of him. If that changes, the mission changes. We don't know the condition of Angel-12. It might take hours for the Chinese to strip out the electronics and optics. Our men will be on scene long before that."

  "Then what? A gun battle?"

  "Maybe, sir. That will be Moyer's call. The Chinese getting there first changes things. What they do will determine what we do."

  "So we do what?"

  "Wait, sir. There is nothing else that can be done, at least not in the field."

  "I can think of several things." Huffington returned to his chair. "I don't like any of them."

  "Such as."

  Huffington hesitated. "That will be all for now, Colonel."

  The video link to Colonel Mac was closed.

  "Admiral."

  "Sir?"

  "Is the Monsoor still in the area?"

  "It is." The admiral stiffened. "They're waiting to help with extraction."

  "Move them as close to Russian waters as possible and have them stand by for my orders."

  "What orders, sir?"

  "If I have to, I will put a Tomahawk cruise missile on the site."

  Bacliff's head snapped up. "That might endanger our team and it would put an end to the rescue operation."

  "I know, old friend, and I'm sorry, but I can't let that technology fall into the hands of the Chinese or Russians. I'll destroy it and everything around it if I have to."

  Bacliff pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't you mean destroy everyone around it?"

  "Yes, I mean that too."

  "Sir, firing a cruise missile into Russian territory will be impossible to explain and may create problems taking a decade to undo."

  "I'm aware of the ramifications. It's the last thing I want to do."

  "You will let our men know first, won't you?" Gaughan asked.

  "If possible, yes."

  "If possible?"

  "You heard me, Admiral. Now make the order and pray we don't have to use it."

  Huffington stared at the monitor and watched the Chinese team as they reached Angel-12. "You know," he said to no one in particular, "I sometimes wonder what I ever saw in this job that made me want it."

  No one spoke. That was fine with the president.

  CHAPTER 29

  GINA SPENT THE LAST few hours staring at her bare legs. She had cried all she could, but the emotional roller-coaster ride continued. Fear gave way to despair, which moved over anger which, in turn, surrendered depression. All positive emotions like happiness and peace seemed like distant sensations experienced in a dream.

  She tried to occupy her mind with escape. The cut flesh beneath the nylon ties was her own doing and now the skin burned and itched. She studied the ties. She had seen the kind before. Her father used them in the garage to strap things together. Once he used them to bind the many cables behind the television, satellite receiver, and sound system into neat bundles. He also used them to keep an extra hose wound in place and hung on a wall. When he took the hose down months later to use it for some work he was doing in the backyard, he didn't release them; he cut them with wire cutters. That's what she needed: a free hand and wire cutters.

  The door to her cell opened and another black-clad figure entered the room. Like the first, this person wore black pants, a black top like a sweatshirt, black gloves, and a full over-the-head mask. Even the sport shoes the person wore were black.

  But this was not the same person. The suit could not disguise the shorter height, the rounder hips, and the breasts.

  She carried a tray with a plate on which sat a sandwich and potato chips. There was also a clear plastic bottle of clear fluid. Gina assumed water.

  The woman set the tray on Gina's lap, reached to a back pocket of her pants, and removed—wire cutters. A snip later and Gina's right hand was free.

  "Do you see the video camera over the door?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Good. There is someone watching you at all times."

  "Must be pretty boring, since I can't do anything."

  She shrugged and looked at Gina's wrists. "That little tantrum did you more harm than good. I'm going to leave your hand free so you can eat. I'll be back with some medication for those cuts. Don't be stupid and try anything you'll regret. Remember—"

  "Someone is watching me all the time."

  "Smart girl. Do you have to go to the bathroom?"

  "Yes. You going to videotape that too?"

  "You do have a mouth on you. Get your attitude from your father?"

  "What do you know about my father?"

  "I know he's gone when you need him most. Eat the sandwich. I'll be back. Try and be a good girl while I'm away."

  The woman left and Gina picked up the sandwich. Baloney. She hated lunch meat but took a bite. She hadn't eaten since dinner the night before. She had no idea what time it was, but her stomach told her she missed breakfast and maybe lunch as well. The sandwich tasted good. It had mayo, something else she despised but not enough to refuse to eat. The potato chips were salty and greasy but the best part of the meal. There was nothing special about the water other than it was lukewarm.

  She consumed the meal in just a few minutes. The sustenance settled her stomach a little. The woman in black returned with a first-aid kit, a towel, and a sports bottle of water.

  "You made short work of that."

  Gina didn't respond. Instead, she examined the tray, looking for anything she could use to help free herself. She hoped for a plastic knife but found nothing useful. These weren't the kind of people who made mistakes.

  "Let me see your arm."

  Gina didn't move.

  "I'm not going to hurt you."

  "Really? Silly me, being kidnapped and tied to a chair must have made me a little paranoid."

  "Just let me see your wrists."

  Finally Gina held out her free arm. "Happy?"

  "The cuts aren't deep but I bet they sting. I'm going to rinse the wounds, dry them, and put on an ointment that will keep them from hurting so much."

