by Bob Thomas
“Nothing sir. I think I’ve gone as far as I can go with the intel we can get up here.”
“I appreciate the effort you put into this. I hope what we passed on made a difference.”
“General, I appreciate being brought on board for this. I just wish I could have done more.”
“Captain, I think I just had a hare-brained idea.”
“I think it had merit, General. No one else thought to look into things like this.”
“Well, no one we know of anyway,” Foxx replied. The general extended his hand. “Captain, if there’s anything I can do for you, you just let me know. Now get going.”
Captain Jenner met his commander’s hand, then snapped off a smart salute. He took a final look at the map that had been hodge-podged together, his duty station for the past week. He turned, his mind immediately focusing on his next task; an F-16 Fighting Falcon. He slipped his left hand into his trouser pocket to keep it from shaking.
San Diego Naval Station
“Commander Lewis reporting as ordered, ma’am. ” Lt. Commander Jennifer Lewis pulled up a smart salute before sitting down across the desk from her commanding officer. “What gives? I’m not in trouble again. I’ve been a good girl.”
“This month, Commander.”
“What’s this about, Admiral?”
“I have rush orders for you. You are to report to Washington for special assignment.”
“As in the state of?”
“DC.”
“Any idea what this is about?”
“None.” Rear Admiral Danielle Howard tossed the papers on her desk. “The Navy doesn’t tell me everything, Commander. Sometimes I just pass along the paperwork.”
“How much time do I have?”
“None. You leave in two hours.”
“Two hours? I won’t have time to pack.”
“Then don’t. Grab a bag of necessities. I’ve put a call into my counterpart at Edwards. You’ll hop a Hornet up to Edwards where an F-15 is taking you directly there.”
“Why don’t I just ride a Hornet all the way?”
“With the Vinson deployed, I can’t spare the fighter. You’ll have to ride with the Air Force.” Admiral Howard leaned back as she assessed her commander. “Jen, this has the feel of something big. I don’t know why, it just feels that way.” She straightened and locked her fingers as she put her forearms on the desk. “You have top-notch credentials, Commander, but you’ve always fallen short of your ability. You need to nail this one, and I mean nail it hard.”
“No matter what it is?”
“No matter what. Shove off, Commander.”
“Yes ma’am.” Jennifer Lewis saluted crisply, turned in order and was out the door. “What the hell am I going to do in Washington?”
The Falcon slipped in below the KC-135, the boom steady as it hung in the rushing winds. Captain Will Jenner swallowed hard. He hadn’t done this in a very long time. He gripped the stick tightly with his right hand, and wrapped his left around the thrust control as much out of nervousness as it was to keep it from shaking. The voice in his headset helped to steady his nerves.
“That’s it. Just keep ‘er steady Captain. You’re doing great. Just a little closer.”
“Why am I doing this? Why aren’t you piloting this thing?”
“Those are my orders, Captain. You are to fly, and we’re too far away from DC to make it without refueling.”
“Even with the extra tanks?”
“Even with tanks.” The voice in his helmet went quiet for a second. “You know that.” Silence filled the cockpit again. “Almost there Captain.”
This is the part Jenner hated the most. Some fighters slipped up behind the fuel cone and pushed their nozzle in. They controlled it all. Falcons were different. The boom operator controlled the hookup because it was behind the cockpit and out of sight. Jenner watched as the winged boom eased over his cockpit. Five seconds later he heard the clunk of metal on metal and his panel told him the connection was made.
His flight screens took their agonizing time registering the added fuel. In-flight refueling was a dangerous but required procedure. Every pilot was rattled in his first attempt, and although he had done this many times, this felt like his first. The rush of fuel at last stopped and the boom disengaged. Jenner dropped a few feet before backing away. He looked up as the boom retracted into the massive plane, the Stratotanker’s shape silhouetted against bright sky. He breathed a sigh of relief as he flexed his hand, his palm now wet.
“Nicely done, Captain. How long has it been?”
“Two years. Two, long, damn, years.”
Day Ten
The White House
“Just go in there and sit down, Lieutenant.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“You’re a tall one, Lieutenant. Just how big are you?”
“I’m six-foot seven, ma’am.”
The assistant nodded and motioned him into the room. Kyle Anthony smiled as she winked at him and turned away. He was used to it. His freakish height often drew stares in the army. He stood out in a crowd, literally head and shoulders above everyone in the room, no matter what room he was in. The joke was they would send him over the hill first so he could see what was going on.
‘I’m in the White House. The freakin’ White House’, he thought to himself. “What the hell am I doing here?” he said aloud.
“You’re to be part of a very special mission, Lieutenant.”
Kyle spun at the unexpected voice behind him. He stood tall, coming to attention though not offering a salute.
“Lieutenant Kyle Anthony reporting sir.”
“At ease, Lieutenant.” Martin Powell waved toward the settee. “Sit, Lieutenant. Sit.”
“Yes sir.” Lieutenant Anthony tucked his hat firmly beneath his arm and seated himself. He ran his hand over the fabric. It was as plush as anything he had ever felt.
“Lieutenant, do you know who I am?”
“I think so sir.”
