by Bob Mayer
The man across from him snorted. He was old, as was everyone in the room except two of the men and the woman. The nine oldest had all fought in World War II. Six of those had served in Unit 731, Japan’s infamous biological warfare unit in Manchuria that had killed thousands in their experiments. They knew what message Abayon had sent with this video, since they had done the exact same thing to prisoners to test their various viruses at 731. The prisoners at the camp were called meruta—logs—dehumanizing them and using them to perfect weapons of mass destruction long before the term became well known.
“Abayon is not a problem,” the man in charge said. “There is a plan being implemented to remove him. This, however”—he jerked his linger at the corpse— “along with many other incidents over the past decade, proves we can no longer deal with our criminal associates. They have become incompetent and lazy. And too well known.”
“The Yakuza are useful,” one of the others argued. “They are a blunt instrument of violence that can be wielded when needed.”
“The world is becoming a place,” the man replied, “where blunt instruments of violence are as dangerous to the user as to the target. Worse, the government has been trying to penetrate the Yakuza for a long time. We have intelligence that they have managed to insert several deep undercover agents inside the Yakuza. The Black Wind is no longer secure.”
That brought quiet to the room. The man waited. One by one, each person at the table nodded their assent to his decision.
Except for the last person. The only woman not only nodded, she spoke. “I wish the honor of completing this task.”
Every head in the room swiveled from her to the man in charge. He pursed his lips, deep in thought, and then his head twitched, almost imperceptibly giving his assent.
Okinawa
“Why do you want him killed?” Vaughn demanded as Royce came back into the chamber after an absence of over an hour. During that time, Vaughn had pored through the documents, which contained little more than a time and a place where the target could be “interdicted” later that day. There were photographs of a street intersection taken from numerous angles. And of the target—a middle-aged Japanese man, always dressed in black suits and usually accompanied by several other men that Vaughn could tell were professional bodyguards. Sometimes, though, the entire group accompanied another man, who they all, including the target, seemed to be guarding, which didn’t make much sense to Vaughn.
“I don’t want him killed,” Royce said. “The Organization wants him killed.” He checked his watch. “We need to get you in the air if you’re going to make the interdiction.”
Vaughn had noted that the target was in Tokyo, several hours flight from Okinawa, and the time window was tight. He looked over at the pile of gear he’d brought from the Philippines.
“Forget that,” Royce said. “Everything you’ll need is on the plane. It’s a simple job.”
Vaughn followed Royce down the corridor and got in the Rover. “Who is the target?”
Royce continued driving, but he spared Vaughn a glance. “You don’t get it yet, do you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve seen your service record. When you ran missions in Iraq, did you know the names of those you killed?”
“They were the enemy,” Vaughn argued.
“Really? Were the insurgents wearing uniforms? Carrying little signs that read ‘I am the enemy’?”
Vaughn already knew where this was going. “It was a combat zone.”
“The world is a combat zone nowadays,” Royce said. “You think those people in New York on nine-eleven thought they were in a combat zone? Your first brother-in-law?”
“So this guy is a terrorist?” Vaughn asked, holding up the picture.
The Rover was barreling down the highway toward the military airfield. “Here’s the deal, Vaughn. I don’t know his name. I don’t know what he does. I don’t know why the Organization wants him dead. I get the mission, I task it out. This entire operation runs on cutouts. The way true Black Ops are supposed to. I know how it goes. Even in Delta, you wondered sometimes if there was someone doing the really bad shit. The dark stuff. No fucking mercy. No oversight. Certainly you wondered that?”
Vaughn glanced out the window at the Okinawan countryside. A cut out was a person who knew both sides in a covert operation but was the only link between them. If the cut out was removed, then both sides were secure and could never find out who the other was.
“I understand, but—”
“There are no ‘buts’ in Section Eight. You do the missions you’re assigned. Right now that man is your mission.”
They pulled into the airfield, where a Leaijet painted black was waiting, engines running. Vaughn noted that there were no identifying numbers painted on the plane’s tail. Royce rolled up to the boarding steps.
“As I said, everything you need to do the job is inside. You’ll be taken around customs once you land. You’ve got the target and location. You have one hour to make it back to the plane, which will bring you back here. The plane is coming back whether you’re on it or not.”
Vaughn got out of the Land Rover and it pulled away. He stood for a moment, watching it, then looked at the stairs and the dark entry into the plane.
There was nowhere else to go.
Jolo Island, Philippines
Rogelio Abayon could hear his own breathing. The sound of air rasping in and out of his lungs. He felt like he would never get a clear breath. Never fill his lungs completely without hearing the sound of one of the simplest of human autonomic functions. And he knew he wouldn’t. Of that the doctor was certain. Abayon knew his breathing would be the last thing he would hear, and that when he heard silence, there would be no more.
No words of comfort from family or friends. The former had been his wife, and she was long dead, over sixty years. He’d watched her die. The latter he could count on one hand with four fingers left over, and he was about to send that one person away from him and knew he would never see him again.
