Section 8

by Bob Mayer

  A rocket-propelled grenade streaked into the alley, and one of the SUVs exploded, showering the narrow space with metal and body parts. Then a second SUV was hit, and Kasama caught a glimpse of the rocket being fired from the rooftop just before it hit. Everyone was piling out of the third SUV, firing at the rooftops.

  The limousine jerked forward, the driver trying to make them a moving target within the confines of the kill zone. There were four sharp, loud cracks, and then the sound of thousands of steel ball bearings splattering against the side of the limousine. A series of claymore mines had been hidden along both sides of the alley, and their effect upon detonation was to kill every man who was outside. Their riddled corpses were splattered about the alley, and the limousine jerked as the driver ran over one of them.

  An effective combination, Kasama thought as he was thrown against his seat belt when the driver threw the limo into reverse. Someone had anticipated possible defensive reactions. He was almost curious to see what would come next. His head bodyguard thrust out a spare submachine gun toward him; he looked at it, then shook his head. Enough face had been lost.

  “Stop,” Kasama ordered.

  The limousine came to a halt. The frightened driver looked over his shoulder to the rear. His bodyguard stared at Kasama in confusion. The confusion turned to fear as Kasama reached for the door handle.

  “Sir! You cannot.”

  Kasama ignored him. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped out of the armored car. He could smell the distinctive odors of explosives and human viscera. He slowly turned, looking about, trying to see his enemies. His body was tense, expecting a bullet to impact at any second, but all was suddenly quiet.

  He spotted no one. His bodyguard exited the car, weapon in hand, and was promptly killed as a bullet from a hidden sniper hit him between the eyes, taking half his head with it as passed through. The limo driver took that as his cue and accelerated away, leaving Kasama, even though there was no escape route. The car made it about forty feet before rockets from either side of the alley hit, almost ripping it in two.

  Kasama folded his arms and stood tall.

  A door across from him opened up and a figure stepped out, a samurai sword in hand. Kasama’s eyes widened as he made out the feminine body outline underneath the black one-piece suit. The ultimate insult.

  CHAPTER 8

  Okinawa

  The Humvee that had picked Vaughn up at the airfield came out of the tunnel into an open chamber where several other vehicles were parked, including three more Humvees. Various mounds of supplies were stacked here and there. The driver still had not said a word to him, indeed had not looked at him once, either in the rearview mirror or by turning around. As soon as the engine was turned off, as if on cue, the door to the right swung open and people began stepping out, all wearing sterile camouflage fatigues. Vaughn slowly got out of his Humvee, and as soon as he was clear, it departed, back the way it had come.

  My new team, he thought as he looked at them.

  Several things struck him right away about his new teammates. First, one was female. A slender woman of Japanese descent with dark hair shorn tight against her skull and a white bandage on her forehead. One of the men was Korean. Vaughn had served long enough in the Far East to tell the ethnic differences among the races. Another was African-American. The other two were Caucasian, one a tall man with graying hair, the other short and powerfully built, with what appeared to be a permanent scowl on his face. And they all had the aura that Special Operations personnel carried. A sense of confidence without a need to press it upon anyone.

  The short man stepped forward. “I’m the team leader. Name’s Orson.” Only five and a half feet tall, Orson looked like a human fireplug. “I spent some time in the SEALs,” he said vaguely. “Including ST-Six.”

  Vaughn knew that Team Six was the SEAL version of Delta Force—an elite counterterrorist unit. He’d worked with elements of Team Six several times on training missions but had never met Orson.

  Orson turned to the others. “Gentlemen—and lady,” he said. “Our latest and last addition to the team. Vaughn, formerly of Delta Force.”

  The “formerly” resonated in Vaughn’s ears. For some reason, the way Orson said it made the finality of his decision strike home. There was no going back. He’d heard of people who, rumor said, had been recruited for covert units and then simply disappeared into the world of black ops. Vaughn also noted that Orson had not used his rank—another indicator that things were going to be very different. He followed as Orson led him down the line, introducing his new teammates.

