Fallen Angel (8 page)

Private citizen

"I don't understand." Tess lowered the letter.

"I do." Mac looked at the president.

"Go on."

Mac turned his gaze to the VP. "The Air Force Spec Ops team?"

Bacliff nodded and although he tried to show no emotion, fear seeped through his expression.

Tess cocked her head. "I've been briefed on the team, and I don't recall reading about any of your family members, sir."

"That's the way it's supposed to be, Dr. Rand. My son and I thought it best to keep his identity a secret. When he entered the military, he changed his last name—well, he didn't really change his name, he just used his mother's maiden name as his last name. Of course, the military knows this. At the time, I was a ranking member of the Armed Services Committee in the Senate. I asked for a favor and received it. Considering the present state of the media in our country, you can understand why I would like to keep that under wraps."

"Yes, sir." Tess understood. Bacliff was one of those politicians who ran for office because he cared so much for his country. The man could have made millions in business, but he chose a life of public service. Such men often brought up children who shared the same level of patriotism.

"My son wanted to be a military man ever since he was eight years old. I figured it would pass, but it didn't. I chose a life of public service, which created problems for him. He didn't want to be just another senator's child in the service, passing time in the States. He wanted to do real military work. You can imagine the problems being my son might present."

Bacliff inhaled deeply. "He wanted no special treatment or protection. He just wanted to serve." Tears welled in his eyes and Tess caught herself looking away.

"He sounds like a brave man." Mac didn't break his gaze.

"He is, Colonel. He is. His mother is in a terrible state."

"I can't even imagine," Tess said.

"You see the problem." Bacliff dabbed at his eyes, unembarrassed by the show of emotion. "If his captors learn of his connection to me, then it will make things even more difficult for all involved. It is reasonable to assume they might use him to get to me. I can't allow that. All I can do is resign. That way, I'm out of the picture."

"I don't think you'd use your influence to try to gain his release," Tess said.

"Yes, I would, Dr. Rand. You would too. When you have children, you will understand."

The phrase knifed through her, but she said nothing.

Tess turned to Mac. The man pressed his lips into a line. "May I ask his name?"

The vice president was quiet for a moment. "Captain Scott Masters—Captain Scott Masters Bacliff."

Mac swore softly, then caught himself. "Excuse me, sirs."

Huffington waved a dismissive hand. "You should have heard what I said."

"This is horrible." Tess struggled to sort her emotions.

"It's horrible when any of our troops are captured." Bacliff's words were soft. "The fact that one of them is my son doesn't make a difference except to me and my family."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

Huffington raised the cup of coffee to his lips, sipped, then set it back on the table. The other cups remained untouched. "Colonel, I need to make this clear. I've already discussed this with the vice president. Your primary mission is the satellite. That must come before rescue."

Tess couldn't believe what she heard, and her face must have telegraphed the fact.

"Dr. Rand, I know how that sounds. How can I put a machine over men? Well, I don't do it lightly and I have my reasons. Military leaders know what it is to send men and women to their deaths, sometimes for something as seemingly unimportant as a strategic hill. If history gets hold of my decision, then I'll be portrayed as a heartless man. I'm not."

"Of course not, sir. I didn't mean to imply you were."

Huffington faced Mac. "At the moment, only five people know about this; six if you count Captain Masters. That will change by the end of the day. Thirty minutes from now, I'll brief the speaker of the house and the Senate's president pro tem. I will bring in the chairman of the JCS. I will ask him to keep the information to himself. The other members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff don't need to know, at least not at the moment. The fewer people who know about this, the better." The president drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. "While what I'm about to say isn't mission crucial, I'm going to bring you in on this. I do so because I want you and your team focused on the mission. Clear?"

"Clear, sir."

"Brownie here will be our new VP. I know she can pass a Senate review. She has something on everyone in Congress. No one's going to give her grief. We have too many things going on to miss a beat. Appointing Brownie VP will make sure things flow smoothly."

"If only I can get him to stop calling me Brownie." The woman smiled, and for a moment Tess thought she saw skin crack. The group gave a polite laugh; everyone except Bacliff.

Mac said, "You said there were three items, Mr. President."

"All I can say about the second item is this: There is more to that satellite than you know or can imagine. I can't tell you more. Not yet."

"Does it impact my team's mission?"

"No, their task remains the same. Just know that it is extremely important that your team succeeds."

"Yes, sir."

Tess wanted to pump the man for more information. Information was her specialty, being deprived of it made her uncomfortable, especially since her husband was one of the men tasked with finding and destroying Angel-12. She reined in her curiosity. Such protocol existed for a reason.

"Third and final item for this meeting: We've received intel that confirms one of our fears. Your team is racing three enemy factors. First is the Russian government. They monitor our satellites just as we monitor theirs. That isn't new. This is: We know a Chinese Spec Ops team is headed to the same area."

