by Mack Maloney
“Sounds good to me,” Graves said.
On a helipad on the roof of the next building over sat two brand-new OH-6J helicopters armed to the teeth with 50-caliber machine guns, wing-mounted rockets and a nose-mounted 30mm cannons. Both were painted ghostly black and had decals on their noses identifying them as Bad Dawg One and Bad Dawg Two.
“Item one,” the attorney began, gesturing over his shoulder at the pair of fierce-looking copters. “Mister Graves, those two aircraft now belong to you and your associates.”
The three government representatives sank a little lower in their seats.
The attorney next put two photographs on the table. One showed six sniper rifles, of various shapes and sizes, all of them brand new and equipped with classified targeting equipment. The second photo showed an updated version of the M198 howitzer with a variety of shells on display around it, including satellite-guided ordnance.
“Item two,” the attorney said. “The equipment in these photos now belongs to Mr. Graves and his associates. Delivery date to be determined.”
Graves picked up his wine glass and pretended to toast the government reps.
“Item three,” the attorney went on. “Agent Curt Hush of the ONI will immediately be relieved of his duties, and an independent prosecutor will be appointed to investigate any illegal acts committed by Agent Hush and/or the ONI in or around the Indian Ocean in the past ninety days.”
More embarrassed looks from the government’s side of the table.
“Item four,” the attorney continued. “Any officers and staff assigned to Building 18 at Walter Reed Army Medical Center as of January of last year will be immediately relieved of duty.
“Item five, the DoD will reimburse the owners of the Rijah Saleem shopping mall in Yanbu District, Saudi Arabia, for the price of one slightly used IH-6 work helicopter.
“And item six—the U.S. Navy agrees not to perform any unwarranted searches on vessels belonging to Kilos Shipping or its subsidiaries.”
Kilos and Conley did their best to suppress a smile at this.
The attorney flipped over to the second page.
“Now for the items in dispute,” he said.
He turned to the Navy admiral. “The floor is yours,” the attorney told him.
The Navy officer looked sternly at Graves for a few moments. In reply, Graves blew a cloud of smoke in his direction.
“Mr. Graves,” the admiral began. “Investigating the ONI I can understand, I guess. But you can’t really expect me to give you the names of the two pilots who, quite unfortunately, shot at you that night in the Indian Ocean.”
“Why not?” Graves asked him.
“Well, because you’re not really clear what you want these names for,” the officer replied.
“I want to find these guys and fuck them up,” Graves said plainly.
“As in physically assault them?”
“Yes.”
The Navy officer looked at Graves’s left hand. “Are you sure?” he asked.
Graves sent another cloud of smoke his way. “Breathe deep, Admiral,” Graves told him.
The lawyer interrupted. “Is this a deal-breaker?” he asked Graves. “It is highly unusual.”
Graves thought a moment and then just shook his head no. “I’ll find out eventually,” he said.
The attorney breathed a sigh of relief. “OK, then let’s move on.”
The DoD official spoke next. “We looked into your next request—or demand, whatever,” he began. “And we have to tell you this will be harder than you think.”
“Why?” Graves wanted to know.
“Because it is extremely difficult to reverse the decision of a military court,” the DoD man said.
“But that was a secret court,” Graves told him, getting angry. “And it was a sham. There was no defense attorney present. No right of rebuttal or appeal.”
“It was ‘the times,’ ” the DoD official said. “Post-9/11. And it was an order that went all the way up to the person who was at the top of the DoD at the time. And you’ll have to believe me, I know Washington politics. The judge, we can make do a back flip on this. But that former top guy? You’ll have to wait until he dies before that decision can be reversed. I’m sorry—but that’s just the way it is.”
There was complete silence around the table. The only noise was coming from the soccer field on the other side of the hospital. The U.S. team had just scored a goal. In celebration, people were chanting, “USA! USA!”
The Kilos attorney looked at Graves and shrugged slightly.
“Deal-breaker?” he asked.
Graves looked at Kilos himself and Conley. Both men knew how passionate Graves felt about this last item.
“OK,” Graves finally said. “I want two alternate things as a substitute.”
He leaned forward so he was just inches away from the DoD representative.