  “Hayes,” Orson said, stopping in front of the black man. “He spent most of his childhood in the Philippine Islands, so he’s our area expert. Also qualified on weapons and demolitions.”

  As Vaughn shook the man’s hand, he had to wonder why his Delta Team hadn’t had access to Hayes as an area specialist. They certainly could have used more intelligence about the setup on Jolo. He also noted that there was a tremor in Hayes’s hand, so slight it was almost unnoticeable. Almost.

  “Vaughn,” Hayes said, the greeting noncommittal. He stepped back with a glance at the Japanese woman next to him.

  “Tai.” Orson said her name so sharply that Vaughn was uncertain for a moment if it was her name or some expression, but the doubt disappeared as she put her hand out.

  “Welcome to the team, Vaughn.”

  ‘Tai is expert in demolitions, but her particular expertise is in intelligence and counterintelligence with a specialty on terrorism, particularly in the Pacific Rim although she has spent time in the sand-box.”

  The way Tai’s head jerked ever so slightly at the mention of the Middle East indicated there was more to that.

  Orson moved on to a tall gray-haired man. Before he could say anything, the man stuck his hand out. “Hey. Sinclair’s my name. Spent some time in Fifth Group and the schoolhouse at Bragg teaching at SWC.” He pronounced it “swick,” which was what Special Forces people called the Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg.

  “Nice to meet you,” Vaughn said, feeling a bit strange. Every other time he’d gone to a new unit, he’d at least known someone there, since the U.S. Special Operations community was still a relatively small one. Here he had no advance intelligence on these people and had to assume, or hope, they had none on him. He’d never met Sinclair, as far as he could remember, but Special Forces had grown into a large community in the last decade, and once he was in Delta Force, he’d little interaction with the Special Forces groups.

  “Kasen,” Royce said, stopping in front of the Korean. “Formerly of the First Ranger Battalion.”

  Kasen’s grip was strong and the skin rough, toughened; Vaughn assumed it was from a rigorous martial arts routine. Kasen said nothing, staring at him with no apparent emotion, but Vaughn felt a coldness in the man. Vaughn had gone to Ranger school but never served in one of the battalions. He had a lot of respect for the soldiers who did, since they were the most elite infantry in the U.S. Army and perhaps the world. But there was a much different attitude between soldiers in the Ranger battalions and those in Special Forces: the former were more action oriented and thought in the short term, while the latter tended to be more cerebral and considered long-term missions.

  “We’re glad you’re finally here so we can proceed,” Orson said, giving Vaughn a cold look. With that, he spun about and headed back to the door.

  “Hey,” Sinclair said, slapping Vaughn on the back, “I’ll give you a hand with your gear.”

  Orson led the other three inside, leaving Vaughn with Sinclair to haul the contents of the bundle that had been left there from his previous time in the tunnel.

  “Friendly fucking lot, aren’t they?” Sinclair said as he hoisted a duffel bag.

  “You been here long?” Vaughn asked as he threw one strap of his rucksack over his shoulder and they headed for the door.

  “Six hours,” Sinclair said. “I was the third one here. I guess we’ve been waiting on you
to get the show going.”

  “So everyone is new to the team?”

  Sinclair shrugged. “I am. You are. You’ll have to ask the others.”

  “Did you have to—” Vaughn hesitated, not sure how to phrase it.

  “Pass a test?” Sinclair nodded. “Yeah, but we ain’t supposed to talk about that. Everything’s a big secret here. Hush-hush and all that good shit.”

  Vaughn had wanted to know how long Sinclair had been in Section 8, but he knew better than to ask too many questions right away. There would be time for that later. Sinclair’s answer, though, did indicate this was a newly assembled team, which meant he wasn’t the outsider. That was both good and bad: good, because he wouldn’t have to be accepted by those who had already formed bonds; bad, because it meant they all would have to quickly form the bonds of trust and training that the upcoming mission was going to require. The thought of going on a mission with a group of people who had just been thrown together didn’t sit well with Vaughn.

