Retribution (27 page)

CHAPTER 52

 

T
ranthan stared at the print of the photograph. The technician had blown it up to a full eight by eleven, a color photo of Maggie O'Donald. The only item on the flash drive had been this single photograph.

“A fucking photo?”

Many thoughts entered his mind as he sat in the dark of his office. Only the brass and crystal table lamp lit the room. Tranthan held the photo directly under the lamp.

She stood beside her desk in Qatar, in front of the library shelves crowding her space, only a short reach from her chair.

Tranthan lit a cigarette and leaned backward in his chair, watching the smoke drift upward.

He reached for the telephone on his desk. He squeezed the receiver in the notch of his shoulder, holding the cigarette in his hand as he used the other to pull open the main drawer and start searching through business cards. He went through several before coming to the right one.

Tranthan shifted the telephone to his left and, while ashes fell from the cigarette in his hand, he dialed the number on the card.

The phone rang only once.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“This is Robert Tranthan at the CIA. I need to talk to Agent Tom Pope.”

“Sir, can I take a message?” The young female voice sounded inexperienced.

“No.”

“Sir?”

“Just tell Agent Pope it's Robert Tranthan.”

The voice hesitated for only a second.

“Yes, sir.”

“Agent Pope?”

“Yes, Mr. Tranthan.”

After a painful quiet, Tranthan spoke. “I have something for you.”

“What?'

“I'm scanning it now—check your e-mail.”

A minute later Tom Pope was looking at a photograph of Maggie O'Donald. His first impression was how exceptional she looked. In addition to her striking beauty, she had a slight smile on her face, a devilish smirk.

“Maggie O'Donald.”

Tom Pope knew who she was. In another stack on his desk, Pope had surveillance photos of several of Robert Tranthan's visits to Bethesda. The Bureau's report on her death also lay somewhere on Pope's desk.

Pope grunted affirmatively into the phone.

“You know she died yesterday.”

“I do.”

“She was our field agent in Qatar.”

“I know all this, Mr. Tranthan. Is there a reason you're sharing a picture of her?”

“She had this photo stored in a highly encrypted flash drive. Just the photo. Nothing else.”

“All right.” Pope pulled a pad of paper close to him and started to sketch on it. He wrote the word
Doha
in the center and drew a circle around it. In another circle he wrote
Op Officer
and drew a line to the circle in the center.

“It means something.”

“Mm-hmm. What are you thinking that might be?”

“It may be a message to me, or to someone else.”

“Really? What kind of message?”

“I—I don't know.”

For some reason, Tom Pope got the impression that Tranthan intended this telephone call to accomplish more than a simple exchange of information. It seemed more like a stab at getting a “get out of jail free” card, as in being able to tell a grand jury,
Hey, I did my best to cooperate with the investigation
.

“Thanks, Mr. Tranthan. I'll ponder this, and you do the same. If you get any more ideas, please let me know.”

“I will.”

Tom Pope wrote
RT
in another circle and drew a line to the center.

“Let me know what?” Garland Sebeck entered his office as Pope hung up. He was holding a bright red folder.

“What's up, smart-ass?”

“
Nada
. Who was that?”

“Tranthan.”

Sebeck raised his eyebrows. “What did he want?”

“Sent me this photo.” Pope turned the monitor to Sebeck.

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Maggie O'Donald,” Pope said. He explained how Tranthan believed that the photo was more than a portrait—that it held some sort of personal or professional message. “What do you think?”

“I think she's beautiful . . .” Sebeck studied the enlarged photo for another minute. Soon Pope joined him in staring at the image.

“I wonder if the flash drive this came off of had anything else on it?”

“Is that what Tranthan claimed—it had only this picture?”

Pope nodded.

“I doubt it.”

Another nod from Pope.

“Truth is, Tom, I don't trust those spooks any farther than I could throw them. Especially Robert Tranthan.”

CHAPTER 53

 

“S
ergeant?”

Gunnery Sergeant Moncrief was asleep, but still grabbed the airman's wrist when he felt the nudge. It was a combat reaction. If he hadn't stopped, the next move would have been to the throat.

“It's Gunny.” In the Marines, there was a substantial difference between a sergeant and a gunnery sergeant. One ran a squad; the other was someone you stayed out of the way of.

The C-17's cargo bay was barely lit by a red light glow. Moncrief peered out of one of the windows to see a moonless night. Down below, a solid bank of clouds extended as far as the horizon. In the far distance, the snowcapped peaks broke up the shape of the seemingly flat tabletop of clouds. They looked like ships in the low light, crossing a white-foamed sea. A thin, white, transparent coat of ice covered the aircraft's large wing. A wispy vapor of superheated water molecules struck the frozen air behind the jet, causing a white streak to trail each of the engines. Moncrief knew that a cold front cleared the air above the mountains.

The cloud cover below would give them a chance at dropping into the valley sight unseen. The clouds provided protection unless the altimeter failed.

Moncrief looked in a trance at the quarter moon above and the gray clouds below.