There was a tentative knock on the steel door, the sound muted and faint, stirring Abayon out of his dark thoughts.
“Enter,” he ordered.
The door swung open, protesting on rusty hinges. Maintenance of his quarters was not what it used to be. There were more important chambers in the complex that demanded constant attention.
A young man dressed quite well for the environment entered. He wore a gray silk suit with highly shined black shoes. Abayon assumed his guest had brought the suit and shoes in a bag, since getting to the cave complex’s secret entrance was quite an endeavor. The effort was not lost on Abayon, since it confirmed his decision to entrust a critical part of his plan with this young man.
“Ruiz,” Abayon said, extending his hand.
Ruiz shook the old man’s hand and then took the indicated seat.
“Are all the objects in place?” Abayon asked.
“Yes, sir. The last shipment arrived two days ago and they are in a secure location.”
“And the auction?”
“The word is being put out discreetly to specific buyers. This is a very closed and elite world, and we’ve let enough information slip that the excitement and interest level is very high.”
“It should be,” Abayon said. “And the Chinese?”
“They are very happy with the shipment we gave them as payoff. They are providing us with security and support as requested. They believe our story about the Japanese, so they are more than willing to help us as there is no love lost between those two countries.”
“Excellent,” Abayon said. He raised his hand. “Go and do your duty.”
Ruiz stood. “Yes, sir.” He turned and walked out the door.
For several minutes Abayon was alone, then there was another knock. The second part of the plan. The time spacing between the meetings had been to ensure that Ruiz and the next man would not meet. Only Abayon knew the full extent of what he had spent years planning. He had not really needed Ruiz here, sin
ce he’d already known the answers to the questions he’d asked, but everything was coming toward the end, and throughout his life as the leader of the Abu Sayef, Abayon had always wanted to meet face-to-face with subordinates before they went to do tasks he had assigned them. He always wanted to look his men in the eyes and get a feel for their state of mind and emotion, while at the same time letting them know that he was taking full responsibility for their orders. He never delegated responsibility. It was a lesson he had learned during the Second World War fighting the Japanese.
The second man who entered was Abayon’s age but in much better physical condition, although he was missing three fingers from his right hand—the result of a machete blow from a Japanese officer during World War II. The two had known each other since childhood.
“My old friend,” Abayon said.
Alfons Moreno walked up to Abayon, took his hand and kissed the back of it before sitting down. “Is it time?” Moreno asked.
Abayon nodded. “The dark ones are stirring the nest to see what comes out. We must make sure our sting is much worse than they ever feared.”
“The man was from the Yakuza, and the assault was pushed by the Americans,” Moreno pointed out. “Two different directions.”
“Yes, but we know the Organization was pulling the strings in the background, just as they’ve been since—who knows how far back they go? We have never been able to determine that.”
“We have not been able to determine much at all about our enemies.” Moreno frowned. “But the raid failed and the envoy did not succeed.”
Abayon shook his head. “But I don’t think either was designed to succeed. The Organization plays games with people. To see how they react. They are trying to draw me out so they can have their Golden Lily back. They have tried before and they are patient, but now they rightfully fear me, so they are taking action first.”
Moreno sighed. “It is all too complicated. This game.”
Abayon knew that Moreno considered him a bit of a paranoid. To survive this long, he’d had to be paranoid. “Yes, it is complicated, but it is necessary because our opponents also are complicated and shift identities. And it is no game. Much is at stake. The future of everyone. Most people around the planet are living as slaves and don’t even see their shackles or who controls their lives.”
“I know it is not a game,” Moreno said. “But remember that there are good and evil people on both sides. The Americans helped liberate us in World War Two. Colonel Volckman taught us much of the tactics we still use.”
“Volckman was a great man,” Abayon agreed, “but he is long dead and the new world is much different. The Americans seek to crush all who do not believe as they do, and that seems to be in the Organization’s interest.”
The two had had many similar discussions. Moreno had long ago accepted that Abayon had a much larger vision than he did. Moreno had always been the practical one, while Abayon was the great thinker. They had made a formidable team over the years, surviving despite large bounties being put on their heads. They’d also survived several attempted coups by younger members of the Abu Sayef.
It bothered Moreno at times that his old friend did not simply concern himself with their goal of an independent Muslim state among the islands surrounding Jolo. Abayon’s vision had always extended far beyond the borders of the Philippines and beyond the stretch of the immediate future.
“You are ready?” Abayon asked.
Moreno nodded even though the question was mainly rhetorical. “The last repairs were completed three days ago. I would have liked to do a practice cruise, but it is too dangerous.” He smiled. “Let us hope everything works, or I might submerge and never come back up.”
“You will come back up, my old friend. And when you do, our enemies will howl from the pain you will inflict.” Abayon lifted his hand, gesturing for Moreno to come close. When Moreno did so, Abayon half lifted himself out of the wheelchair, wrapping his still strong arms around Moreno.