  They stepped through, and the steel door slammed behind them. Vaughn looked around. A typical setup for isolation. Plywood boards with maps mounted on them along with satellite imagery and lists of supplies. Two more doors at the end that Vaughn assumed led to their bunks and latrine. “Functional” was the word that applied.

  The other three Section 8 members were seated in folding chairs, Orson standing in front of them, waiting with impatience. Vaughn and Sinclair dropped the gear and sat down in the two remaining folding chairs. Orson had a remote in his hand, and a multimedia projector had been set up, attached to a laptop on the lectern in front of him. Orson took a thumb drive out of his pocket and plugged it into the USB port of the laptop. He worked the keyboard for a few moments.

  “Our mission,” he began, “is to kill the leader of the Abu Sayef, a man named Rogelio Abayon.” The face of a middle-age man appeared on the screen over Orson’s right shoulder.

  Vaughn felt a surge of adrenaline as Orson confirmed what Royce had promised—this was the real deal. No more pussyfooting around. No more reacting. They were going to take the war to the bad guy.

  Orson tapped the screen. “This is the last photograph we have of Abayon, and it was taken over twenty-five years ago.”

  “No one’s seen this guy in twenty-five years?” Sinclair asked with disbelief.

  “No one’s taken a photograph of Abayon in that time,” Orson clarified. “He’s been seen, but rarely. It appears he hasn’t left Jolo Island in all those years. And outsiders aren’t welcome on Jolo.”

  Orson looked at Hayes, a not too subtle prompt.

  The black man nodded. “I saw Abayon on Jolo once, eight years ago. Only in passing. From what I managed to pick up, he has a hiding place on Hono Mountain, which pretty much dominates the entire island. There’s supposed to be a set of tunnels built up there connecting natural caves. Only his closest people know where the entrance is.”

  Tai spoke up. “If Jolo is controlled by the Abu Sayef, what were you doing there?” she asked Hayes.

  “My father was in the U.S. Navy. My mother was Filipino. I grew up mostly in Manila, but when I was twelve I—” He paused, as if figuring out how to say it. “—I traveled around the islands a lot with my friends. There are a lot of people like me, people of mixed race, in the islands. So although I don’t pass as a native, since I speak the language and know the ways of the land, I can go pretty much anywhere.”

  “Eight years ago you were on Jolo?” Tai prompted.

  Hayes nodded. “Yes.”

  She waited but he didn’t elaborate.

  “Your teen years seem long gone,” Tai finally said. “What were you doing there?”

  Hayes stared at her. “I was working.”

  “Doing?” she pressed.

  Vaughn glanced at Orson and noted that he wasn’t stepping in, giving tacit approval to Tai’s line of questioning. Vaughn had noted that while Orson had given the background of certain members of the team, for others he’d been rather quiet.

  Hayes didn’t blink. “I was negotiating the transfer of funds for illicit drugs. Does that make you feel better?”

  “No,” Tai said. “You’re a drug dealer.”

  “Was,” Hayes said. “And do you want to know who was supplying me with the money to buy?” He didn’t wait for an answer, and Vaughn half expected the answer that was coming, based on his experiences in Afghanistan. “The CIA. They wanted intelligence on the Abu Sayef and they recruited me to get it for them. What do they call it? Humint. Human intelligence. That was me. Of course they denied it, said I was just a drug dealer.”

  “Doing it for money,” Tai said.

  “What?” Hayes asked. “You do it for free?”

  “I do it for my country,” Tai said.

  “So you hand your paycheck back?” Hayes asked.

  Sinclair got them back on track. “When was the last time you were on Jolo?”

  “Two years ago,” Hayes said.

  “Shit,” Sinclair said. He looked at Orson. “And we’re supposed to trust this guy?”

  “Yes,” Orson said. “Hayes has his reasons for being here. As you all do.”

  Sinclair wasn’t satisfied. “So we’re to take your word for it?”

  Orson eyed him. “Would you like to explain to the others why you’re here?”