“I want you to appoint an attorney whose sole job it will be to get this military trial decision overturned,” he said. “Not in a backroom or a funeral home, but in the courts, through legal means. I want this guy to have an office, an aide and a secretary. I want him working full time on this until it happens.”
The DoD man was stunned. “And your second request?”
Graves leaned back in his chair. “Five million dollars,” he said. “Tax-free, in cash.”
Those on the government side of the table all looked like they wanted to throttle Graves, one hand or not.
But after a brief discussion, they reluctantly agreed to everything.
“Now it’s your turn to come through, to make good,” the CIA man said to Graves.
Graves took a long drag of his cigarette and crushed it out. Then he retrieved a notebook from his back pocket. It was the book he’d taken that night while raiding the brothel on Brothel Beach. He put it on the table and pushed it toward the man from the CIA.
“Page fifty-six,” Graves said. “It’s the only one written in red ink.”
THE MEETING BROKE up five minutes later. Graves walked back to the rehab wing of the hospital to find Crash, Twitch and Gunner waiting for him in the lobby.
The team had been here since the action on Calzino Island. The U.S. military agreed to take care of them in return for a briefing on everything that happened in their pursuit of Zeek Kurjan. In particular, the CIA wanted the address book from the brothel and especially the dirt on the Chinese leadership and its sexual peccadilloes.
This was Graves’s enormous bargaining chip, and it had pretty much gotten him what he wanted for his teammates—all except for Nolan.
The Team Whiskey leader had been recuperating in his own private suite on the top floor of the rehab wing. After his final battle with Zeek, a Filipino tuna boat had fished him out of the sea, ironic in a way. The Filipino crew contacted the DUS-7, but by the time Nolan had been transferred back to the Dustboat, the U.S. Navy, NATO and the Seychelles military had all converged on Calzino Island.
“We’ll be back in business in less than a month,” Graves told the team members now. “And we’ll be richer for it, too.”
There were high fives all round, and then Graves said he’d meet them back in his room for some serious drinking. But first he wanted to go talk to Nolan.
He made his way down the corridor and up the stairs, finally arriving outside Nolan’s room. There was a long, narrow window on the door, and before knocking, Graves peeked in.
He saw Nolan, standing at the foot of his bed, his back partially turned to him. Oddly, Nolan had a typical household iron in his hand and a small ironing board set up in front of him.
Graves actually scratched his head. What the heck was he doing?
He watched his colleague for a few moments and then realized that Nolan was ironing an American flag. Graves recognized it as the same flag Nolan had given to Twitch to stem his bleeding that night over the Talua Tangs, the same one Nolan had waved from the mast of the DUS-7 to save them from getting sunk by the Navy fighter jets, the same on
e Nolan had been quietly carrying around with him ever since that fateful day at Tora Bora.
As Graves continued watching, Nolan pressed out the newly washed flag firm and square. Then, putting the iron aside, he meticulously folded the flag into a triangle, and finally sat on the edge of his bed. He started turning the folded flag over and over in his hands, stopping only occasionally to wipe his good eye.
Graves removed his hand from the doorknob and decided not to knock. He quietly walked away.
They could talk some other time.
A FEW MINUTES later, Nolan carefully laid the flag on the table next to his bed. He walked out on the open balcony of his suite and sat in the padded chair there. From here he could look right out on the Mediterranean.
He could see all kinds of ships passing by: pleasure boats, commercial ships. Some military vessels. The afternoon was warm with only a slight breeze, but out on the water, several fog banks had emerged.
Nolan wiped his moist eye a few more times, then leaned back and eventually fell into a deep sleep, his first in a very long time.
Had he stayed awake, though, he would have seen an unusual vessel passing slowly out of one fog bank.
It was container ship, painted black with a white bridge—and to anyone paying attention, it looked curiously empty.
It was in sight for only a minute or so, before it slipped into another fog bank and vanished again.
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Table of Contents
Title
Copyright Notice
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
PART ONE: Team Whiskey
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
PART TWO: Reunion—One Year Earlier
Chapter 5
PART THREE: The Ghosts of Happy-Happy
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
PART FOUR: The Taking of the Vidynut
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
PART FIVE: Protecting Chastitsa Zvyozd
Chapter 17
PART SIX: South to Zanzibar
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
PART SEVEN: The Last Battle
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