The team would be slicing through the air at well over a hundred miles an hour toward the rocky cliff face of the eastern edge of the Hindu Kush. If one were very lucky and his parachute opened late, he would only break his legs and fracture his hips. The fentanyl lollipop would barely deaden the pain of being carried by the team across the mountains. If he were even luckier, he would be off course by only several hundred feet and, falling totally blind in the high clouds, would slam into a rocky riverbed. The force of the impact would leave a crater, death instantaneous and painless.

The gunny made out the outlines of several team members sitting in the seats against the wall of the aircraft, eating what looked like hamburger patties out of clear plastic Tupperware containers.

“Here, this is yours.”

Army captain Mark Furlong took a seat next to Moncrief, handing him another plastic container.

“What's this?”

“
Chapli
kabab.”

“Chappy the fuck what?”

Moncrief took a bite of the spicy kabab. It was shaped like a hamburger but heavily spiced with garlic, salt, chili powder, and coriander. Sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, and lemons surrounded the patties in the little plastic container. Moncrief had the image in his mind of some local Afghan café in Lakenheath carrying the food out to a waiting driver.

“Eat as much as you can.”

Moncrief complied, though the coriander didn't help much.

“It's the food of the Pashtun.”

“I got it.” Moncrief understood the purpose behind it. His body would absorb the spices, then ooze the scent back out through the pores of his skin. A sniper lying motionless, camouflaged in wait, eating the same food as his target, would have no distinguishing smell from the man who was walking by. A small advantage, but nevertheless an advantage.

“It may be the last time you get anything to eat for a while.”

“Yeah.” The gunny could go a long way without eating a meal. A recon, like a Ranger, knew that pleasures such as meals and sleep became secondary once one stepped out of the door of the airplane.

“You cut out the other scents?” Furlong asked.

“Please. I knew that much.” Moncrief had tossed the aftershave and deodorant out several days ago. He had been a hunter all his life. Scent was a weapon no less important than the rifle he carried, or sight or sound.

“Here's some
kawa
.”

Moncrief tasted the lukewarm green tea. It had leaves floating on top.

“Not bad.” He hesitated. “Not freakin' good, either. Jack Black would be preferred.”

“Speaking of which, I don't know if you want these or not.” Furlong handed him a small, unmarked packet containing several tablets.

“What is it?”

“CAP go pills. Something new from DARPA. The next generation, they say.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It's Red Bull on nuclear steroids. You won't sleep for several days; you won't be too hot or too cold. You will hear a fucking flea fly pass by and count how many times he flapped his wings.”

Moncrief opened up the unlabeled container and swallowed two of the small pink tablets. He swallowed some more of the green tea to wash the pills down. It was the new age. The age of the pharmacological warrior. Who was he to stand in the way of progress?

“Here's another pack. You shouldn't need it.”

In a short time the gunny started to feel a euphoria coming on. As he looked around the cargo bay of the jet, Moncrief felt sure he was hearing sounds in the jet bay that he hadn't noticed before. Far forward in the bay, the crew chief was telling one of the crewmembers that an engine would go out soon. It would be number four. And Vaatofu Fury was telling Vaas to finish packing something called the FireFly. No doubt about it: Moncrief could hear more, see more.

“You don't know us, Gunny.” Furlong sat next to Moncrief. “I'm not thrilled about you being here. We can't carry a man with a broken leg or a bad back. You get hurt and you're on your own.” The implication was also that Moncrief was older and, therefore, slower.

“Captain, you don't have to worry.”

“If you get any one of my men hurt, you won't have to worry either.”

Moncrief wasn't offended by the speech. He had given speeches like this before to others. He nodded, watching the men go about their work. Furlong's men had finished their meals and were in the process of unpacking large, black, sealed containers. Some of the packs contained clothing. Moncrief recognized the brown-linen kurtas and the wool
pakols
. The short kurta shirt and the round chocolate-colored
pakol
hat would be typical wardrobe items for Yousef and his mujahideen.

Vass and Villegas had also laid out two Windrunner sniper rifles with scopes. The XM107 Windrunner was a simple machine, a black, lightweight, stainless-steel rifle. Both rifles were resting on their bipods on the floor of the aircraft. One scope was much larger than the others. The weapons should be relatively easy to carry in the high-altitude Hindu Kush.

Burgey was unpacking several black jet-pilot-styled helmets connected to small black tanks. The gunny recognized the HALO gear used in high-altitude jumps. Burgey's job was to ensure that no piece was missing, no strap was loose.

Villegas went to each piece of gear, checking for anything that could create noise, and picked the gear up and shook it. Occasionally, a small, metallic
click
could be heard as he shook the gear. Once he found something loose, Villegas used an enormous roll of electrical tape to wrap it tight. They all knew that just one metallic strap slapping against a magazine or the stock of a rifle could send out a telegraph to the enemy.

Frix continued to load magazines with bright brass rounds that had odd black tips. The cargo bay seemed to be a surgical suite, with the skilled operating-room nurses preparing their instruments, laying each out and counting each one, leaving nothing to chance.

“You need this as well.” Furlong handed him a curled-up plastic tube in a sealed, clear plastic bag.

“What's this?” Moncrief didn't want to appear stupid later on. He had not seen something like this before. It looked like an IV apparatus.

