The Team (8 page)

Chapter 20

CIA Training Facility

The team had stayed out until the place closed, eating more pizza and drinking more beer than the rest of the patrons combined. It had been a much-needed night off, and the men had blown off steam and had a chance to socialize in a different type of setting. They had felt human again.

Cascaes was up at oh-five thirty, walking the hallway like a Marine Drill Instructor with a baseball bat banging against a metal trash can. “Wake up, ladies!” he screamed as he walked up and down the hall.

The men had years of mental conditioning, and they rolled out of their beds, hung-over and exhausted, but with a reflex to be outside and standing at semi-formal attention in the hallway in their boxers. Moose was his typical self, screaming at his SEALs to move faster. Once they were assembled, they looked at Chris, puzzled at the boot camp awakening.

“I can’t have you getting soft, you fat bodies!” yelled Chris. “Mess hall in fifteen, outside to the trail in thirty! Move it, people!”

The men ran back inside to hop into shorts and shirts, and Mackey walked out of his room, moving much slower than everyone else. “You shittin’ me?” he asked Cascaes.

“You’re excused from duty on account of being very fucking old. These guys need an ass-kicking,” he said calmly. “See you at breakfast.” With that, he put down the garbage can and walked towards the mess hall.

The team ate quietly and quickly, not overeating for two reasons, they were still full from pizza night, and they didn’t want to throw up all over themselves. Cascaes’ SEALs knew what an early morning wakeup call meant, and it was never good.

Chris had them outside, column of twos fifteen minutes later, and was surprised to see Mackey outside with them. Chris made eye contact, and Mackey flipped him the bird. Chris jogged to the front of the column, and then took off.

“The only easy day was yesterday!” he bellowed as he ran down the trail. The men took off after him at a faster pace than usual. It was going to be one of those kind of days.

* * *

At two o’clock, the team jogged back to where they started, thoroughly soaked with sweat through their clothes on a cold, wet afternoon. Five of them had thrown up off to the side of the trail at various times, and they had all sweated out the alcohol from the night before. It had been their hardest workout in weeks, but the truth was, they all loved it. They were simply a different breed of human.

Once back at the main building, Chris dismissed the men to shower up and meet for a late lunch at three. They had taken water breaks, but hadn’t eaten since their light breakfast before the sun had come up.

Chris and Mackey stood outside and watched the men head inside to shower and change. Once the men were out of sight, Mack stepped into the bushes and puked. After spitting a few times, he walked back over to Chris and shook his head. “You’re right. I’m way too fucking old for this shit.”

“You hung right in there and you weren’t the only one puking. Quit your bitching. You would have made a good SEAL a few years back.”

“I liked sitting in the plane.”

“You never did tell me, did you get your pecker shot off that day?” asked Chris with his usual slight grin. The man wasn’t big on belly laughing.

“Happy to say I have all my original parts. But don’t laugh. I used to sit on a piece of steel plate for that exact reason. We have a briefing in thirty minutes with Dex and Kim.”

“Roger that. See you there.”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, the two Chrises arrived at Dex’s office, where Kim was already seated.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Mack.

“More chatter,” he replied. “Kim…”

Kim asked the men to sit, which they did. Dex was behind his desk, Kim in a high backed chair, and Mack and Chris on a leather coach.

“We don’t have a lot of assets that we trust in Qatar, which has been limiting. Oman and the UAE have limited help, and they aren’t hearing anything. We do have some field presence in Saudi, but it’s a tough place to work. The Mabahith, that’s the Saudi Secret Police, they keep a close eye on our folks. They know who our people are most of the time, and we we’re very careful about pissing off our Saudi allies.”

“So what’s the chatter?” asked Mack, not following her conversation.

“Saudi contacts in a bank watched another fifty million leave Prince Abdul Awadi’s account again.”

“We’re wired into their bank?” asked Chris.

“No, unfortunately, their anti-terrorism laws are almost as bad as Qatar’s, and we aren’t allowed access to their banking information.”

“So…?” asked Mack.

“So we do have a few low level bank employees on our payroll. They do a little snooping for us into specific account balances. It’s how we caught the fifty million this morning. It was a cash transaction.”

“Fifty million in cash and no one asks any questions?” asked Chris.

“Nope. Welcome to the Middle East. Awadi buys a racing car every few months for cash, too. A few hundred thousand dollars in a duffle bag. An everyday occurrence out there in oil land.”

“I bought a truck for cash once,” said Chris quietly. “Back in Iowa. It was five hundred bucks.”

“So we think this is the replacement fifty million for the fifty we
acquisitioned
last week?” Asked Mack.

“Precisely. We can’t prove anything, of course. But we’re going to arrange a rematch with the prince’s baseball team. We need you to get inside his palace. Our tech guys have been working on a few new gadgets. If you can get into the palace and get to a computer—any computer inside the palace, we can get into his entire network,” said Kim.

“Sure wouldn’t mind the rematch,” said Mackey. “I had to throw the last game and it’s been pissing me off every day since.”