  Sinclair glared at Orson but didn’t respond, which was answer enough. Vaughn shifted in his seat and picked up the sense of unease that Orson’s question to Sinclair had generated in all of them.

  “But you did see Abayon?” Tai asked Hayes.

  “Only in passing, as I said.”

  “If I may continue.” Orson made it an order, not a question. “As you all know, the Abu Sayef were recently responsible for the deaths of eighteen tourists of various nationalities.”

  Vaughn once more shifted uncomfortably in his chair. But no one turned to stare at him, so he had to believe they didn’t know his role in the recent debacle on Jolo.

  “With the exposure of American involvement in the failed raid on the compound on Jolo Island,” Orson went on, “the normal covert, albeit unofficial, channels of going after Abayon and his organization are closed. No other organization dare touch this, and the Philippine government, which has jurisdiction, wants nothing more to do with Abayon, the Abu Sayef, or Jolo Island. We believe they have negotiated an informal truce.”

  Hayes snorted. “They’ve had an informal truce for a long time.”

  Orson continued. “Unfortunately, we have intelligence that the Abu Sayef have been making contact with various other terrorist organizations, including Al Qaeda. Such a linkage is unacceptable. There are also vague but substantiated reports that the Abu Sayef are planning a major terrorist operation against the United States. Therefore, we are taking the fight to the terrorists, not waiting for them to bring it to American soil again.”

  “Who is we?” Tai asked.

  “Our team designation is Section Eight,” Orson said, deliberately misinterpreting her question. “We have an AST team for support but they have no idea—nor should they—what our mission is. All requests for support will be encoded and passed through the AST, who will coordinate whatever you need.

  “Questions?”

  “Who is we?” Tai repeated. She amplified the question. “Who do we work for? If we’re Section Eight, what is the designation of the organization we fall under?”

  “Who we work for,” Orson said, “is none of your business. Remember, an essential part of this is deniability.”

  “So what do we say if captured?” Tai asked.

  “Don’t get captured,” Orson said.

  Tai was not giving up easily. “If our bodies are found, what will be the cover story?”

  “We’ll be operating sterile with no indications of our nationality,” Orson said. “We won’t need a cover story.”

  Vaughn wasn’t sure he bought that, but Tai seemed to have exhausted that line of questioning in the face of Orson’s stone wall.

&n
bsp; Kasen, the ex-Ranger, raised his hand and Orson acknowledged him with a nod. “Will killing Abayon destroy the Abu Sayef?

  “Abayon founded the Abu Sayef after World War Two. He’s the only leader it’s ever had. Our estimate is that without him, the organization will splinter into ineffectual pieces that will spend most of their energy fighting among themselves. Without Abayon they’ll be vulnerable. At that point it might be possible to get the Philippine government to take a stronger role.

  “There is intelligence there”—Orson pointed at a row of laptop computers—”on both Abayon and his organization. As much as we know, which isn’t much. One thing to know is that during World War Two Abayon fought with the Filipino guerrillas against the Japanese.”

  “So he was on our side,” Vaughn said. He hadn’t even heard of Abayon during the previous isolation for the raid. “Just like Ho Chi Minh was during the same war.”

  Orson didn’t rise to the bait. “Gentlemen—and lady—we need to start planning.”

  “Is there a time limit on this?” Tai asked.

  “We have five days to come up with a plan,” Orson said. “We’ll brief-back then and either get a go or you start over. So let’s make it a good plan.”

  Like we’d want to come up with a bad one, Vaughn thought.

  “Who do we briefback?” Sinclair asked. “Who gives the go-ahead?”

  “The same person who got you,” Orson said. “Royce.” Orson scanned the other five section members as if assessing them with that simple look. ‘Tai, you’re intelligence. There’s a taped briefing on the Abu Sayef in the computer—I want you to distill out critical points in two hours. Hayes, you assist her with what you know about both the group and the locale, and also start giving me ways to infiltrate and exfiltrate Jolo Island and an idea exacdy where our target is.