“You remember asking about this being the Oscar Papa team?”

“Yeah.”

“Everyone on this team is OP—blood type O positive. We let you come with us because you are Parker's man, but also because you are O negative.”

“Damn. You're saying that each team member is the other man's potential blood supply?”

“Yes and no.”

“Okay?”

“After seven combat operations, each of these rangers have shared their blood with the other. Every one here had his life saved by a teammate.” Furlong pointed to the lanky sergeant loading the magazines.

“Frix is our best doctor. He dropped out of med school in his second year. He had worked four or five years as an EMT before that in Brainerd, Minnesota.”

“I know Brainerd. Camp Ripley?”

“Yeah, you've been to Ripley?”

The National Guard camp had been used by the military for cold-weather training for years. The Mississippi River cut through the camp, but that far north it was a stream no larger than the width of a two-lane highway.

“Two winters.”

“Good. Frix is good, very good. He is the guy we need to get to your man first. He's been spun up on meningitis.”

Moncrief was reminded abruptly that soon his “man” would be both contagious and very ill.

“Frix is going to give each of us a booster shot. It's mixed just for this bug.”

“Ten-four.”

“Frix and Burgey are one team. Burgey is our best shot, and Frix isn't a bad spotter. I'm putting you with them.”

“What about the others?”

“Fury and Villegas are our best speed shooters. They can take out twenty guys in less than twenty seconds. All with head shots. All of us were raised on hunting. Frix and Burgey hunted in the north. Burgey's from the Upper Peninsula. They can track anything over ice and snow. Vee and Villegas are both from south Texas. South of San Antonio.”

“Vee?”

“Yeah, that's what we call him. He works the radios. He can take a solar sheet in a sandstorm and give you enough power to call in.”

The solar panel could provide electricity for days.

“So where'd they all come from?”

“Seventy-fifth Rangers. All of them did a tour as instructors at the Sniper School. Two of them could have been Olympians. The Army didn't want their faces plastered on posters, so they were ordered to take a pass. Burgey could split a dime at a hundred meters. A dime held between your fingers—sideways.”

“Shit.”

“No one's married. Only two have any living parents. No distractions.”

“Any vices?”

“Yeah.” Furlong laughed at the question. “They all have bikes.”

“Motorcycles?”

“Harleys. Don't get them started on the difference between a panhandle and a flathead. Frix has a V-Rod. Burgey's into Sportsters. It's the one thing that will get 'em spun up.”

Moncrief's own Harley had been a Super Glide until he put it through a fence on a wet night. He understood the magic of a Harley. After running on special ops in combat for three or four months, peacetime could drive a man crazy. One minute you're setting an ambush in some mountain valley, ripping apart killers with your M4, and then forty-eight hours later you're ordering a Big Mac in small-town North Carolina. The transitions were abrupt and highly disjunctive. Adrenaline jolts stateside were always at a premium.

“We are doing a HAHO in from about twenty-five thousand. You've done high-altitude jumps before?”

“A few. I went to the MFF School at Bragg and Yuma.”

The free fall school was the only one of its kind in the military.

“Damn, Gunny, you've been around.” Furlong stopped for a second. He looked out the portal between his seat and Moncrief. Several seconds passed before he spoke. “My old man was a Marine. He fought in Grenada.”

Moncrief let out a loud laugh, which almost caused him to gag.

“What's the problem, Gunny?” Furlong wasn't amused.

“My father was a Ranger. He fought on hill two-oh-five.”

“In the Korean War?”

“Yeah.” Moncrief looked away. “You know the difference between us, Captain? If someone asked me what I was, I would say a Marine. If they asked you, you would say a Ranger. But we'd both die to protect our teams. In that regard, not much difference at all.”

Furlong nodded. It was a concept that most of the three hundred million people that called themselves Americans would not fully understand. Yet it kept the wolf away from the door.

“What about your man? Parker? Why are you here?”

“Parker. He can shoot like Burgey. Language savant. Marathon runner.” Moncrief paused. “Aw, hell. That doesn't really describe him . . . who he is.” He paused again. “The reason I'm here is he asked me to help, and . . .” Moncrief shrugged. “He saved my life.”

“In country?”

Moncrief nodded. “Iraq. Recon went wrong. I took some grenade shrapnel in the gut. Parker taped me up and got me out.”

“Duct tape?”

“Yup. How in the hell did you know? Good old, cheap-ass duct tape.” In all of the years that had passed, Moncrief never got the image out of his head: looking down at the duct tape holding his gut in, blood everywhere.

Just a nick,
Parker had said, smiling at him.

Moncrief had seen the smile and for some reason simply stopped worrying.

“Tonight's jump is gonna be brutal. You know that, right?” Furlong brought Moncrief back to the moment.

“How bad's bad?”

“We're dropping in on the east side of the Himalayas. The wind currents will be rough.”

“What altitude we pulling the chutes?”

“Fifteen thousand. The aircraft is going to report an engine failure on number four in about fifteen minutes. He will swing out to the east, wandering over Pakistan, so that he can turn back toward Afghanistan.”