Recall Page 11

  Red paced, thinking about Lori, then tried to push it all out of his mind. No luck. His thoughts circled back endlessly to waking in the hallway with a gash in his head. And her gone. Forgot to warn the kids about Tom’s knives on the counter . . . but Mom was good about that.

  His family had been separated, spread out. All he could do now was wait. Wait for some Iranian traitor across the water to confirm some intel to his Mossad handler.

  He stood next to a tan Humvee. His reflection was dim in the flat window, but clear enough to mirror watery, puffy eyes. It had been six years since he’d been active. Was it realistic to think he could jump back in like nothing had changed? He’d kept reasonably fit, but skills degrade. No wonder the team had doubts. And Lanyard . . . hell, it wasn’t a good decision to partner a rookie with Red on his first op back. Jim’s confidence was reassuring, but unwarranted.

  Red rubbed fingers over the sleeve of his fatigues. He hadn’t worn them for years, but their texture on his skin was as familiar as if he’d never taken them off. His boots echoed as he walked by the Pave Low once again. She’d been retired once. Patched up, like himself. He’d told Penny he’d get Lori back. How that was going to happen seemed a thick fog, but he’d bring her home.

  He slunk back into his rack, then remembered Father Ingram’s advice and said a prayer.

  His eyes were closing when Jim stuck his head in. “Wake time! Wheels up in thirty!”

  A glance to the white-faced clock. It was 0556.

  Chapter 12

  Tupolev

  Breakfast was cold eggs and grits, prepped and refrigerated hours earlier. It could’ve been ice cubes for all Red cared. Jim insisted he eat something, so he grabbed a banana. Mossad had called with confirmation and the op was a go—nothing warmer than that. His fingers shook like he was on amphetamines.

  He paced, pretending to check his gear while the rest of the team finished up. His palms tingled as he worked the action on his sidearm. He removed the slide and held the two pieces. He was looking down the fat barrel, trying to understand why it felt lighter than his old sidearm, when Jim called them to muster in the hangar. He slid the gun back together and they ran through their final check and inventory.

  When a shrill whining came from outside, everyone lifted their gaze to the hangar doors. The sound swelled, deafening even inside, then wound down.

  Jim pointed toward an EXIT sign. “Our ride’s here. Strap it up and get on board,”

  The pitch of the engines was different than anything Red could remember. Marksman beamed. The man always seemed most upbeat before an op. Jim led the column out the hanger door. Outside, Crawler flipped open a silver Zippo and lit his cigar. Tobacco smoke mingled with the scent of jet fuel. Not an acceptable combination, but Jim had always allowed the man a few pre-op puffs to satisfy Crawler’s superstition. On the tarmac was a long, slender, white aircraft with canards and deeply swept delta wings. It looked like pictures of a Concorde Red had once seen.

  Captain Richards pointed toward the plane. “What’s that, the Aurora?”

  Jim laughed. “Who the hell you think I am? Even I couldn’t swing that.”

  Marksman turned to face him, walking backwards. The early morning sun reflected off his shiny dark bald head. “You weren’t even born when this was built. It’s a Tupolev, a 144 I think. Russian built, back in the early seventies, their competition to the Concorde. Economics are a bitch.”

  Richards frowned. “What you mean?”

  “Costs too much to fly, like the Concorde. It was better, but still lost. Kinda like how Beta was better than VHS, but VHS won out.”

  “What the hell’s VHS?”

  Marksman turned back around. Jim shot a grin his direction.

  “How’d we end up with it?” Richards asked.

  Marksman rubbed fingers together as if counting money. “NASA bought one back in the nineties from the Russians. For tests, they claim. They gave it new avionics and slipped in new engines. Supposed to be out of duty.”

  “How you know so much?”

  Marksman kept walking.