“He’s funny that way,” said Cascaes. “Thinks he’s really coaching a baseball team.”

“So you didn’t mind losing?” asked Kim, smiling.

“I didn’t lose with those half-assed baseball players. I was out stealing fifty million dollars.” He almost smirked.

Dex chuckled. “Then it’s settled. You’re going back to Eskan and playing baseball. Get inside the palace, bug the shit out of his computers and phones, and we’ll get ourselves some proof and gather some information.”

“Phones?” asked Mack. “I thought it was a computer thing?”

Kim smiled. “We’ll take you to the barn. It’s what we call the tech building. They have a tiny little gadget that just needs to be inside the palace to get into the prince’s Wi-Fi network and every satellite communication in and out. Between listening to his phone calls and reading his emails, we should be able to nail his ass.”

Mack looked at Chris and in his best umpire voice said,
“Play ball!”

Chapter 21

The Rematch

Mackey was sitting in the dugout watching his team stretch and get warmed up. Moose was throwing to Ripper in the bullpen while Ernie warmed up with Jon a few feet away. Moose could throw a fastball like any major league pro, while Ernie relied on breaking balls. Jake Koches had been stretching and jogging in the outfield when he stopped and then ran across the field to the other team. Mackey watched curiously for a while as Jake and some player on the prince’s team chatted and laughed together. They shook hands and Jake jogged back towards his team. Mackey whistled at him to grab his attention and called him to the dugout.

“What was that all about? Who’s he?” asked Mackey.

Jake looked at him and smiled. “You don’t recognize him? That A-rab did it again. Hired pros. That’s Mike Duffy! He played for the Mets for ten years, Mack! Retired last year, but the prince offered him a hundred and fifty grand
cash
to fly out here first class and play baseball for a few days. He’s not as good as he used to be, but he’s a hell of a lot better than any of
us
!”

Mack folded his arms on his chest. “They had pros last time, too, and we almost beat them. I don’t want to hear that shit. What position does he play?”

“Third base. But he’s got a serious bat, Mack. He’ll be knocking them over the fence all day, no offense to Moose or Ernie. They better walk his ass.”

“So noted. Anyone else over there you recognize?”

“Duffy is the only one I recognized right away, but Mike told me there’s four other American pros on the team. They’ve been here for three days living like kings. Well, like princes, anyway.” He laughed at his own joke.

“This prince is pissing me off. I know winning the game isn’t why we’re here, but I’m a sore loser—and unless you and your friends want to be PTed
2
to
death
, you better play like you want to win.”

Jake’s smile disappeared. “Yes, sir,” was all he replied, and he jogged back out to the field to continue loosening up.

Mackey kicked the dirt and checked his watch. Almost game time. Music came on, and Mackey looked up to see the prince walking down the steps behind home plate with his entourage. There were over a dozen of his friends, all dressed in formal thobes, long white robes, with kuffiyehs of either red and white or black and white on their heads. A few pairs of high-end French sunglasses were thrown in for good measure.

Mackey stared at them as they made their way down, waving to players who waved back. The prince gave a “papal wave” to Mackey, who returned it with his best Queen Elizabeth impersonation, the sarcasm lost on the prince.

Mackey’s team jogged back into the dugout and Mackey read off the batting order. As soon as he was finished with that, he gave a quick pep talk to his team.

“I hate this fucker. Go out there and win a baseball game. Moose, don’t give number five anything to swing at; Jakes says he’s some Duffy guy from the Mets. I gotta talk to Langley and get a bigger budget for this op. We need a few pros on our team. In the meantime, try not to screw this up. Eric, get on base—that’s an order.”

The two teams lined up along the baselines for the formality of the National Anthem, followed by the Saudi Anthem, and then returned to their dugouts. Eric walked to home plate and tapped his cleats with his bat, which had been corked back at Langley by their “gadgets folks.” If the prince could bring in ringers, the team could cheat, too.

Cascaes walked out to first base, on the pretext of being the first base coach. He aimed his baseball hat at the prince and his associates and casually squeezed the bill of the cap, turning on the powerful camera hidden in the cap. He slowly scanned every face around the prince, which was being seen in real-time back at Langley by facial recognition systems as well as Middle East analysts and Kim Elton. If any of the prince’s guests were in the system, they’d know soon enough.

Eric took the first two pitches, a ball and a strike, and then looked back at Mackey, who didn’t signal. Eric was free to do what he wanted. He watched another fastball come in at ninety miles an hour, strike two. The next pitch was also a fastball, but hit the outside corner where Eric made contact. The corked center made the ball take off like a Fungo bat, and the ball bounced off the top of the center field wall.

