“You done?” Mike asked calmly.
“Yeah,” Adams said, sighing.
“Go do the mission,” Mike said. “Collect a bonus. Then stay in the fucking States. I don’t want to see your face again after that door shuts.”
“You’re fucking firing me?” Adams said, incredulous. “Well then, fuck you, I’ll just leave.”
“Big mission,” Mike pointed out. “American civilians might die. You might stop that. And do you really want the Keldara wandering around the U.S. alone?”
“Fuck,” Adams said. “You know just where the buttons are, don’t you?”
“You weren’t hired for your brains,” Mike replied. “By the same token, you should know when you’re out of your depth on something. And you just proved you don’t. So I don’t want you around.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Adams asked.
“You’ve been married, what? Six times? Which means that you’re the perfect SEAL, more balls than brains and no fucking heart at all. It’s just a piece of ass. Big fucking deal. Which meant you had no clue what you were just saying. No fucking clue at all. Since you don’t even have the introspection to realize that, please leave this room and get the fuck out of my life. Go do the mission and then just… leave.”
“I should have left you to die in that damned bunker,” Adams said, hitting the door control.
“I wish you had,” Mike whispered after the door was closed. Then he raised the plate…
Chapter Two
Adams stepped off the plane and breathed deep. Humid as hell and about seventy degrees. Ah, Florida winter.
Homestead Air Force Base was located just south of the city of Miami near the town of Homestead, Florida. The base had once housed a variety of bombers from Strategic Air Command, back in the days when “pad alert” had teeth. But the end of the Cold War had caused various reevaluations of the base, especially given the pressures from the burgeoning Miami area.
However, its strategic location — it was the only base that really had a lock on the Caribbean — had kept it at minimal status. Demoted to an “Air Force Reserve Base” it, nonetheless, maintained a squadron of “reserve” F-16s as an antiterror Combat Air Patrol over the Miami area as well as supported the antidrug planes that patrolled the region.
The old girl was getting a little weary, but hanging in there.
“Mr. Adams?” the officer waiting for them asked, holding out a hand. “I’m Lieutenant Mike Himes, sir. I’m your liaison officer.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant,” Adams said. The officer was tall and almost skeletally thin, maybe weighing one-fifty if he was soaking wet. A shock of red hair was apparent under the beret. Adams had learned to read Army doo-dads over the years, though, and the LT was wearing a CIB and a combat patch from the Third ID.
“I’ve arranged billeting for your personnel on base,” the LT continued, waving to the terminal building.
“I think we’ve got a hotel set up,” Adams said. “Sorry about that. The usual clusterfuck. But we’ll need someplace to store our gear.”
“About that… yes,” the LT said. “We’ve got a meeting just about to start you probably should attend. The joint headquarters for the action teams is here on base. You’ll be able to meet all the movers if you know what I mean, sir. And there are some issues to resolve.”
“Ain’t there always,” Adams said with a sigh. “I swear that’s why the colonel stayed behind; he didn’t want to sit in the meetings.”
“Possibly, sir,” the LT said. “I’ve got escorts for your personnel and a truck is on the way to pick up their gear. We’ll arrange transport to town. If you could follow me?”
“Hello, my old friend,” Kurt said in perfect German. It was, after all, his native language.
He was sitting in an open air bar in Bimini, listening to some really awful rap music. But the view was spectacular since some Canadian girls were down on vacation and seemed to quite enjoy the caterwauling.
“Hello,” the man on the phone said. “I thought you should know that your friends are arriving today.”
“Is that so?” Kurt said. “Then I think we should make plans to receive them well, don’t you think?”
“Arrangements have already been made,” the man said. “I was just informing you. They will be well taken care of.”
“Wonderful,” Kurt said, hanging up the phone. “Just perfect.”
The meeting room featured a long table with seats at it and along the walls behind. Most of the seats were filled when Adams arrived.
“This way, sir,” Himes whispered, leading Adams to one of the chairs, then taking the one behind him.
“Who are you?” the guy next to Adams asked, leaning over. He was a heavy-set guy wearing a FEMA jacket. In fact, most of the people in the room, males and females, wore jackets denoting their agencies. Maybe he should have Mike make up jackets for the Keldara so people would know who they were. No, fuck Mike. After this one he was gone.
“I’m not sure I get to tell you that,” Adams said.
“Or you’d have to kill me?” the man joked.
Adams turned and just stared.
“Been there, done that.”
“Oookay,” the man said, turning back to the table.
“This meeting is in order.”
The man at the head of the table was a Navy admiral. Adams vaguely recognized him but he wasn’t a SEAL admiral, not that there were many of those. Flyboy, if Adams recalled.
“We need to start by signing the standard form,” the admiral said, unsealing the briefing document in front of him with a letter opener.
Adams looked at the folder, puzzled, for a moment then pulled out his Spyderco folding knife and slit open the top. Inside was another envelope with a form on the front. He perused it for a moment, shrugged, then signed the bottom.
“Collect them,” the admiral said when everyone had finished signing the forms. It was apparent that some of them had taken the time to read the fine print. Slowly.
His aide circled the room, picking up the forms, then took them back to the admiral. The admiral then proceeded to read each of them.
“CBP,” the admiral said, looking over at the representative from Customs and Border Protection. “You have an objection to Clause Two?”
Adams had long before learned the technique of sleeping at the drop of a hat. He wasn’t sure how long it was before someone poked him the back.
“Mr… Adams?” the admiral said.
“Sir?” the master chief replied, sitting up.
“You’re heading the… Georgian contingent?” the admiral asked. “I see that you have clearance for this briefing but I’m not sure what your part in all of this is.”
“We’re just here to help out, sir,” Adams said. “We have both a team of intel specialists and a team of shooters. If you localize anything, we can take it down. Guaranteed.”
“Excuse me?” the FBI rep said, leaning over to look down the table. “What did you just say?”
“I think it was pretty obvious,” Adams replied. “I mean, why else did we fly all this way?”
“We have two tac teams, highly trained tac teams I might add, standing by,” the FBI rep said. “If anything needs to be ‘taken down’ it will be licensed officers of the United States government.”
“Fine,” Adams said, pulling out a cigar. He wasn’t much of a smoker, but there were times… “Then I’ll just sit here and nap.”