  Crawler snuffed his cigar stub on the aluminum stair handrail. Two fuel trucks flanked the plane as they walked up thirty feet to the door. Its fuselage was slender, narrow, like a huge fighter but with four engines slung under its belly. For Red, it held the same emotion as racehorses in the starting gates. Tom had taken him to the tracks when he was only twelve, despite his mother’s scolding. Even as a newbie he’d seen the excitement in their eyes, in the veins bulging on their necks. Those horses were made to run, bred to explode down the track, impatient in the gates as they anticipated the bell. Red put his hand on the plane’s skin as he ducked into the doorway. It quivered. This contender was in the starting gate. A corner of his mouth drew up when he thought how Lori always teased when he told her how machines felt.

  He couldn’t see the pilots, hidden behind a bulkhead of instruments. One was talking with the tower. “. . . I told you hold runway 08. I only need four minutes. . . . We don’t even get our nose up till two hundred twenty knots, no air wash. I don’t care who the hell’s trying to land, tell them to go ’round!” He clicked off and mumbled something.

  The passenger area was empty, void, like a cargo plane. Except for a bank of old dials and scopes forward, the top liner was gone and panels only covered the bottom few feet of the sides, exposing the ribs of the fuselage. Red didn’t know what he was expecting, but it was more than this. Narrow tubes and wires ran neatly along the centerline of the ceiling. In some places even the insulation between the ribs was removed, exposing the outer skin. The space was cold, naked, fragile.

  About halfway down the aisle Jim turned around and their eyes met. “Been stripped of everything to make it lighter.” He walked backwards and pointed to green webbed jump seats hanging from either side. “Red, Lanyard, Crawler, and Marksman, on the port. The rest on the starboard. Stow your gear and strap in.”

  A pilot marched down the aisle and stood, legs spread, hands on hips. His white hair was cut in a high and tight. Skin hung under his eyes, but they were alert. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, tall, and in charge. A dark blue patch over his heart displayed dark gold wings. Air Force. Subdued silver eagles perched on his shoulders.

  “Okay, ladies. I’m your pilot for this gig. You’re guests on my aircraft. Treat her with respect, understood?”

  “Yes sir!” came from all.

  He glanced at Sergeant Crawler. “You’re sitting on thirty thousand gallons of JP-8, so get rid of all smokes, lit or otherwise.”

  Crawler yanked out his cigar butt and glanced around his seat, then threw it in his mouth and swallowed.

  The pilot pointed toward the cockpit. “No getting up till we reach cruising altitude, at which time that light up there will turn green. Any Marines in here?”

  Red sounded a “Hooah!” having cross-commissioned into the Corps directly out of college, one of the few allowed each year from the Air Force Academy. Lanyard echoed the same. He’d have to remember to ask the rookie what he did before he got assigned to the Det.

  “At least Jim put the jarheads together.” He slapped a finger on the crystal of a thick, black aviator’s watch. “I realize we don’t have Mickey to point things out, but don’t move till that light turns green. Got it? Need me to repeat?” Marksman tensed, but a snort slipped through.

  “Now, for your safety brief. If anything major goes wrong while in flight that light will turn red. At that point strap back in, put your head between your knees, and kiss your ass good-bye because at Mach two we’re all dead. She’s got the glide scope of a brick, so at least it’ll be quick and painless. Welcome aboard and Godspeed.”

  He turned and jogged to the cockpit. Engines were winding up. Jim passed a bag of earplugs, throwing it across to Red. Through the few uncovered windows Red saw the fuel trucks backing away. The plane moved forward, pivoting on the landing gear as it pointed itself toward the east end of the runway. They taxied, turned west into the wind
, and didn’t stop as they hit the afterburners. The fuselage all around rattled and shook. Even with earplugs, the roar of the engines was loud.

  “It’ll be better at altitude,” Marksman shouted. Red had to read his lips. They gained speed, then more, then kept going where they should have lifted off. The plane continued at full gallop, eating up runway until it finally nosed up. As soon as the rear wheels left the ground, the runway gave way to grassy field. They maintained a steep angle for several minutes and ran through turbulence that ended abruptly. He read Marksman’s lips: Sound barrier!

  Red gazed down the long, slender, naked tube in which they rode. It twisted in response to the air buffeting its skin like a boxer taking blows to his ribs. He put his hand on the undressed aluminum floor. The pilot had made the aircraft sound like a coffin, but it was happy now, sucking air and blowing it out white hot, finally out of the gate, hitting its stride.