Ripper, who was batting second, grabbed the bat and tossed it back towards the dugout before their catcher could grab it to inspect it. Anyone who knew baseball would have been a little suspicious of how lively that hit was, but no one said anything. Ripper stood at the plate, a giant of a man, with his bat looking like a toothpick in his hands. The pitcher threw him some chin music to set the tone, but Ripper never backed off the plate. Ripper merely stared at the pitcher and pointed his bat, like he was aiming straight at him. The two of them stared at each other, and the next pitch was a breaking ball for ball two. A swing and a miss, another ball, a called strike, and then
wham
! A line drive right back at the pitcher made the pitcher cover up for a near miss. It went through the middle for a single that moved Eric to third base. Ripper and the pitcher stared at each other for a second as he stood on first base smiling. Ripper wasn’t actually good enough to aim right at the pitcher, but the way things turned out sure made him happy. His teammates in the dugout cheered wildly, just to piss the pitcher off.

Raul was batting third, and his groundball led to a double play, but Eric managed to score their first run. Lance was batting cleanup and managed to tease everyone with a shot to the wall, but it was caught with a sensational play from the professional centerfielder.

The team took the field with confidence and poise and proceeded to get shelled for ten minutes with the score at the end of one, four to one. Moose was throwing hard—the problem was these guys were just damn good.

For baseball fans that weren’t into pitching duels, it was a fun game to watch, with the lead changing twice by the time they got to the ninth inning. At the bottom of the ninth, the prince’s team had tied the game, and they went into extra innings.

Mackey welcomed his players back into the dugout for the top of the tenth. “I know my team isn’t tired. My team is the most bad-ass assemblage of war lords on the motherfucking planet. Look over at their dugout! A bunch of retirees who need oxygen. No one needs to hit a homer. Just make them keep running around. They’re tired and they don’t give a shit if they win—they’re getting paid either way. You
do
give a shit if you win, because if you lose I will have you running and working out until you die. Now get out there and hit the ball. And cheat if you have to!”

It was bottom of the order, and Moose was up. He looked at his normal bat, and then decided on the corked one instead. He looked at Eric and whispered, “You stay in the on-deck circle and grab this friggin bat if it breaks.”

“Roger that. Send it downrange,” said Eric quietly.

Moose walked out to the plate and looked at the other pitcher. They had replaced their starter in the seventh inning, and Moose had switched places with Ernie P. in the eighth. Moose had thrown a lot of pitches, but he was a beast, and was fresh and itching to swing.

After watching the first two, Moose made contact with the third pitch and sent it so far it bounced off the scoreboard four hundred feet away. He threw the bat to Eric, who jogged it back to the dugout. The American catcher, retired from the Twins, stood up and pulled his mask off. He turned to the umpire and screamed “Bullshit!” as Moose rounded second. While the catcher complained to the umpire, Eric and his teammates switched bats, which they then produced for the umpire, who inspected it, tapped it, hefted it, and examined it again for several minutes. He was still holding it when Moose crossed home plate and demanded to know what they were doing.

The umpire declared the bat was legal, to which Moose agreed. “Of course it is! It’s not my fault if I hit it out of the dome.” He smiled and jogged back to the dugout where his teammates snickered and avoided eye contact.

Eric was now up, and couldn’t use the loaded bat with everyone now watching. Instead, he laid down a bunt and sprinted like a fresh track star to first, beating the throw. The other team was showing their fatigue and frustration, and the prince called the coach, demanding a pitching change. The coach reluctantly put in the third pitcher, who was an Arab, and not a professional. And while it wasn’t what he wanted to do strategically, he wasn’t going to ever say no to the sheikh.

The new pitcher took the mound and warmed up. He looked terrified. The Navy All Stars stood in the dugout watching him warm up and licked their lips.

Ripper walked to the plate. The pitcher’s first batter was the largest man he’d seen in years with arms that barely fit in his shirt sleeves. The pitcher kicked the dirt, played with his hat, and talked to himself. He threw the first pitch, which literally bounced in front of the plate, the catcher making a good stop. The catcher, another American ringer, yelled encouragement in English. The second pitch hit Ripper in the upper arm, and Ripper took a step towards him. He stared at the terrified kid a moment, then dropped the bat and jogged to first. Mackey took great pleasure watching the prince’s face up in the stands. The man was a nice shade of purple.

Raul was up next, and the poor kid on the mound aimed a pitch instead of throwing it. It hung over the plate and Raul crushed it to the left field alley. A stand up double had Ripper crossing home plate. The go-ahead run. From there, the wheels came off the bus. The catcher twice asked to inspect the bat, but chose two times when they were legitimate bats. When two men were on base and Jon Cohen got to the plate, he grabbed another cork special and put it over the wall for a three-run homer. Mackey was praying the umpire’s hearing wasn’t as good as his. The ball definitely sounded funny coming off the bat, but Raul had grabbed the bat and thrown it into the dugout before it could be inspected. By the time the home team was back up, the score was eleven to seven.

Ernie P. was fresh and feeling good. While he didn’t have Moose’s power, his curves and sliders were good stuff, and with only one single, they retired the side and won the game. The prince was obviously outraged, after paying huge sums of money to import ringers to win the game, but he was obliged to once again offer a feast to his guests. This time, Mackey happily accepted, and his team hit the showers.