“Good, then you know, or I hope you know, I’m not a bull-shitter.”
“I wouldn’t think so, Mr. Powell.” Kyle laid his cap on his lap and folded his hands. “Sir, what’s going on?”
Martin began to pace, rubbing his temples as he walked. He made his way over to the window and looked out across the lawn. The white blanket still held the city tightly within its grasp. The president’s chief of staff turned, placing his hands behind his back.
“Lieutenant, I ask that you make yourself comfortable for an hour or so. I can get you something from the kitchen if you like.”
“No thank you, sir. I ate just before my drive up here.”
“You’re the one from Bragg?”
“Yes sir. I just arrived in the city.” The one from Bragg. ‘That meant there were going to be others,’ he thought
“Son, I won’t say anything for now. I’ll need to wait. There are others who will be here.”
“When will they be arriving?” Kyle Anthony stood immediately and snapped off the perfect salute. “At ease, Lieutenant.”
“Yes sir.”
“General, I’m not sure exactly, but I know it will be soon. One is coming from Alaska and …”
“I know,” Scott replied. “From San Diego.” He motioned to the lieutenant to take his seat again. “They are both inside the beltway. They should be arriving within the hour.”
“And the other two?”
“Already here. I’m having them shuttled over from the Pentagon.
Lt. Anthony fidgeted for the next hour. He wasn’t used to being in such company. He suffered through other officers, but being forced to sit around a Lt. General, not to mention the president’s chief of staff, was more than a little uncomfortable. He took a huge breath and sighed as two other officers, both army, walked in. He was relieved.
“Major Francis Brown.” The major stepped forward and saluted General Scott. Kyle stood in front of the couch behind the general, ramrod straight, saluting the major when he turne
d.
“Captain Ruth Garrison.”
“Before we get down to business,” Martin began, “could ya’ll military types do me a favor and forget all the salutin’? It gives me a headache.”
“Consider it done,” Scott replied. “It’s the order of the day.”
Just as they sat down, the final two members of the team were escorted into the room where the round of salutes and introductions began again. It was all Martin could do, not to roll his eyes. He wasn’t a military man. Far from it. It was as foreign to him as was grits to a Yankee. He just didn’t get it. It wasn’t his world. But he understood the loyalty; he understood the command. Just as they again readied to sit, they rose in unison as President Edwin Kiger walked into the room. The junior officers were nearly in shock.
“Please forgo all the formalities, gentlemen. Sorry. Ladies as well.”
A chorus of ‘yes Mr. President’ followed. POTUS waved them all down into their seats. It was a casual affair as the furniture felt like they were sitting in someone’s family room, albeit a luxurious family room. The six officers were grouped three to a couch directly across from each other. Martin sat in an over-stuffed arm chair at the end between them. POTUS walked to the wall and pulled a white, shaker chair to the end opposite Martin. He leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. They now formed a rough circle and all eyes were on their Commander-In-Chief.
“I know this is a little strange,” POTUS began, “but I wanted to do this myself.” POTUS looked up and measured their initial reactions. There were none forthcoming. “You five have a certain skill-set that lends you to a specific task. Although what you are about to hear is important, I want you all to know, this is a voluntary mission.” POTUS straightened, sitting up and resting his hands on his knees. He paused before continuing. “However, if any of you feel you can not in good conscience operate within the parameters of the mission framework, I will be forced to scrub this mission. You five are all we have. There are no other personnel available in the time frame we have to accomplish this mission.” POTUS extended his hand toward his chief of staff. “Martin.”
For the next forty-five minutes, Martin Powell laid out the circumstances and the mission parameters. His audience sat in near-stunned silence. When he was finished, he returned to his seat, sat down and folded his arms across his chest. President Kiger took the floor for the final time.
“That’s it. Because of the short time frame, some of the details will need to work themselves out as you go. We’ll have to hope in timing and a little bit of luck.” POTUS paused, letting his words sink in. “Anyone who feels they can’t fulfill the duties of this mission needs to speak up now. Your military records will show nothing of this mission should you succeed or not.”
“We’re in, sir.”
“You can’t speak for everyone, Major,” General Scott said.
“He speaks for me,” Commander Lewis replied.
“And me.”
“And me.”
Lieutenant Anthony was the last to speak, partly in fact that he was the most junior officer of the bunch. He sank back, into the soft couch, his eyes downcast.
“Sir, I don’t have the experience of these officers,” he said as he raised his head, “but I will not be the weak link in this chain. I’m in.”
President Kiger sighed with a half-smile. He knew he had just committed to something from which he could not turn away. Come hell or high water, the die was cast.
Washington-Dulles International Airport
The Sukhoi SuperJet-100 sat quietly on the tarmac awaiting its passengers. The first of a new generation of Russian built passenger airliners had only been in service for a couple years and almost none had ever visited the United States. They had been used primarily in Europe and the Far East. It was all they needed to hear to put the plan into effect. The CIA officer posing as an FAA official addressed the pilot, who was not taking the news well.
“We have been ordered to have a complete inspection of this aircraft, Captain.”
“But it is a good plane. Nothing is wrong with it!” The pilot was furious, but he knew the Americans would make him wait longer if he continued to protest.