  The light turned green. Jim hopped up and pulled out his earplugs. “We only have two and a half hours to Ramstein and twenty minutes of it are gone. Let’s get started.”

  Captain Richards glanced quizzically at Marksman. The old salt pointed back and said, “That’s right, rookie! While you were sucking your mamma’s titty my generation was stepping on the moon and flying across the world at twice the speed of sound. What’s yours done? Internet, iPads, and terrorism!” The growl of the engines was the only remaining sound as the team stared back at him. Even the pilot peered over his shoulder.

  “Feel better?” Jim asked.

  Marksman leaned back and crossed his arms. “Sorry. It’s all yours.” The sun streamed through a window and Marksman closed one eye.

  Jim ran them through the op plan again. They’d gotten their confirmation early that morning and the extraction had to be done under cover of night. That’s why he called in a favor for the Tupolev. A prepositioned B-2 at Ramstein had been arranged at the same time. The schedule was imprinted at this point. Wheels up at Ramstein at 1500 zulu, drop at 2100, leave the rendezvous at 2115, showtime at 2145, exit no later than at 2215.

  Jim released them, and Red leaned back in his seat, listing toward Lanyard. His head throbbed and he had to blink hard to water his eyes. “How long you been at the Det?”

  “About two months now.” Lanyard’s voice betrayed edginess.

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “Same as you. Recon. Spec ops. Little this. Little that.”

  Red looked down at Lanyard’s boots. The toes were gouged deeply. His fingers were rugged, too, calluses near the tips. “Do a lot of climbing on your last assignment?”

  “Last four months in Afghanistan, mainly search and destroy. If I wasn’t climbing, I was under the ground rootin’ ’em out.” His eyes looked toward the ceiling and followed the wires down the spine of the aircraft. “Never been to Vietnam, but the Taliban caves have got to be just as bad.”

  “You like doing that?”

  Sergeant Lanyard scowled. “Hell no! My platoon was good, but no one liked it. Not even the hardcore ones.”

  Red covered his smile by scratching his beard. He had no patience for anyone that claimed to enjoy shitty duty. Some did, but those guys ended up in psych wards.

  Lanyard rubbed his forehead with the palms of both hands. “You okay on this? I mean, your wife and all. What if—”

  “What if we find her in pieces?” Red asked. “Then I’d want to be the one that did. Either way, I’m going to enjoy gutting the rag-heads that did it.” It was Red’s turn to look at the ceiling now. How ironic that if someone cut the right wire it would bring down the entire team, the entire op.

  “You heard the colonel. Grab the ones we can. Kill if we have to. Part of our deal with the Israelis. Something about VEVAK and the Iranian nuclear program.”

  Like hell. What could they do? Kick him out for killing the terrorists who’d kidnapped his wife? He’d already been out for six years and didn’t like the idea of coming back full-time. A lesson from his past tugged at him. What was it? He couldn’t remember.

  His hand felt is if it was wrapped in Father Ingram’s firm grip, shaking hands as he left his office. He couldn’t face the priest if he ignored orders. But wasn’t God in this? He was on a plane with seven other trained men for the purpose of reclaiming Lori. Surely that wasn’t an accident. Not even Father Ingram could deny it. Allowing them to live wouldn’t be right, would it?

  Now I’m the religious fanatic.

  He rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes. The image of Tom wielding his cane like a saber cut into his mind, his father plugging his fingers into Red’s sternum. Yeah. Tom was right. The kidnappers had made it personal. It was on their own heads. What’s that saying his father had taught him as a kid? Kill ’em all. Let God sort ’em out.

  * * *

  The webbed-nylon jump seats cut off Lanyard’s circulation like the ones in the C-130s, in the Chinooks, and just about anything else in which he’d been carried. Seven miles a day kept his blood pressure low, so it didn’t take much. He lifted one leg to let the blood run, then leaned back and stared at the major sitting there rubbing his neck. This guy was whacked. I’d rather have some army puke leading me than this pussy. He’s been gone six years. Why the hell did they stick me with him on my first op here? They think I’m expendable?

