Chopper Ops (28 page)

Chapter 32

Rye, New Hampshire

One week later

It was already hot this Saturday morning when Ryan Gillis arrived at the empty ballpark.

He took his ball from his glove and rubbed dirt on it. Then he picked up his bat and rubbed dirt on it too. Next he put dirt on his hands—he wasn't sure why. He'd seen a lot of real ballplayers do this, so he thought he should do it too. After his disastrous oh-for-four, three-error debut a week earlier, he figured he needed all the help he could get.

The park seemed bigger this early morning—big and empty. Ryan just sighed, picked up his ball, and hit it straight up. As soon as the ball left his bat, he slipped his glove on, planted himself under the ball, and caught it. At least he was getting good at this routine.

He picked up the ball again, adjusted his glove, threw the ball in the air, and hit it again. Again, it went straight up, he pulled his glove back on, and got under the popup just in time to catch it.

Two for two . . .

He repeated the process again, but this time he somehow managed to hit the ball very high behind him. He quickly yanked on his glove and started backpedaling, trying to keep his balance and his eye on the ball at the same time.

The ball seemed to hang up forever, but when it came down Ryan finally got himself right under it. He lifted his glove, closed his eyes, and . . . nothing happened.

He stood there waiting for the ball to hit him somewhere—on the head was usually where he got plunked. But this did not happen.

So finally he opened his eyes.

And that was when he realized someone else had caught the ball. Someone who was standing right over him—an adult. The ball was firmly in his hand. Ryan spun around and looked up.

And that was when he saw the hand belonged to his father.

"Dad!" he yelled, dropping bat and glove and hugging his father for the first time in many years.

"Hey, kid," Gillis said. "Looking good with that glove these days."

Ryan held on tight.

"Geesh, Dad," he said, looking up at his father's weary eyes. "Where have you been all this time?"

Gillis laughed. "I can't tell you, son," he said. "If I did, then I'd have
          
to . . . well, never mind."

Ryan's eyes widened. "Wow! You mean you really
were
on a secret mission?"

Gillis picked up the bat, and handed Ryan his glove.

"I promise I'll tell you all about it someday," he said.

He threw the ball in the air and hit a high pop-up. His back hurt from the swing, and his burned legs still twinged, but he didn't really feel the pain.

"In the meantime," Gillis said, "let's see what you've learned since I've been away."

Ryan ran and caught the ball and began to hand it back to Gillis—but then stopped and took a deep sniff.

"Hey, Dad," he said. "How come you smell so much like gasoline?"

Gillis managed another smile, and took the ball from Ryan's glove again.

"I'll tell you all about that someday too," he said.

*****

The waters were unusually calm in the Straits of Florida this hazy Sunday afternoon.

The chartered game-fishing boat was heading south, at high speed, having left Key West about a half hour before.

The boat cost $150 an hour to rent, bait and tackle included, but the two passengers had no interest in fishing. This was a covert ride.

Neither one had even touched the free beer provided them by the boat's owner. From this, he knew something was up with them, so he just let them be. Sitting on the rear deck, staring out at the wake of the vessel, they looked like two soldiers suffering from shell shock. The boat owner knew it was best he leave them alone.

They had given him a strange destination—and would pay him $100 extra if he found it too. This was odd because he knew the place they wanted to go to very well. He'd brought many people there in the past two weeks. In fact, he'd been enjoying a real boom in transporting sports fishermen out there lately.

So this was another reason why the boat owner kept his mouth shut.

*****

The trip took less than ninety minutes. The only thing that slowed them down really was the gaggle of surface traffic surrounding the location where the two mysterious guys wanted to go.

So crowded was this place, it took fifteen extra minutes and many calls to the marina before the boat owner was finally able to find them an open berth at the dock.

Only then did he pull into the south bay of Seven Ghosts Key.

*****

Norton and Delaney climbed off the boat in a state of shock. Actually, they were suffering from a state of shock
on top of
the state of shock they'd been in for the past week or so.

Seven Ghosts was simply crawling with people. Small private planes flying in and out. Hundreds of fishing boats tied up or anchored offshore. The south beach full of sunbathers.

The restaurant was especially packed. There had to be at least a couple thousand people—men, women, and kids—crowded onto the previously isolated island.

The two pilots just stood and stared at it all.

"Have I finally gone crazy?" Norton asked.

*****

It had been that kind of week.

They stayed at Al-Khalid only a few hours. The thought of getting caught on the ground, exposed again, still haunted all of them.

So somehow Smitz arranged for two buses to carry them out of the secret air base and on to Riyadh. Once there, he gave each man a credit card, the source of which was unknown. Then they all boarded commercial flights—seventeen different ones—and flew in different directions.

Norton and Delaney went east, through Islamabad, to Delhi, to Sydney, Hong Kong, and finally Anchorage. They lay low there for two days before flying to San Diego and finally on to Miami.

They moved like dead men, with ease but caution. The bad guys in the CIA probably didn't know where they were or if they were dead or alive, and they wanted to keep it that way. They were both still carrying for protection the huge pistols they had used to shoot down the AC-130 gunship. And anytime they were stopped by airport security, they simply flashed their Level Six security passes and were let through.

They really felt like lost men, though. Like ghosts doomed to wander the earth, with nowhere to go. So they'd decided early on that the one place they could seek answers and revenge was back where it all started: Seven Ghosts Key.