“I understand, but this is not my decision,” he answered with a slight smile. He tossed his hands up in the air for effect. “I’m sorry Captain. It shouldn’t take very long, just an hour or two.”
The pilot huffed but knew he could do nothing about it. It was politics and he was sure the Americans were interfering just because they were Russian. It probably had something to do with the accident over Alaska. He turned and stomped his way back down the gangway and into the cabin where he delivered the news to the passengers, a ballet troupe that had been performing in the states. They would be forced to disembark, and wait. The news was greeted with a collective groan. The troupe was off and lounging around the terminal within ten minutes. The pilot was the last to walk back down the ramp where he was again, promptly greeted by another official.
“Captain? I’m agent Holmes from Homeland Security.”
“What do you want now? I have done nothing.”
“Sir, this isn’t about you.” The agent removed a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his suit and handed it to the captain.
“What is this?”
“Sir, I need to have these people questioned by my department. Can you provide them to us?”
“These are Russian citizens.” His voice peaked, drawing the attention of his passengers. “I will not hand over anyone to you.”
“Then we’ll have to take them, Captain. I know you don’t want it to get ugly.” Four other agents flanked out, cutting off the exit to the rest of the terminal. “I just need them for questioning.”
The captain’s face turned beet-red, the color more noticeable due to his thick, white hair. But he knew he could do nothing. He had little experience with international customs other than baggage claims, and he had no contact information for the Russian embassy. They would be the only ones who could stop this madness. He’d been in the United States several time before and never needed it. He thrust the paper back toward agent Holmes and turned to his co-pilot.
“Drako,” he said in Russian, “show these, gentlemen,” he said with disgust, “who they wish to speak to.” A nod was his only reply. “I assure you Agent Holmes, we will make the strongest protest to our embassy.”
“That is your right, Captain. I’m only the messenger. I’m just doing my job.”
Five members of the troupe were escorted from the terminal, two women and three men, and the others could only watch hoping no one would come back for them. The last of the inspectors disembarked within the hour.
“Captain, she’s all yours,” he said. “I apologize for the delay.”
“Where are my passengers?” he yelled.
“Sir, I only inspect aircraft,” he replied as he began his walk down the long row of windows. “Someone will be back to speak to you.”
The Russian captain was furious, and his passengers were scared. He began pacing. All he could do was wait for whomever was to contact him next, another imbecile, he was sure.
“Captain?” Agent Holmes announced as he walked into the terminal. “Good news,” he smiled. “You’re cleared to take off.”
“What about my other passengers?”
“Unfortunately, they will have to remain with us,” Holmes replied as he closed the distance. “But everyone else is free to go.“ Holmes extended his hand, but the Russian let it hang in the air. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Captain. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
The captain turned abruptly and waved his passengers toward the plane. They flooded toward the gangway, filling the opening with bodies. Agent Holmes could understand nothing as the captain shouted instructions in Russian. The terminal was cleared within minutes as Holmes grinned, pulling his phone from his pocket as he turned.
“Director Thorn? They have re-boarded. Everything went as you hoped.” He slid his finger across the screen, e
nding the call. Now it was back to the agency to debrief. He heard the engines cycle up as the Sukhoi SuperJet was pushed away from its berth.
Russian Embassy - Washington
“Yes. And tomorrow morning we leave for home.” Andrey Volkov fidgeted in his seat. He hadn’t expected this call. He was hoping this trip to America would give him a respite. “I can do nothing from here. My contacts must be approached in the proper manner.” He dipped his head and rubbed his forehead. “I understand. But you must know it is difficult to do this half a world away.” Andrey gripped the arm of the chair to steady himself. He was slowly losing control, and it infuriated him. All his training, all his experience was slipping away, and he could do nothing to stop it. “Da. Do svidaniya.”
The former Russian general let his phone slip from his hand and hit the carpet. He looked ahead, his gaze a blank, empty stare, the room around him nothing more than a desert. His life, a glorious accomplishment had dissolved into an old man trying to hold onto the past, trying to protect the only thing he had left, his family. Andrey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He straightened and put his hands on his knees. He could feel them shaking. He closed his eyes as a single tear rolled down his cheek. He was at the bottom. There was nothing left. There was only one way to protect his family, his daughter, his granddaughter.
The Russian chief of staff eased himself off the chair and reached down, pressing his palms against the creases of his pants. He could not have his trousers wrinkled. He had standards. He passed through the door into his bedroom, making his way to the small closet. and had his suitcase open on the bed a minute later. He reached in, his hand finding the familiar handle. He slid it out, feeling its heft. It was a friend, perhaps the only true friend he ever had in this world. He studied the shape of the handle and the line of the barrel. He had always liked the Makarov. It just seemed to fit his hand. He’d carried it since the day he received his first commission. He slid his finger onto the trigger, knowing the next few seconds would end his agony, and his family would be safe. He sat down on the edge of the bed, the white blanket smooth across the queen-sized mattress. He struggled to take in another breath as his hand began to shake. The barrel lay against his chin as the tears began to fall. He could feel the tempo of his heartbeat. He could feel it in his temples. His chest was ready to explode.