  Nothing like the colonel. Now, he was high speed. The only thing he’d seen a full bird do before was rest his fat ass behind a desk, only bothering to stand to chew someone out when things went south. This one, his hands got dirty. Even so, he didn’t know how to put together a team. His A team leader’s a psycho ex-operator who would probably pass out during the swim. Three officers on the same op? What the hell?

  “So, you know everyone here yet?” the major asked.

  Whatever. “First time I’ve seen Marksman. What the hell kind of name is that?”

  “It’s a nickname that stuck. He’s got others. Never told us his real one. I know less now about the guy than on my first op.” He looked off as if counting, then leaned back, close to his ear. “It’s been six or so with him. He doesn’t train with us. Just shows up when called and knows his stuff.”

  Lanyard pointed discreetly across the aisle at Carter. “Most teams like this? Patched together? Between Carter and Marksman, that’s two we’ve never trained with. With you that’s . . .” Lanyard held Red’s gaze.

  “Seems we always have at least one new face, depending on what skills we need for the op. Language, terrain, demolitions, engineering. Me? Hell, I’ve got enough doubts for the both of us. Carter? I gotta trust the colonel knows what he’s doing. I don’t like him here, either. But Marksman, you don’t have to worry about him. Don’t know his day job, but it’s not domestic. I think he’s Russian, Spetsnaz, probably Alpha Group by the way he handles himself. But he’s old enough to have been KGB.”

  “How would that work?” Lanyard sneered.

  “Don’t know. Freelance maybe. Double agent. Doesn’t matter, I trust him. He’s saved my ass a couple times. That settles it. He’s old, but the best shot I’ve ever seen. Put rounds through three heads at three hundred meters before the last one had time to duck. Like he didn’t even aim, just point and shoot. Colonel says he knows Farsi. You like the captain?”

  What the hell does it matter to you? “Good as most. One for sure, he can PT my ass into the ground. It’s like he doesn’t stop. Other than that, haven’t been here long enough to say.”

  The major slapped his legs and stood.

  * * *

  Carter leaned forward, away from the side of the plane. The cold seemed to reach out from it. It had crept into his lower back and his muscles resisted the stretch. He glanced across the aisle at Red, standing. He made sense, now. His seeming evasiveness, the danger. Red hadn’t known it was all there. Turbulence hit as Red stepped across the aisle, but his legs absorbed the bounce, his body floating for a split second before he spun and sat next to him.

  “This your first?” Red asked. His white teeth shone a
gainst his blacked-out face. There was something else there now. What was it?

  “Not my first op, but a first like this.” In the few years he’d spent working counterterrorism at the Bureau, he’d put together several ops. However, all except one were stateside. Later working Chicago homicide, he’d organized his share of raids. But there had always been the realization if an officer went down, a fully staffed hospital was only a few miles away. He’d left that life, retired. But somehow it had stalked him down and sucked him back.

  “Different than working for Sheriff Jenson?”

  Carter forced a laugh.

  “You’ve got a dark past if Jim has you on this one.”

  Carter didn’t answer.

  Red’s smile receded and his eyes focused on the distance. There it was. The same look from the interrogation room after the Walmart incident. He wasn’t schizophrenic, but couldn’t be far off. “You have to take them alive,” Carter said.

  Red blinked hard.

  “I know what you’re thinking. But you heard the colonel. Israel is hungry for any VEVAK intel. We need some live ones.”

  Red exhaled slowly.

  Carter glanced at the colonel. He had one ear plugged and the other to his sat phone. Carter grabbed Red’s arm and pulled him close. “I don’t care if you off every one of ’em. But this is bigger than you, bigger than Lori. This is for the U.S., the entire Middle East. If Iran gets to be a nuclear power, you know what they’ve threatened. We’ll be at war with a crippled economy, trying to contain Iran backed by Russia. Everyone knows they’re controlled by organized crime and KGB leftovers. I can see it on you. You’re making this personal. You can’t go there.” He elbowed Red, trying to get some sort of reaction. “Plus, I’m married. A vendetta could get me killed. Understand?”