But now, the place looked as crowded as Disneyworld.

''Man, just when you think things can't get any nuttier," Delaney said. "They do!"

They started walking slowly down the runway, wondering if this was like a CIA family outing or something. It didn't seem to be, though. Everyone they passed appeared very normal, very touristy. Very
un
-CIA.

They finally reached the restaurant, and it was absolutely jammed. And next door, gone were the shuttered-tight buildings that had housed their simulators. The structures were now open and housing dozens of small private airplanes. And the places where the Marines had attacked and billeted were now overnight motels.

They elbowed their way into the restaurant, and found the big briefing room filled with happy drunks and ravenous diners. Yet everything, including the wall murals, was the same.

They made their way over to the bar, Delaney bringing up the possibility that maybe the CIA had fed them LSD somewhere along the line—and all of this was just a hallucination. Norton replied that they just weren't that lucky.

The bar was crowded with fishermen and bathers, sucking down martinis like they were water. Both Norton and Delaney needed a drink—if just to convince themselves they were indeed still among the living. So they finally hailed the burly bartender. He turned and looked at both of them and smiled.

It was Rooney.

The CIA man who used to run Seven Ghosts Key.

Delaney reached over and grabbed the man by the collar.

"Whose side are you on,
asshole
!" Delaney growled at him.

Norton quickly intervened and pulled his partner off the CIA man. The place was so loose, none of the other patrons had noticed a thing.

"Relax," Rooney said, barely ruffled. "Fistfights are bad for business."

"So are bullet-riddled bodies," Delaney snapped back. "Which you are going to be . . ."

Norton restrained Delaney from pulling his massive handgun. Then he turned back to Rooney.

"OK, tell us," he said wearily. "What the fuck is going on here?"

Rooney just shrugged. "You must appreciate the concept of protecting one's cover," he said matter-of-factly. "Can you think of a better way?"

Delaney went for his gun again. Norton froze his hand.

"We were set up over there," Norton continued through gritted teeth. "Or are you not familiar with that concept?"

Rooney served a few more drinks. Then he came back to Norton and Delaney.

"Look," he said, his voice lower now. "You guys don't realize it, but you're heroes. You uncovered, shall we say, 'a major internal dispute' within the Agency, and you applied the remedy. A permanent one. Plus, you did a hell of a job getting that airplane back."

Delaney was still furious. "Think that was easy, asshole?"

Rooney just shook his head. "Think I haven't been in the same spot?"

For some reason, that silenced all three of them. Rooney poured a couple of martinis from a pitcher and pushed them towards Norton and Delaney.

"You see, you guys think you're still in the military. Still in the real world," Rooney said, his voice sounding like a grandfather gently scolding his grandsons. "Well, you're not. And you haven't been since you set foot on this place. You're in Dreamland now, baby. You're Spooks. Spooks in deep. Nothing makes sense. Nothing ever will."

Norton thought about this for a moment, then reached for the martini and downed it in one gulp.

"Give me another," he gasped as the liquor burned its way down to his stomach.

"Now you're talking," Rooney said, pushing Delaney's drink a bit more towards him.

Delaney finally relented, and downed his drink in one swallow as well.

"Very good, gentlemen," Rooney said, refilling their glasses and expertly popping two olives into each. "Now my advice to you is to just relax. Spend a few days here fishing, on the beach. Eat good. Rest up. Get ready for your next assignment."

Delaney started to go for his gun again.

"Next assignment!" he growled. "You
must
be insane."

"Well, that is a concept I'm familiar with," Rooney said. "But take a look around you. A good look."

Norton did—and slowly he realized just who was crowded into the restaurant with them. Over in the corner was Chou, having a beer, surrounded by many of his noncoms. In the next corner were the four Army Aviation guys. Beside them were the SEAL medics. Sprinkled throughout the crowd, mixing with regular citizens, were the rest of Chou's men. They were blending in perfectly.

Norton looked at Delaney, and both men drained their martinis again, this time much more slowly.

"You see," Rooney explained, "most everyone who went with you to Oz came back to Kansas eventually. They always do."

He poured them two more drinks. They were finally catching on. They were in this strange business to stay.

"That's it, guys," Rooney said. "Lighten up. I hear the fishing off south beach has been really good in the past couple of days."

Delaney began sipping his third martini. He was slowly getting stoned.

"It better be," he said, his speech slurring. "They better be catching fucking whales."

Norton slumped in his seat, and he too felt the world slowly lift off his shoulders.

"Or mermaids," he added.

Rooney smiled and winked.

"Well," he said. "That can be arranged too."

Somewhere in the Nevada desert

In a sky filled with billions of stars, the greenish-bluish object moved very quickly across the horizon.

Atop a mountain known only as H-13, a small observatory was tracking the oddly illuminated flying object. Inside this tiny station, two technicians were watching a huge screen that, at the push of a button, could depict any part of the earth via real-time television transmission.

Once the bluish object appeared on their screens, several sensor lights went off.

"OK, finally, there he is," one technician said.

"Let's get him over and down and then we can all go home," the other replied.

Now came an orgy of button pushing and computer keyboard clacking. The object was over Utah and heading right toward them. It was 650 miles away. Then 550. Then 450. Then 350. All in just a matter of seconds.