"Chinese?" Tess let her surprise slip.

"As you know, it was a defunct Chinese satellite that started all this, except our intel groups believe the satellite wasn't defunct at all: it was a sleeper."

"A sleeper?" Tess raised an eyebrow.

"A satellite in orbit that appears to be nonoperational but can be reactivated for a purpose. In this case, to knock our bird out of the sky."

"Has this happened before?"

"There have been collisions, but this seems to have a different purpose. We now suspect the Chinese waited until just the right time to knock down Angel-12. If our space warriors hadn't tried to move the bird before impact, it would have landed in the heart of China. The last-minute maneuver changed its impact area. Which means—"

"The Chinese targeted that particular bird." Mac rubbed the back of his neck, the closest the man ever came to showing emotion. "But why?"

"They couldn't know." Helen Brown looked at the president. "Could they?"

CHAPTER 7

CAPTAIN SCOTT MASTERS FOUGHT
the urge to writhe. Throughout his life he had experienced pain: a broken leg acquired on a ski slope, cracked ribs from a fall during basic training, and scorching agony from an abscess in his jaw. The moment made all of those events seem like mere annoyances.

Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and wetted the side of his face. On his back and strapped to his bed, he could do little more than shift from side to side. He was being observed and his captors would consider every groan a victory.

Behind him he could hear the gentle beep of the IV stand and, if he turned his head enough, he could see the still-full bags of antibiotics and the limp, clear line that should be connected to his arm. Bags of life hanging just out of reach, just close enough to provide mental torture.

The pain in his side seemed to be expanding. The skin around his wounds, especially the facial injury his captor used as an ashtray, grew warmer by the hour. Masters had no doubt the seeping injuries were infected.

How long before the infection spread to his blood and to his organs? Would it reach his brain? Infect his heart or liver?

He thought about Egonov's threat of gangrene. Masters saw gangrene during a tour in Afghanistan. A boy, no more than eight, was wounded by shrapnel from a suicide bomber. The wound wasn't life threatening, just a deep cut to the right forearm. His parents decided to nurse him themselves. Medications were in short supply and the injury festered. When the boy's parents approached Masters and his team as they swept a village, the wound was gangrenous. Masters's team transported the boy to the nearest functioning medical facility. The last time Masters saw the boy, he had only one arm.

What would need to be cut away from his body to save his life?

He heard a scream. Distant. Muted. Familiar. He had been hearing such agony-laced cries every few minutes. Hearing another human beg for mercy was soul crushing; it was worse when the voice was recognizable.

Stu. A young sergeant. Tough as nails and fearless in a firefight. Funny. Always ready with a joke, especially off-color jabs. Masters never met a man who liked to laugh more.

The laughter was gone. Just wails and screams and weeping.

It came from the room next door. Masters could hear the door open and close. It would open and a few moments later the pleading would begin. Later the door would open and close again and all would go silent. He knew what they were doing and he hated them for it. They were bringing his men into the adjoining room so Masters could hear them being tormented.

He understood the plan. They would let pain and infection torture his body and let the cries of his men fry his brain.

Masters wanted to pray for release, for rescue, for miraculous intervention, but his prayers ran a different direction. "Five minutes, God. Just give me five minutes alone with Egonov; just five minutes to make my point."

MOYER AND HIS TEAM
stood on the pitching deck of the destroyer looking at the thirty-three-foot-long, rigid-hull inflatable boat rising and falling in the swells of the discontent North Pacific. He raised his gaze and looked across a quarter mile of churning sea to see a rolling Japanese fishing boat.

J. J. said what Moyer was thinking. "I thought the skipper said the seas were calm."

A narrow chief with a square jaw looked puzzled. "These are calm seas."

"Be honest," Rich said. "You're just trying to have some fun with the Army boys, right?"

The chief shrugged. "The SEALs don't seem to mind. By the way, that's their boat, so don't do anything stupid like shoot the rubber hull. Those boys are a tad sensitive about their equipment."

"We won't hurt their little toys, Chief." Rich took another look at the boat.

"Toy, eh." The chief huffed. "You would perhaps like to swim?"

"We wouldn't dream of hurting your feelings." J. J. exchanged glances with Rich. "You look a little green around the gills, Shaq."

Rich frowned. "Black men don't get green around the gills."

"If you say so, big man, but I know green when I see it."

"Yeah? Well, I feel good enough to throw you all the way to the fishing boat."

"Stow it, gentlemen." The chief moved to the edge of his ship. "We don't want to spend any more time here than we have to. It's dark, but not dark enough for my liking." He pointed skyward. "Who knows who's watching."

"God?" Crispin said.

"I think he means spy satellites, Hawkeye."

"Oh. I knew that."

"Sure you did, kid." Rich put a hand on the shoulder of the newest member of the team. "You know, the new guy goes first, right? It's tradition and this unit is big on tradition."