“You are my secret weapon,” Abayon whispered. “I will never forget you no matter what happens. I will miss you, my friend.”
Okinawa
Royce had stopped the Land Rover in the shadows of one of the hangars and watched the Leaijet carrying Vaughn take off. He checked his watch impatiently, then nodded as a similar jet came in from the west and landed. He waited until the door opened and a short, stocky man got off, a duffel bag hoisted over one shoulder.
Royce drove the Rover up to the man, who threw the duffel in the back and got in the passenger seat. The two exchanged nods but not a word. Royce drove to the same spot he’d been in and parked. The other man finally spoke as Royce turned off the engine.
“Who are we waiting on?”
“A member of your new team.” Royce pulled a file out of his case and passed it to the other man.
“Fuck,” the man muttered as he opened it and saw the black and white photo on top of the military personnel file. “A woman?”
“She’s good, Orson,” Royce said.
“Since we’re waiting on her,” Orson said, “I assume she passed her test.”
Royce nodded. “Six hours ago in Bangkok.”
Orson checked the file. “Captain Layla Tai. Weird name. She a keeper?”
Royce turned and looked at Orson. “That’s to be determined.”
Orson laughed. “As always.”
A third jet came in for a landing, and Royce turned his attention to it, ignoring Orson. If there was one thing that had impressed him in all the years he’d been working for the Organization it was that it never lacked for money or resources.
The plane pulled up to the stairs and the door opened. The woman whose file Orson had been perusing stepped out. She had a white bandage taped to the left side of her forehead and looked disoriented. She was a slender, tall woman with dark hair cut very short. Her eyes had a slight angle to them, indicating Asian genes in her bloodline.
“The test was a little rough?” Orson commented, glancing up from the file as Royce started the truck.
“Looks like,” Royce said. “But she’s still breathing and mostly in one piece. She’ll do. You bring her in. I have to go to Hawaii on that plane to get support for your team’s mission rolling.”
Orson frowned as he flipped a couple of pages. “Captain Tai was Military Intelligence?”
Royce didn’t reply, since the answer was on the printed page.
“What’s our leverage on her?”
“Her sister. And prisoner abuse in Iraq.”
Orson flipped through and read. “I don’t think that’s good enough. I don’t think she’ll be a keeper.” He snapped the file shut as Royce brought the SUV to a halt at the base of the stairs.
CHAPTER 5
Hong Kong
Ruiz came out of the jetway into the vast expanse of Hong Kong International Airport. The other passengers on his flight gave him a wide berth as he walked up to two men wearing long black leather coats and sunglasses—despite the temperate climate inside the terminal and the fact that it was night outside. Ruiz had to assume these agents of the government had watched too many western videos and adopted their attire based on those images. It was a problem he saw everywhere he went—the American way of life was corrupting the world in ways most people didn’t even notice. On the other hand, he also realized that it was a very nice way of life if one was on top of the pyramid of power.
“Ruiz,” one of the men barked, holding up a badge.
“Yes.”
“We are your escorts,” the man said, snapping the badge shut and sliding it into his pocket. “Come with us.”
“My luggage—” Ruiz began, but the men got on either side of him and by sheer momentum began moving him.
“It will be taken care of.”
The two moved him along, walking in step. They bypassed customs with a flurry of badge-waving. By the way everyone deferred to the two guards, Ruiz had to assume they were not merely underlings sent to escort him. Perhaps the leathe
r coats and sunglasses were more than just an affectation, he thought as they exited the terminal and the man who had shown the badge gestured for him to get into a waiting limousine.
Ruiz noticed there was someone already in the back as he slid in, trying to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting inside. The two escorts got in the front, separated from the rear by a thick plate of bulletproof glass. The limousine moved away from the curb.
“I have been to the holding area,” the man in the shadows said.
Ruiz waited.
“It is as you said it would be,” the man continued. “Very impressive.”
“Then we are set?” Ruiz said.
The man nodded. “Yes. I don’t suppose you will tell me how your group came into possession of these articles?”
“That is not a story I am authorized to tell,” Ruiz said. “As I informed you earlier, we were not the ones who stole them initially. We appropriated them from the original thieves. And now we are trying to make things right.”
“And make money.”
“For our trouble, yes.”
“Let us hope there will be no trouble.”
Tokyo
A limousine was waiting outside the Learjet. Vaughn was dressed in black slacks, black T-shirt, black leather jacket, and in his right hand had a metal case concealing a sniper rifle. All had been waiting inside the plane. He felt overwhelmed, but impressed with the efficiency of the Organization and Section 8.
He’d thought when he went into Delta Force that he had gone as deep into the world of covert operations as one could go. Now he knew he’d just seen the tip of the iceberg. As Royce had said, he—and his teammates—always suspected there was more out there. They’d seen too many things, too much that was unexplained, to accept that they were as deep as it went.
The driver got out of the limo and went around the near side near the foot of the plane’s stairs, opened the door and waited, still as a statue. Vaughn went down the stairs and inside. The door slammed shut and they were off.
