TALISMAN: A Shadow Warriors Short Story

by Stephen England

  Carter turned back to his computers. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking Captain Trudeau might have picked up some company. Finding it might put us that much closer to a solution.”

  The analyst’s dark fingers danced over the keys, tapping in another command. After a moment, he shook his head. “The nearest KEYHOLE satellite is three hours out. That’s gonna be too late…all this will be decided by then. Don’t we have any way of reaching the Scranton at depth?”

  “They can receive, but there’s no way for them to reply. In the old days,” Holbrook added, “we would have used the ELF radio band, but the environmentalists succeeded in getting that closed down in ’04.”

  Carter snorted. Do-gooders. Always had a way of coming around and biting you.

  But it was time. “It’s your op, Jim…and your call. Do we abort?”

  No matter how many years, no matter how many times you’d held this ball in your hands—the decision never got any simpler. Holbrook shook his head, staring up at the map on the wall, a blinking red icon indicating the position of their target. “No. We execute PRESIDIO.”

  11:22 P.M. Local Time

  The Columbus Monte-Carlo

  Monaco

  PRESIDIO, Tex thought, standing there in his hotel room—his suitcase open on the bed before him. It was the word used by the Spanish for the frontier forts they’d constructed in the Americas. To defend themselves against the Apache. His people.

  It was also the alternate mission plan, the option they had never planned on using.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a mission go so completely wrong. Wouldn’t be the last.

  Didn’t make what he had to do any easier.

  His big hands moved quickly, efficiently, over the hard polymer—re-assembling the Smith & Wesson M&P Compact he’d brought with him across the unguarded border with France.

  No borders. It was a lofty idea, in theory. In reality, it only served to make the work of men like him easier. He lifted the semi-automatic pistol in one hand, sliding a full double-stacked magazine into the grip. Twelve rounds of 9mm Federal Hydra-Shok, jacketed hollowpoints. Carrying hardball wouldn’t have been of much use—pistol rounds weren’t going to go through good body armor on the best of days. The Smith & Wesson went into a holster under his armpit, in a cross-draw position.

  Another pair of loaded magazines went into the pocket of his motorcycle jacket. Along with a long, thin suppressor.

  “Remember, there’s no backup on this,” Carter’s voice reminded him as he left the hotel room, closing the door behind him. “Not with Bravo Team being sidelined. Your orders are straightforward—infiltrate, take out TALISMAN, and exfil. With any luck, you’ll be back in France and on a plane back to the States before dawn.”

  Luck. He didn’t like the sound of that. “What about the girl?”

  “What about her?” He could tell from the sound of Carter’s voice that the decision had already been made.

  Maybe they’d even kicked the ball all the way back to Langley, but somewhere in those halls of power, a life had been ruled expendable.

  “When they find her in the morning, they will kill her—slowly,” the Texan replied under his breath, walking swiftly down the carpeted hallway of the Columbus. His dark eyes scanned the ground ahead of him, flashing anger. “We both know that.”

  Silence. “There’s no way to do it…not without blowing the mission wide open.”

  The mission. And that was all it came down to in the end, he thought, watching the elevator doors close in front of him as he pressed the button for the first floor. All that mattered.

  Just another pawn in the great game.

  11:49 P.M.

  The USS Scranton

  “There’s something else out there, captain,” the sonar operator announced, his tones barely above a whisper. A hush had fallen over the control room, seamen going about their work as quietly as possible. The French might have been a NATO ally, but that didn’t mean the Scranton’s crew had any intention of getting caught in their backyard. Even with the Leygues-class frigate now on a course away from them, at least eight klicks out.

  “Biologics?” Trudeau demanded, referencing the noise of fish and other creatures of the sea. The sonar operator shook his head. “A contact?”

  Another shake of the head. “Can’t tell. If it is another sub, it’s just sitting there, sir. Like we are. The towed array isn’t giving us anything more.”

  Time was running out, Mitt thought, glancing at his wristwatch. He knew what patience was--he’d once lain among the rocks of an Afghan ridgeline for over three days, his Remington M24 aimed down the slope toward the village below.

  Watching a Taliban warlord through his scope.

  Almost seventy-five hours, well-nigh motionless underneath the hot sun of an Afghan summer. Until the order had come to take out his target.

  But this…this was different. And this delay was placing the mission itself in jeopardy, more so with every moment that passed.

  “How much longer are we going to keep feinting at shadows?” he heard Carson demand from behind him. Clearly, the medic was feeling it as well.

  “As long as we need to,” the Scranton’s CO retorted angrily and Mitt shot his teammate a warning look.

  Let me handle this. He held up a hand as if to dispel the tension, moving closer to the captain.

  “I need you to understand something, captain,” he said, lowering his voice as he stared the older man in the eye. “Tonight is our last shot at a man who wounded our country. And we’re dangerously overdue.”

  Trudeau held his stare for a long moment, not giving an inch. “If there’s a sub out there, sergeant…you’re going to be a lot more than overdue. This is my boat—and my call. Give me ten minutes.”

  Impossibly close. After a moment, Mitt inclined his head to one side. “Ten minutes.”

