by Matthew Rief
5
Present
Don held his hands over his face, kept his body secure against the back of his seat. Shards of glass flew in against him, his body jerked forward viciously. Water exploded into the car, filling it in seconds. He kept his breath held and his body calm as the car broke the surface, sinking into the warm clear waters of the Mediterranean.
The car sunk rapidly once filled, air bubbles trickling up to the surface, sparkling in the piercing rays of light. Don turned and climbed to the back seat. He grabbed a large black duffle bag, opened the zipper, and pulled out an aluminum tank. With the car dropping deeper with each second, Don held his nose and blew out, equalizing the pressure. He turned a dial on the tank and bit down on a mouthpiece, taking in a breath of oxygen.
He kept control of himself, kept himself alert and focused on what he had to do. He wrapped the dive pack around his waist and clipped it into place. He put on a pair of goggles and fins. Finally the car jolted to a stop on the ocean floor. A few hundred feet at least, Don thought. He didn’t know if they would send divers after him. He figured they wouldn’t; after all, a car falling into the water without anyone rising to the surface spells death. But he wouldn’t risk it.
He remembered the case of money. Of course, they would send someone down to get the money. He wrapped his hand around the suitcase. With his free hand he grabbed onto the steering wheel and pulled himself out through the broken windshield. There was good visibility in the water, but the far off surface above was nothing but a bright blue blur.
He kicked his fins, swimming along the ocean floor, putting distance between himself and the sunken Pontiac.
Pentagon. Present.
Agent Richardson carried his black briefcase as he walked into the conference room. Windows in this room were darkened, so no eyes from the outside could see what was going on. Closing the door behind him, he saw five agents standing around the table, looking over photographs and sharing data. When Richardson set his briefcase on the table, all eyes looked up.
“Okay,” he said, looking around at the agents, “we have a situation here. As you know terrorist leader Muhammad Asin was on route from Baghdad to the carrier George HW Bush, when the helicopter turned around, and made an unscheduled stop in Beirut, Lebanon.” He grabbed his pointer from his pocket, telescoped it out, and pointed the tip to Beirut on a large map of the world behind him. “After that time, Agent Christopher, two naval special forces officers, and another man we have yet to identify, escorted Asin in the middle car.”
“A few minutes later the two other cars lost contact with Asin’s car. We were able to find it in an abandoned parking garage. By the time our agents arrived on site, one Seal was in critical condition, and the unidentified man, who we now know to be an Al-Qaida soldier, was dead. The other Seal was found in a nearby stairwell, but Asin and agent Christopher have not been found.” He grabbed a folder from his briefcase and set it on the table. “For whatever reason agent Don Christopher has yet to make contact with us. As for now, he’s our number one suspect. We believe he planned the escape, and we know he knocked out Sergeant Dixon from Naval Special Warfare, the Seal that was found in the stairwell.”
“This is Christopher’s file. What may catch your attention is the fact that his parents immigrated to the states from Pakistan when Don was ten years old. We also know how much time he’s spent working in the Middle East, which amounts to five years of field work out of the last seven. Regardless of motive, finding Christopher and the escaped Asin is a global crisis. We cannot allow Asin to get away, our sources indicate they believe the Al-Qaida are planning another attack, but we don’t know what or where.”
“Now, Christopher’s vehicle was last seen less than an hour ago, driving south out of Jiyeh. We’re already behind.” He motioned for his men to get to work. They would need to work fast, they couldn’t allow Asin to slip through their fingers. It was a big win capturing him.
He knew agent Christopher, they had even golfed together a couple of times. He couldn’t believe he would do such a thing, but the facts didn’t lie. He shook his head, swearing to himself. As if his unit wasn’t dealing with enough problems, now it had loyalty issues. Reading over Christopher’s file again, he just couldn’t wrap his head around it. He’d been a Navy Seal himself for six years, CIA for seven. And now he’d succumbed to siding with Al-Qaida terrorists?
Richardson reached into his pocket and grabbed his phone. Just as he did, it started ringing. He answered the call from Charlotte Porter.
“What’s going on?” Richardson asked.
“We’re driving through the Sidon District,” she replied. “I believe he’s meeting somewhere along the coast. He’s switched cars, but he’s now in a black Pontiac, and we’re probably twenty miles behind him or so. Keep us on radar, I’ll keep you updated. I would recommend calling in a blockade on this road so we can corner him.”
“You said twenty miles behind?”
“Roughly. I’ve got to go. I’ll contact you soon.”
“Okay,” he said, taking in a breath. “Be careful.”
