“The president has cleared the way for operations in Mexico,” Colonel Mac said. “You have been given an unprecedented opportunity. The Mexican military doesn’t like us playing on their field anymore than the Italians. Their military has worked with ours in the past, but just as recently as last year they ruled out joint raids against drug lords.”
“If I remember right, Colonel, they wanted our help with logistics and equipment, but not boots on the ground.”
“Exactly. That’s changed with the rise of violence along the border and drug lord invasion of U.S. cities—that and the fact your team kept Mexico’s president from being shredded by a bomb.”
“Small favors go a long way, Colonel.”
“Yes, they do.” Mac paused for a moment. Over the headphones he wore in the communication room Moyer heard the sound of rustling paper. “You’ll land in Mexico City. It will be after dark. After the president and his entourage deplane, you and your team will remain aboard for two additional hours.”
“That’s a long time, sir,” Moyer said. “Considering our mission, I mean.”
“I’m aware of that. You will remain for two additional hours to give time for the press to leave and for the Mexican army to make ready for you. From TP-01, you will be taken aboard a military helo to the airport in Monterrey. By that time we may have a better address for you.”
“I’d hate to show up at the wrong door.”
“That would be bad, Moyer. Real bad. That’s why we have to do this right. You will have full military operational latitude. Just don’t shoot any of the good guys.”
“We’ll be careful, sir. May I ask a question?”
“Ask it.”
“What are the odds the hostages are still alive?”
“It’s not impossible, but it’s not likely. I’ll have more info for you later. Operations are beginning.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Oh, one last thing. Tess wants you to give J. J. a kiss for her.”
“Colonel, that ain’t gonna happen.”
“I told her so.”
Moyer removed the headset and handed it to the communication’s officer seated to his right. He rose from his chair and wondered what the next few hours held.
ZINSSER FELT A BEAD of sweat trickle along his temple. He wiped it off with the back of his hand, then reached up to the fresh air port above his head and gave it another twist, increasing the flow. His vision blurred, then narrowed, then returned to normal. He took a ragged breath and looked around. The Mexican president’s plane had grown quiet. Some passengers slept; most of his unit slept. The recent events, the near disaster, had left every reporter, every aide, and every team member exhausted.
Zinsser wanted to sleep, but he was afraid to close his eyes—afraid of what waited for him in the darkness.
A resounding pop made him jump. He looked around. It sounded like a gunshot. No, it couldn’t be a gunshot. Something must have happened to the hull’s integrity. He glanced up waiting for orange oxygen masks to drop. None did.
Something pounded his chest, beating from the inside like a man trying to kick open a locked door. His lungs stopped, then restarted a few moments later. Despite his fear, he closed his eyes.
Gunfire. Hot salty air. Crowd noises. The crackling of a radio in his ear. “Data, it’s Echo. I’m hit. I’M HIT.” He heard AK-47 fire and felt a bullet sail by his ear. His temple pounded. His scalp felt on fire. “Data, it’s Echo. I need you, man. I need you. Don’t let me die here. Where are you?”
“No,” Zinsser whispered. “It’s not real. It didn’t happen that way.”
The sound of distant helicopters.
He forced his eyes open. The 757 was gone. The passengers were gone. In their place were the buildings and streets of Kismayo. He could smell the acrid odor of spent gunpowder. He knew it was wrong, understood that it was impossible. He was strapped to a seat of a plane flying 35,000 feet over the Atlantic.
“Move over.”
“Data, I’m hit. Where are you? They’re coming for—”
A sharp pain raced down Zinsser’s left arm. “I said, move over.” He looked up and saw the massive head and black face of Rich Harbison. Rich was always quick with a smile and a joke, but he wasn’t smiling. Or joking.
“What? Um, sure.” Zinsser popped his seat belt and moved one seat over, then decided it might be wiser to move to the window seat.