  "I didn't say they hurt."

  The woman's shoulders dipped. "You are a tough little girl. I was the same way at your age. We have something in common."

  "Except I don't kidnap and terrorize teenagers."

  The woman moved Gina's arm so it extended to the side and raised the water bottle, squirting a stream in the wounds. The cold water stung and dripped from her arm to the floor. Her captor dabbed the area dry, then spread the ointment over the wounds, covering it with a self-adhesive gauze patch to hold the medicine in place.

  She freed Gina's other arm and repeated the steps. "Better?"

  "I guess. How about my clothes? That would make me feel better."

  "We'll see. First, I'm going to take you to a bathroom. To do that, I'll have to blindfold you, and of course, I'll have to release the rest of the restraints. You will cooperate with me. Do you hear? I'm a nice person at heart, but somewhere along the line I lost my conscience, so if you give me any trouble, I'll put your head through a
wall. If you try to run, it'll be your head through a wall. If you scream—"

  "My head, your wall. I get it."

  The woman produced an opaque band of cloth and wrapped it around Gina's eyes. Moments later the nylon ties around her ankles were clipped away and the band over her thighs and the one around her waist slipped away.

  A strong hand pulled her to her feet and led her slowly from the room.

  "YOU'VE BEEN AWFULLY QUIET since we left the colonel." Wallace insisted on driving the CID-issued sedan, which was fine with Zinsser: He had a lot to think about.

  "Yeah, lots on my mind."

  "He booted his aide and me out because he wanted to talk to you privately. He was protecting us. Am I right?"

  "No, he was protecting Sergeant Kinkaid. He hates you."

  "Well, the feeling is mutual."

  "What you need to know, Boss, is this: This may hit the fan and if it does, you're going to cover Colonel Mac's six."

  "I am? Are we forgetting who's in charge here?"

  "I haven't forgotten a thing, but this case is different. In most cases, I'm an outsider coming to the crime scene. Here, well, I know these people and I owe them a lot. I know I'm being a little footloose with rules and regs. I've always been that way. I need you to bear with me on this."

  "You've been a pain in my butt for a long time, Zinsser. Why should I?"

  "Because you can't resist my baby blues."

  "I'm gonna need more than that, bub. Your baby blues do nothing for me."

  "This isn't a typical murder, AWOL, drug trafficking, or embezzlement from military funds. This is real war, Boss. What we do may impact the lives of a lot of people."

  "I know what real war is, Zinsser. I've done a couple of tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan."

  "Then you know what I'm talking about. Look, you can fire me when all this is over if you want. I'll go make lattes in some coffee shop, but for now, give me some leeway."

  "You're asking me to trust you."

  "Yes, I am."

  "Well, why didn't you just say so? Understand this, when it hits the fan, I want you standing in front of me."

  "Count on it, Boss. Count on it."

  TESS WAS PACING HER apartment. She was supposed to be working on a short course for a seminar at the Army War College in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Since marrying J. J., she reduced her hours so she could live near Fort Jackson with him. Not willing to let her go, the War College talked her into teaching a few days each month in seminar form. She was happy to do it. Study and teaching were her life. It was her way of contributing to her country. She still taught symposiums on suicide bombers, especially the rise in female bombers, but she also had intel expertise. More than once she worked with one of the alphabet soup intelligence agencies.

  Colonel Mac used her skills on a few occasions, especially when the team was in Italy and other countries last year chasing down a group of female suicide bombers. Now her husband was in Russia without an invitation. Her last meeting with Mac gave her chills and robbed her of any appetite.

  She was in a unique position. No other team member could reveal to his family what J. J. could reveal to her. Her expertise and previous involvement with a mission gave her inner-circle access. Unlike the other wives, Tess knew the dangers her man had faced; not in general but in detail. While wanting to feel privileged by her special standing, being married to one of the men in the field caused her more concern; knowledge brought sharper, serrated fear.

  Tess put on a pot of tea. Its shrill whistle demanded attention. She walked from the small apartment living room to the smaller kitchen and took hold of the pot's handle. Her hand was shaking. Instead of water pouring from the spout in an even stream, it jiggled and sloshed. Still, she managed not to spill. A few moments later, the cran-apple flavored herb tea had steeped, and Tess carried it to the dining room table. She sat and opened a Bible—J. J.'s favorite Bible.

  She had no reading plan, no particular passage in mind. She just needed to read words providing some comfort, some confidence, some reminder God was still on His throne.

  She opened the text to the middle of the book and found the Old Testament book of Psalms, a collection of song lyrics written by many godly people, but mostly by King David. J. J. loved David's psalms. She remembered asking him why.

  "Because he was a poetic warrior, a leader, a soldier, a ruler. Not perfect by any means, but in good and bad he clung to God and never apologized for it. At times he had to flee to save his life; at other times he had to wade into battle. In some ways, we are alike."

  "You and King David?" She chuckled, then stopped. He was being serious.

  "I know he was a far greater man than I'll ever be, but the same mouth that gave orders to enter battle was the same mouth that sang praises to God."