  Carson looked at him as he walked back across the control room. “What was the alternate?”

  His lips pressed together into a thin, almost colorless line. “They execute PRESIDIO. And Richards goes in alone.”

  11:51 P.M.

  The Mediterranean

  Sound carried a lot farther than people thought. Particularly over the water.

  The Texan stared up into the night, watching clouds drift over the face of the crescent moon. He’d killed the small powerboat’s engine four kilometers out from the yacht’s position, letting it drift toward his target on the ocean currents.

  His target.

  The United States didn’t conduct assassinations—or at least that was the official story. That was the law. But for every law, there was a loophole.

  And a half dozen lawyers ready to give you a helpful push through it.

  So here he was. He laid his bag on the seat in the stern of the boat, unzipping it to remove his wet suit.

  The water was going to be cold tonight, the former Marine thought, unbuttoning his shirt as he looked out across the waters.

  It always was.

  “We’re showing you two klicks out,” the voice in his ear informed him. “What’s your status?”

  “Getting ready to go over the side,” Richards replied, glancing toward the boat’s anchor as he removed his shoes. “What can you tell me?”

  “PRESIDIO is still a go.” That told him everything he needed to know. Station Rome hadn’t heard from Bravo Team or the Scranton. He was on his own. But something was wrong in the analyst’s voice.

  “There something else, Ron?”

  A moment passed as the cool night breeze washed over the boat, sending a chill through his body. Or was it fear—a premonition?

  “We lost our audio on TALISMAN,” Carter replied. “He gave her some bullcrap excuse about her phone interfering with the yacht’s navigational systems. And she bought it.”

  The big man closed his eyes. Eighteen going on thirty. Not even old enough to know what she didn’t know. To grasp the darkness that lay just beneath this thin veneer
the world called “civilization.” “All right.”

  “Your orders haven’t changed, Richards,” the voice in his ear reminded him. “TALISMAN is your only target—your only concern. Take him out and exfil…copy?”

  Black eyes stared out into the night, dark coals of fire. “Copy that,” the Texan replied, sliding the S&W’s holster onto his dive belt.

  Right…

  11:58 P.M.

  The USS Scranton

  “Sonar, conn—what are you showing? Give me some good news.”

  Nakamura could see the strain in the captain’s face. The tension of the waiting game.

  “Conn, sonar—our screens are clear. Still picking up flow noise from the wreck to the northeast…but that looks like all it is.”

  Trudeau gave him a nod, picking up the mike. Past time to get underway. “Engineering, conn, engines ahead—”

  Without warning, a curse exploded from the sonar operator’s lips. “Conn, sonar—we have a contact—eight hundred meters out and closing. She’s headed straight for us!”

  To his credit, the Scranton’s skipper never flinched, countermanding his orders to the engine room without a moment’s pause. “What are we showing, Sonar?” he demanded, his voice hushed.

  A moment passed before the sonar room replied. “We have a sub closing on us sir, speed nine knots—depth, one-three-zero meters. She’s gonna pass right under us.”

  “Do we have an ID?”

  There was a strange note in the sonar operator’s voice, Nakamura realized. It wasn’t panic—the man was too well-trained for that. But he was rattled.

  “Negative…she’s not in the library—at least nothing definite.”

  Trudeau looked up, his eyes meeting Mitt’s. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Captain…the library is giving me one 61% match. It’s the projected sound profile for the Barracuda-class, the new French fast-attack.”

  It was the captain’s turn to curse, his tones so soft that Nakamura nearly couldn’t hear him. Everyone in the conn seemed alive to the proximity of the contact, as if they could hear it passing through the ocean beneath them.

  “How can that be?” Trudeau whispered. “The Suffren wasn’t even supposed to be launched for another year.”

  There was no answer to that question—no time for it.

  “Two hundred meters and closing. One-nine-zero meters.”

  Nakamura’s eyes locked with the captain’s. “What’s your plan?”

  “One-six-zero,” the sonar operator intoned, a lethal cadence to his voice as he announced the remaining distance.

  Trudeau shook his head. “There isn’t one. Grab a bulkhead and pray we don’t get rammed.”

  “One-four zero meters…”

  1:05 A.M. Local Time

  U.S. Embassy—Palazzo Margherita

  Rome, Italy

  Silence had fallen over Station Rome, the glow of monitors and the big plasma the only lights remaining in the room. A half-eaten pastry lay forgotten scant inches from Carter’s hand as he stared at the screens. His eyes burning with a haunting intensity.

  “You’ve seen Richards in action,” the station chief began, his voice low enough so that the rest of their team couldn’t hear him. “What’s he going to do?”

  “No idea. What do I look like…some sort of prophet?” Carter shot back, seeming as if he were on edge. Perhaps they all were.

  America’s intelligence community had sworn vengeance for the carnage of that December night—and now part of it lay within their grasp. So close that one could taste it.

  All that remained was to close their hand…to snuff out a life.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a terrible liar?” Holbrook asked.

  “My ex used to say that all the time. You tellin’ me she was right about something?”