Rich dropped his large frame into the aisle seat and moved the armrest to his right up and out of the way. Zinsser watched the man study him like he could vacuum him up through his eyes. “You okay?” His words were soft.
Zinsser grinned. “Sure. Great. Why?”
“Because you were about to push your fingers through the arm rests, and I’m pretty sure our government would have to pay for new ones.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
Rich leaned toward Zinsser, and Zinsser leaned back against the plastic hull covering. “I don’t scare, Zinsser. You know that, right? Not much scares me.”
“I’d never doubt your bravery.”
“Yeah, well, you scare me, pal. You give me the shivers.”
Zinsser didn’t like Rich’s tone. If it came down to a fistfight, Zinsser figured he could get in maybe three good punches before the big man folded him like a blanket and stuffed him under one of the seats.
“That was never my intent.” The rapid fire of an AK-47 set on auto echoed in his head. He ignored it.
“Data, I need you.”
“I’ve told Boss this and now I’m going to tell you. I think he was wrong and continues to be wrong. I would have sent you home.”
“If it’s any comfort, Rich. I would have sent me home, too.”
“Yet here you are.” The words were hot but soft.
That did it. Zinsser leaned closer, their noses just inches apart. “May I speak freely?”
“Do it.”
Zinsser could smell the man’s breath. “I didn’t ask for this thing in my head. If I thought it would go as far as it has, I would have disqualified myself.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, Shaq, I didn’t. Maybe someday I’ll be as perfect as you think you are.”
Rich raised a finger. “I will not let you screw up this mission. Understood? You will do as you’re told. I’ll be there to make sure you do.”
“I’ve got it under control.”
“That’s not what I just saw.” Rich stood. “Heaven help you if you get one of the unit killed.”
Zinsser’s anger rose. “You got a bullet with my name on it? A target that fits my back?”
Rich stepped back to the seat.
“Stow it, gentlemen.”
Zinsser looked over the seat back to see Moyer moving his direction. “What’s the problem here?”
“No problem, Boss. We were just discussing strategy.”
“Strategy, eh? That true, Rich?”
“Just opening the lines of communication a little more.”
Moyer’s eyes narrowed. “Come with me, Rich.”
“Boss—” Zinsser began.
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“HERE’S THE DEAL, RICH. I made my decision and I’m sticking with it.”
“Boss, the man is a menace. We can’t depend on him. He shouldn’t be on the team.”
Moyer closed his eyes, then opened them slowly. “Rich, I’m only going to say this once. You’re my friend, and you’re the best soldier on the team, but I’m the one in charge. I make the decisions. I call the shots. You may not like them, but you will obey them. I don’t expect you to agree, and I went out of my way to make sure none of this can be laid at your feet. Is any of that unclear?”
“No, Boss. It’s just—”
“There are no ‘it’s justs,’ Rich. My gut tells me we need him. He made connections we overlooked or couldn’t find.”
“He pulled a gun on you.”
“Yeah, I was there, remember? I’m a good soldier, and I know a g
ood soldier when I see one. If you want, you can write me up when we get home. Better yet, I’ve been given full access to onboard communications. I can call Colonel Mac right now, and you can tell him the unit leader isn’t doing things the way you want. You want to do that, Rich?”
“No, of course not.”
“Good. Let’s put this issue to bed. Can we do that?”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Good, because we’ve got a mission to plan.”
DELARAM HAD, FOR THE last few moments of her conversation with the woman on the monitor, allowed herself to feel a moment of hope. The woman—Tess—had a trustworthy way about her. Her voice carried truth; her expressions showed genuine concern. For a moment Delaram thought she saw pity. No, not pity: concern. Genuine concern.
Turning her head Delaram looked out the window. She was on the fourth floor, and the only view she had was the cluttered rooftop of another shorter wing of the hospital. She shifted her focus to the glass in the window. She estimated the window to be three feet wide and its sill three or three-and-a-half feet above the floor.
