by Matthew Rief
7
After almost an hour of swimming, Don was running low on air. As a Seal he’d learned proper breathing techniques to extend the life of an air tank. Relaxation and mental control were key. He’d once scared the crap out of his superior officer at BUDS (Basic Underwater Demolition School), the first step in Seal training, when he stayed underwater for nearly four minutes. Moving to Palm Beach, Florida, when he was ten, he’d spent so much time in the water he felt just as comfortable there as on land.
His plan once he got out of the Navy had been to buy a boat and sail around the World a few times, but fate had handed him a different set of cards. Here he was, a wanted man, and he was running out of oxygen. He kept looking up towards the surface. For the first half hour he’d seen patrol boats, but they were less frequent now. Now he was keeping his eye out for a different boat. Where are they? He asked himself over and over as he kicked.
He didn’t want to rise yet. Surfacing could draw attention and he couldn’t risk it. He looked down at his pressure gauge that was now well below the red “empty” zone. He took in a breath, intent to hold it as long as possible. Gotta take your mind off the physical. He remembered an old trick he’d learned. Thinking of the name of a famous person, he used the letters in their name to form other names. Tom Cruise. T - Taylor. O - Oscar. M - Marcus. And on he went.
He’d gone through four celebrities before he saw the round bottom of a boat above. It was moving slowly through the water, barely making a wake unlike the patrol boats that had flown past, waves barreling behind them.
His mind went hazy as he kicked for the surface, not daring to try for another breath. It was empty and he had a hundred feet or so of water between him and the surface. He forced himself to move slowly, stopping a few times to equalize the pressure in his ears. He’d seen firsthand what happens when you rise from deep below the water too quickly, and it wasn’t pretty.
With just twenty feet to go his mind started to black out. His body losing strength, he almost lost his grip on the briefcase in his hands. But he held on, willing his body up, and broke through the surface, taking in deep and controlled breath.
He broke free right beside the wooden sailboat. A hand came over the side, locking into his and pulling him up onto the deck.
Pentagon
“Sir, you’re going to want to take a look at this,” an agent said as he tapped Richardson on the shoulder.
He turned to look at agent John Stokes, a newly transferred field op from the FBI with black skin and a goatee. Richardson saw a nervous look in the agent’s eyes, like he was the bearer of bad news. What now, he thought. He’d just received word from Porter and two other agents that they’d found nothing at the suspected location of Asin.
Stokes motioned for Richardson to follow him out of his office, into the main room of cubicles. Leading Richardson to his computer, Stokes knelt beside his desk and pressed play to a video that was already loaded.
It showed a man named Hamed, standing in a large room that looked like a shipyard. The man began to speak, saying that they had successfully broke their brother, Muhammad Asin, free from the bondage of the United States. He spoke in English, and continued to say that the plan was made possible because of traitors to the United States. He said that there were many Al-Qaida working in US secret operations. Watching and listening intently now, the leader finished the video by stating that they were planning an attack on Washington DC, and that all citizens of that city should keep a watchful eye.
“Where did you get this?” Richardson asked, his hand gripping hard to Stokes’ arm. The video had been in full screen, so Stokes minimized it, revealing the logo of the website he’d watched it on.
“It’s been posted on YouTube,” he replied.
***
Agent Porter stood on the dock that hovered far out over the Mediterranean. They had found traces of people being there recently, but were still looking for anything useful they could use to discover how in the hell they’d disappeared. Porter couldn’t believe it. The roads had been blocked off, the sky filled with US aircraft, and patrol boats now crowded the waters around her. She couldn’t make sense of it. How does a group of wanted men, terrorist leaders, and a US federal agent simply disappear?
She’d just gotten off the phone with agent Richardson, who’d told her about the video. The first thing that popped into her mind when she’d hear about it was embarrassment. They would need to enforce even stricter background checks, watch their agent’s actions even closer than they already were. She shook her head, there were more pressing issues to attend to at the moment.
Walking near the end of the dock, she scanned every inch around her, trying to find a clue of what had happened. Don’s car had vanished, they couldn’t find the black Pontiac anywhere. She assumed they would use the water to escape. Cliffs extended down the shoreline for miles, which meant there would be caves that could be used for hiding until things cooled off on the open water.
Looking down, she noticed something unusual. Something out of place. She reached down to her pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper that had been sticking out. Curious and certain she’d never seen it before, she unfolded it.
A cool wind blew off the sea, waves broke against the dock and sprayed mist against her side. A patrol boat had pulled up to the dock, checking to make sure if anyone had any new information to relay to them. After answering the man, she turned down and looked at the piece of paper. She realized instantly that it was written in Don’s handwriting. A flashback jumped into her mind of him bumping into her just as they were getting off the helicopter in Beirut.
*****
Thank you for reading my work. If you enjoyed it, please let me know with a review!
You can contact me on:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MatthewRief
This was Episode 1 of Fatal Target. Episode 2 will be published on Wednesday, May 7th.