  The older man leaned in close. “Don’t mess with me, Ron. You’ve worked with the man for years—I need to know what to expect.”

  Carter took a deep breath. “Richards…will put a bullet between TALISMAN’s eyes. And he will do everything within his power to bring Rachel Mancuso out with him.”

  Holbrook swore, loudly enough to attract the attention of a pair of analysts on the far side of the room. “There’s no way to do that without jeopardizing this mission. I know that. You know that.”

  “And he knows that,” the analyst responded. “And all three of us also know that there’s zero chance of her surviving the next twenty-four hours if he doesn’t. He’s not Nichols, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Nichols was a machine.”

  Carter shook his head. “Yeah…a machine that broke.”

  “Fair enough,” Holbrook sighed, glancing across at the interactive maps thrown up on the plasma. “Well, we all break, sooner or later.” This was the reality of sending men into the field—no matter how well-trained, they could still surprise you.

  They were men, and the best still had the fragments of a conscience. Like Richards.

  And as the veteran CIA officer stared up at the screens, he found himself beginning to whisper a prayer.

  That this man would follow his orders…and not his conscience.

  12:36 A.M. Local Time

  The Mediterranean

  For a combat swimmer, approaching a yacht at night couldn’t have possibly been more different than doing the same thing to a military vessel. Richards had done both…and if given a preference, he’d take the yacht every time.

  No contest.

  Lights glowed from the massive pleasure craft, shimmering like fire against the waves.

  Marking it like a flaming beacon in the night. Silhouetting members of TALISMAN’s security team, fore and aft.

  Two-man teams. The buddy system. It was going to make it difficult to take them out without raising the alarm. But take them out was exactly what he was going to have to do…if he was going to rescue the girl.

  When had he made that decision? He wasn’t sure, not really—perhaps from the very first moment he had known. If there was one thing worse than being a woman in an Islamist country…it was being a female prisoner in their hands. He’d seen that—witnessed the aftermath. And he wasn’t going to let it happen to her.

  His head raised barely above the waves, Tex stayed just back from the radius of light, treading water as he surveyed the guard positions.

  No heavy weapons that he could see from the distance—that was a plus, but he had no doubt that they would break them out at the first alarm.

  The yacht’s name was on the stern, he saw as he swam forward—emblazoned just across from an access ladder leading down into the sea. Khaybar.

  It was the name of a battle, the Texan remembered that much. From the days of the Prophet.

  Nichols probably would have known more, he thought, the name crossing his mind unbidden. His former team leader might have been best described as an Arabist…his knowledge of the Middle East—its people, its culture, its faith—second to none at the Agency.

  But all that had been before the fall. And there was no time to consider that—not in this moment.

  Eyeing the distance between where he found himself treading water and the blind spot directly beneath the Khaybar’s stern, Tex lifted his head, filling his lungs with air. His time on the surface was over.

  And then he dove into the waves, water engulfing his face— powerful legs churning the ocean as he propelled himself toward his target.

  Light from the yacht glistened off the surface of the water above him, a disorienting effect. He could remember training—being forced to re-assemble a Beretta underwater…before surfacing. You’ll try, Marine? You’ll fail!

  But he hadn’t failed. Not then.

  Not now.

  1:42 A.M. Local Time

  U.S. Embassy—Palazzo Margherita

  Rome, Italy

  “How much longer till Richards is aboard?” Holbrook demanded as he paced back and forth behind Carter’s chair, his wingtip shoes resounding like handclaps a
gainst the tile.

  The analyst glanced at his watch. “Two kilometers of open ocean…I’d say it might take him thirty-five—forty minutes, at best. Which would place him aboard right about…now.”

  Holbrook let out a sigh. “Now it gets dicey.”

  A nod from Carter served as his only reply. It was the understatement of the night. One operator up against al-Harbi’s eight-man security team. That didn’t count the helicopter pilot. Or the crew of the yacht.

  It wouldn’t have been a cakewalk even with Nakamura’s team backing their play.

  As it was…

  Carter stared down at his hands, hearing only the ticking of the clock on the far wall. Holbrook’s pacing.

  Remembering his own words on that dark day…his return to the op-center at Langley following the attacks on Vegas. “We are going to find the…people who did this to our country. And we are going to see them burn.”

  That’s what tonight was. Vengeance.

  From across the room, one of the station’s communications officers waved an urgent hand. “We have the Scranton coming in over the VHF band.”

  Carter crossed the room in a few bounding steps, snatching up the radio microphone. “You’re late to the party, SAMURAI. Where have you been?”

  There was a heavy burst of static before Nakamura’s voice came through. “Playing chicken with a French fast-attack. What is our status on TALISMAN?”

  Holbrook and Carter exchanged glances before he handed the microphone over to the station chief.

  “We’ve already initiated PRESIDIO,” Holbrook announced. “It’s going down as we speak. Your orders are to RTB immediately. Do you copy?”

  Return to base.

  There was only silence for a long moment before Nakamura responded, and the reluctance was evident in his voice when he did so. “Copy that, sir.”

  12:45 A.M. Local Time