She had not been allowed to look out the window, and she wondered if it offered an unobstructed fall to the ground below.
She wondered if she could throw her body against the glass hard enough to shatter it and propel her body through. If she tried, there would only be one opportunity.
She was still strapped to the bed.
There was always someone in the room with her.
Still, if the opportunity presented itself . . .
An odd thought floated into her mind. What would Tess think?
ABASI STRAIGHTENED HIS YELLOW tie and slipped into his blue suit. He checked his wallet and his passport. The name on the passport and on his Egyptian driver’s license read “Baya Bakari.” He examined himself in the mirror. He looked like any of ten thousand international businessmen traveling today. His eyes concerned him: they were red and puffy from hours of weeping.
He first learned of El-Sayyed’s death from a BBC broadcast. The revelation came like a hot dagger to the stomach. Of course, the news spent most of its time on the events in Naples, but they managed to squeeze in a short story about a wealthy Egyptian killed on the Nile by terrorists. He didn’t have to ask who had committed the crime.
Vacillating between rage and abject sorrow, Abasi had stayed in his room and away from the hotel staff. Repeatedly he asked Allah how such a great and kind man as El-Sayyed could be allowed to die this way. Perhaps Allah would consider the great man’s death a martyr’s demise.
Abasi decided it was time to carry on. Plans had been made for his departure; he saw no reason to change them. He would drive the one hundred fifty-three miles to Rome and board EgyptAir flight 792. Four hours later he would be in Cairo, where he’d buy another ticket.
To Mexico.
CHAPTER 33
J. J. KNEW MANY soldiers shut down their emotions. A few had become more robot than human, especially on missions. He’d been taught to keep emotions in check. It was difficult to shoot straight while screaming like a Girl Scout. His training had also taught him that directed emotion could sharpen the senses and make a man more efficient. Some emotions, however, were never useful.
Impatience being one of them.
TP-01 had landed smoothly in Mexico City, and all but the team had deplaned. Every person on board had been sworn to secrecy by the president of Mexico himself, and everyone seemed to take his words as promise and threat.
Two hours passed in near silence. Sleeping seemed the wise thing to do, and J. J. gave it a shot. No dice. Pete and Jose found a deck of cards and played some game J. J. didn’t recognize. J. J. tried to read a newspaper someone left behind, but his Spanish was too lacking to make out more than a few sentences. He tried pacing, but the others gave him the stink eye, so he settled in one of the seats.
He wanted to look out the window, but the plastic shades had been closed. Workmen had set the craft to receive power from the airport. That meant air flowed and the lights worked. It also meant the communications station was operational. Not that anyone was using it.
Moyer and Rich sat at the back of the plane, talking softly, asking “What if” questions. J. J. guessed they lacked any hard intel to do more than guess at a worthwhile mission approach. The first thing J. J. learned after enlisting was how to wait without complaining. In the early days of his Army career, he’d felt like he spent a third of every day waiting to be told what to do. It was one reason many soldiers took up cigarettes. J. J. avoided that, but he understood the desire to have something to do.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Images of Tess pressed to the forefront of his mind. He could see her; he could smell the shampoo she used and the spritz of perfume she preferred. Lord willing, he would soon be introducing her as his wife instead of fiancée.
“What are you grinning about?”
J. J. looked up to see Jose standing next to him. “That’s my secret.”
“Trust me, it’s no secret. Does she know you drool when you sleep?”
J. J. sat up. “No, I don’t.”
“I’ve seen it, buddy. Time and time again. Two words: rubber pillows.”
“Very funny, Medina. You been sampling the morphine in your med kit?”
“Never. Now if the med kit came with beer . . .”
J. J. grinned. “I bet you could find some in the galley.”
“I thought of that. The boss man nixed the idea.”
“So you thought you’d interrupt my reverie. Bored with Pete?”
Jose shook his head. “We’re trying to stir up a poker game to kill time. You wanna play.”
“Nah, but thanks.”