"But just think of how much I can learn from watching a professional like you."

"Hawkeye?" Moyer said.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Get your butt in the boat."

"Yes, Boss."

The chief and a petty officer helped Crispin climb down a ladder to the RHIB. A sailor at the foot of the ladder took hold of the young man's arm and helped him aboard. Crispin looked up the side of the ship. "See, Shaq, there's no need for you to be afraid anymore."

"I'm gonna kill 'em, Boss."

"He's just trying to be encouraging." Moyer caught the chief grinning. "Why don't you go next?"

"I don't mind bringing up the rear."

"You know, you do look a little green. It's gonna be worse in the dingy so let's shake a leg. You'll feel better on the fishing boat."

"No, he won't." The chief was still grinning. "No stabilizers on that craft."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Shaq's voice had lost its edge.

"Who? Me?"

A voice came over a loudspeaker. "Speed it up, Chief."

"If you don't mind, Sergeant Major. Your team is putting me on the skipper's dirt list."

"Understood, Chief." Moyer turned to Rich. "In the boat, pal."

Two minutes later, a petty officer in the small wheelhouse of the boat hit the throttles, sending the rubber-hulled boat skipping over the swells and white caps. Moyer began to feel like Rich looked.

It took only a few moments for the RHIB to cross the distance from the
Michael Monsoor
. Standing at the gunwales were three Japanese men. One looked to be in his forties, the other two in their twenties. As the transport craft neared, the younger Japanese fishermen dropped a rope ladder over the side.

The petty officer at the wheel slowed and turned to Moyer and his men. "This is the dicey part. I have to get close but not smash us into the boat's hull. We're going to get bumped around some, so be careful of your footing. One person on the ladder at a time, no more. Get up to the deck as quickly as possible but be careful of your step. You really don't want to go swimming."

"You got that right," Rich said.

"Who's first?" the petty officer asked.

"That'd be me." Moyer stood and moved to the port side of the craft. "Let's do this, sailor."

"Aye, aye." He feathered the engines so the RHIB inched closer.

The cold wind whipped around Moyer and bit at his ears. He was glad it wasn't winter. He pointed at each of his men, giving them the order in which they would climb the ladder.

"Stand by." The petty officer turned the boat sideways as he neared the larger vessel. A swell lifted the craft and slammed into the fishing boat's metal hull. "Go." The man didn't yell, but he made sure he could be heard.

Moyer didn't hesitate. He scrambled to the ladder. Ocean spray stung his eyes and as he took his first step on a tread, the RHIB dropped from beneath him as swell turned into trough.

"Whoa!" Moyer tightened his already viselike grip on the ladder. The fishing boat tipped toward the trough and the ladder swung away from the hull before the trough became swell. Moyer wasted no time moving up. Before he reached the ship's rails, two pairs of hands seized him by the arms and yanked. Before he could speak, Moyer was seated on the deck, everything intact but his dignity. He pushed himself to his feet and moved to the rail. Below were his wide-eyed men. "Piece of cake."

"Yeah, bet me." Shaq shook his head.

Next up was J. J. He grinned the entire time and made it look effortless. Moyer hated youth.

The others followed, each helped over the rail by the crew. Rich was the last aboard and the moment his foot hit the deck, the RHIB roared away.

"Welcome aboard the
Komagata Maru
." The speaker was the older of the three men, Moyer saw as they approached.

"Thank you. Um, your English—"

"Thanks, I've been working on it. It's not hard. I was born and reared in Michigan."

"Oh, sorry. I assumed—"

"That's the idea. Every member of the crew is U.S. born." He held out his hand. "Commander Sam Sasaki, United States Navy. I'm the skipper of this fine vessel."

"I don't mean to be rude, Commander, but to my untrained eye, it looks a little worse for wear."

"It took a lot of taxpayer money to make it look this way."

Moyer nodded. Camouflage applied to more than uniforms. "We appreciate the ride. Is the whole crew Navy?"

"Maybe." Sasaki smiled. Moyer didn't press. "I understand you're on a tight schedule."

"Yes, sir."

"I've received word the package you're looking for is off schedule. Impact is expected sooner."

"Then we had better put the pedal to the metal."

"Sorry, no can do. We must keep up appearances."

Moyer tilted his head. "I don't understand."

"We're supposed to be a fishing boat. If I go screaming across the ocean, it might draw attention on someone's radar. We're small but noticeable. I can get you close in a few hours."

"Close?"

"I can't sail into Russian waters." The commander shrugged. "That'd put an end to the mission pretty quick, and we'd all be answering questions we don't want asked. I can explain my Japanese crew, but I can't explain armed soldiers. If you catch my drift."

"I catch it. Please do what you can, Commander. There's a lot at stake."

"So I've been told."