  J. J. was alwaith Tess. They had, on many occasions, discussed the tension between his faith and his duty. It was the kind of conversation that could only be shared among intimates, but it was also the kind of topic in which she could offer no advice. Ironic. She advised intelligence agencies and military leaders, but she couldn't guide her own husband through the winding, oftentimes uphill path of the soul.ys honest w

  J. J. was a kind man, a man honest with himself and therefore with Tess. "I've killed men, Tess, but only because I've had to." He spoke of the narco-terrorist in Mexico who held innocents captive and how, as team sniper, he had to down several men, shooting them while they stood near the window of a warehouse used to store drugs and the firefight that came after that—a firefight that left him wounded and bleeding nearly to death. He survived by God's will and the quick work of his team. He spoke of killing innocent shepherds that he and the team believed were part of a terrorist camp in Afghanistan. There were other stories, and J. J. told each one with a measure of pride doused in regret.

  Once he said: "Do you know what my greatest fear is, Tess?"

  She didn't, but said she did.

  "My biggest fear is losing my sense of regret. On mission, I can't think about my feelings, can't second-guess an order, can't doubt a mission. When I pull the trigger, I need to do it because there is no other choice, but if I forget that I'm taking human life, then I stop being human. I'm afraid of losing my spiritual conscience."

  Tess knew military lifers and saw what a stripped conscience could do to a person. She also knew enough heroes to know that being a soldier doesn't require the surrender of one's mind. J. J. would never become a flesh-and-blood machine.

  Tess flipped through the pages of J. J.'s NIV Bible and found a passage marked with yellow highlighter, Psalm 144:1–2:

  Praise be to the LORD my Rock,

  who trains my hands for war,

  my fingers for battle.

  He is my loving God and my fortress,

  my stronghold and my deliverer,

  my shield, in whom I take refuge,

  who subdues peoples under me.

  Tess raised her trembling hand, interlaced her fingers, closed her eyes, and prayed for J. J., the team, and Moyer's family.

  The phone rang, startling Tess so much she nearly knocked her teacup over. She glanced at the clock. She had been praying for half an hour; it seemed like moments.

  It rang again, its sound foreboding.

  Tess set her hand on the cell phone and raised it. It took another second for her to tap the talk key. "Yes."

  "Tess? It's Colonel MacGregor. I need you."

  "My husband—"

  "No change in status. I'll see you soon." He hung up. Mac was never one for pleasantries.

  Two minutes later, Tess was out the door.

  CHAPTER 30

  "YOU'RE THINKING AGAIN, COLT."

  J. J. looked up from his uncomfortable seat near the FedEx truck's rear door. "How can you tell, Shaq?"

  "There's smoke coming out your ears."

  "Sorry, I forgot to oil my mental gears."

  "So what's got you so preoccupied?"

  Now everyone in the back of the van was lookin
g at him. He was certain if Lev could pull it off, he'd turn around in the driver's seat and stare too.

  "What? A man can't think?"

  Moyer spoke, breaking thirty minutes of silence. J. J. had seen the man in every kind of situation. He saw Moyer when he was deep into his beer, when he was leading the team in physical training, when he faced off with high-ranking officers, and when he was in the heat of battle. But nowhere, at anytime, had he seen the mask of neutrality the team leader had been wearing since he received word about his abducted daughter.

  "You're the thinker of the group," Moyer said in a flat tone. "When you think, we all get nervous."

  "Hey!" Pete said. "I think. So does Doc. Shaq, well never mind."

  "You know you're within arm's length, don't you, Junior?" Icicles hung from Rich's words.

  "Can it, guys." Moyer didn't bother to open his eyes. "We still good, Lev?"

  "No. There's a vodka shortage in the cab."

  "When this is all over and if we're not moldering in some field, I'll buy you a vat of the stuff so you can drown yourself in it. I ask again, are we still good?"

  "Yes, Mr. Boss. The Russians are still well ahead of us. They can't see us, but I can see the dust they're kicking up."

  "Good." Moyer opened his eyes and directed them at J. J., who not only saw this but somehow felt it. "Okay, Colt. Spill it. You got a sermon to share or something?"

  J. J. laughed. "Preaching isn't part of my skill set, Boss. The last thing you need to hear is me preaching."

  "Uh-huh. So what's on your mind?"

  "Just batting ideas around."

  "You're avoiding the question."

  "Yeah, Colt," Shaq added, "you're avoiding the question."

  J. J. grew nervous. "I was thinking about your situation, Boss. You and your family."

  "What about it, Colt?" The words were hard.

  J. J. smiled. "I've been thinking about a phrase I heard in a song. It's been haunting me."

  "What phrase? What song?"

  "The song's been covered by several people, but I keep hearing Rufus Wainwright. The song is 'Hallelujah.'"

  "Leonard Cohen wrote it in 1984." Crispin removed the earbuds. "Colt's right, at least a half-dozen people have recorded it. It was in one of the Shrek movies. That made it famous."