“You sure? It’s your paycheck we’re betting on.”
“Funny man.”
“Hey, I got a bunch of kids to support—”
A pounding sound came from the front of the aircraft. Moyer and Rich appeared from the back. “Pete,” Moyer said.
J. J. saw Moyer motion to the front door. Leaning into the aisle, J. J. watched Pete step to the passenger entrance door just behind the cockpit area. He peered out the porthole. The pounding returned, and Pete turned. The noise came from the front starboard emergency exit. He looked through that door’s window, then stepped back.
Moyer pushed past Jose and moved forward like an ice cutter in the Arctic. From the small steward’s storage closet Moyer pulled a 9mm handgun and handed it to Pete. He took one for himself. They had stored their weapons before takeoff in Italy.
The rest of the team went forward and received handguns from Moyer then spread out through the seating.
“Open it, Pete.”
Pete Rasor turned the long, silver release handle. The door swung in. As it did, Moyer and Pete raised their weapons. J. J., like the other team members, kept the muzzle of his weapon down.
“Avon calling.” The voice came from a man J. J. couldn’t see. The accent was decidedly American. A moment later, “I presume one of you is Sergeant Major Eric Moyer.”
“Identify yourself,” Pete demanded.
“Smith. Dr. Larry Smith. Colonel Mac sends his regards. So does Tess Rand.”
J. J. heard her name and his heart quickened. “She said to tell J. J. . . . wait, I want to make sure I get this right . . . that he needs to be careful because life isn’t worth living without him.”
Several snickers echoed down the 757.
Moyer lowered his weapon.
MOYER LOWERED HIS WEAPON and took in the scene. A man with a barrel-shaped body and bald head stood in what looked like a small shipping container. It took a moment for Moyer to make sense of it. He had seen workers at airports drive a vehicle to the side of an airliner, and then, using a scissors lift, raise a boxy container to the side door of the aircraft. It was how airline caterers off-loaded the drinks and goodies to be distributed on the flight.
“I didn’t expect this kind of entrance.”
“It’s important to keep up appearances. Permission t
o come aboard?” The man held a large brown envelope.
“I don’t know,” Pete said. “That sounds like Navy talk.”
“Just my attempt at humor. I’m still trying to grow a funny bone.”
“I think we have room for one more.” Moyer stepped back and Smith moved in. “I hope you’re here to spring us. We were told to wait two hours—”
“And it’s been closer to four. Sorry. I couldn’t get here faster, and it wouldn’t have mattered if I did. Intel wasn’t ready.”
“Is it ready now?”
“We have a few things to discuss, yes.”
Moyer introduced Smith to the team. When he introduced J. J., Smith smiled. “So you’re the lucky man.”
J. J. blushed, something Moyer hadn’t seen before.
“Okay, let’s talk,” Smith said. “Do you want me to brief you alone or with everyone present?”
“Everyone. It’ll save me from repeating the info.”
“Got it. Take a seat, gentlemen.” He opened the large envelope. “We’ve been busy. Colonel Mac played a wild card and got a good result. He had Tess Rand speak to the bomber chick—”
“Delaram,” J. J. said.
“Yes, Delaram. He felt she could get more out of her than an intel officer or a man in uniform. As an expert in female suicide bombers, she might make more headway than any of us. Besides, she already knows the mission, and that kept us from pulling in another person. She proved very effective.”
“How so?” Moyer asked.
“As you know, the bombers were not typical. None appear to be martyrs scattering their body parts for the cause. You already know about the abductees of which Delaram was one. We also know that El-Sayyed—who is dead, if you haven’t heard—was not the only man behind the scheme to blow up twenty of the world’s leaders.”
Zinsser’s forehead creased. “Dead?”
“Yup. Someone sent a couple of RPGs into the man’s luxury boat. He and the boat are no more.”
“I’m assuming his partner did that,” Moyer said.
Blaze of Glory Page 21
