“Which means he’s got shipboard combat experience,” Flynn pointed out. He pulled out one of the personnel dossiers. “And Fox has talked to Four’s UK station. They suggested one of their new recruits, a former sergeant in the SAS named Tony McGill. He’s flying here tomorrow to check me out first.”
“Not a dummy, then,” Van Horn commented. “You ready to exert all your powers of persuasion?”
“I’ll be my usual charming self,” he assured her.
“Nick, you’ll have to do better than that,” she said sternly. “Don’t forget that you’re actually trying to get this guy McGill to sign on for this stunt. Not to bolt for the nearest exit.”
Flynn bowed his head in mock apology. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. So who else is on your list?”
“Well, that’s about it,” he admitted. “Turns out that Four’s a little short right now on paramilitary daredevil types.” He smiled ruefully. “Which probably explains why Fox was so hot to trot to scoop me up last year.”
“I could go along on this gig,” Van Horn offered. “Assuming you male chauvinist types don’t mind fighting with a girl on your side, that is.”
Flynn grinned at her. “I don’t think anybody’s dumb enough or suicidal enough to try to stop you, Laura. But we’re going to need your flying skills more. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure this op literally won’t ever get off the ground.”
She nodded reluctantly. “Probably so.” Her eyes were troubled. “Still, counting you, that’s only six men, Nick.” She picked up his draft mission plan. “And this scheme of yours calls for a minimum assault force of eight — which, considering the odds you’re likely to face on board that tanker, is already pushing the envelope. Six shooters isn’t going to cut it, not when you’re likely to take casualties just getting down onto the deck.”
“We don’t really have a choice,” he said carefully. He shrugged. “It’s not like I can place a classified ad to fill the empty slots.”
For just a second, a trace of impish glee flickered across Van Horn’s worried face. “Well, you could, I guess. But can you imagine the look on Fox’s face when he caught sight of a line of pot-bellied, gray-haired guys in hunting camo and Army surplus tactical gear lined up outside Avalon House?”
Flynn’s mind goggled at the thought. “That would be something to behold,” he agreed slowly. “Not a good thing, mind you.”
“I might have another option,” Gwen Park said, almost hesitantly. The petite Asian American woman wore a strange expression on her elegant face — an odd mix of embarrassed exasperation coupled with reluctant amusement.
“Oh?” Flynn said.
“About a week ago, two uninvited guests showed up on our doorstep,” the Avalon House security chief told him. “And they were asking for you, Mr. Flynn.”
“Me?”
She nodded. “You.”
“Could be process servers, Nick,” Van Horn murmured. “If you have to make a run for it, I’ll hold them off here.”
“Oh, very funny,” Flynn said. He turned back to Park. “What’s the story on these guys?”
She shrugged. “You were still overseas, so we played dumb. They then threatened to just wait outside for as long as it took us to find you.”
“Kind of determined types,” Van Horn commented dryly.
“Very determined,” Park concurred with that same half-pained expression. “In the end, we compromised. They agreed to go back to their motel and sit tight. And we agreed to contact you on their behalf.”
“Which you didn’t do,” Flynn pointed out.
The security chief smiled thinly. “Of course not. At least not until we’d thoroughly vetted them.” She sighed. “We’ve had them under surveillance ever since. And their story, such as it is, seems to check out.”
“And you think they might be able to help Nick with this operation?” Van Horn asked narrowly.
“Possibly,” Park allowed. She frowned. “Letting strangers inside Avalon House is against the rules. My rules, I mean. But I don’t see any other realistic option in this particular case.” She held up her smartphone. “I can have them here in minutes. If you’re interested?”
Flynn nodded. “Oh, hell, yes.”
A short time later, Park knocked briefly on the half-open door to the study and looked in. “Our guests have arrived,” she reported. Then she half-turned and crooked a finger down the hall, signaling someone. “In here, gentlemen.”
Flynn’s eyes widened at the sight of the two men who ambled somewhat sheepishly in behind the security chief. Cole Hynes and Wade Vucovich had been part of the Joint Force security unit he’d briefly commanded on Alaska’s frozen north coast. After a risky parachute jump into a winter blizzard, they’d all tangled with a Spetsnaz detachment hunting for Russia’s missing stealth bomber — a fight that had ended in victory, but with half of his men dead or wounded. He hadn’t seen any of them since he’d been medevacked out to San Antonio for his own injuries. He stood up.
Hynes, short and square-shouldered, nodded to him. “Hey there, Captain,” he said uncertainly.
Vucovich, taller and wiry, shyly echoed him, “Hi, sir.”
They bobbed their heads at Laura Van Horn. From the appraising looks on their faces, they recognized her as one of the C-130J pilots who’d flown them on that last airborne drop. “Ma’am.”
“Cole. Wade. It’s… well, really good to see you both,” Flynn acknowledged, trying less than successfully to conceal his surprise at their appearance here at Avalon House. “But you can drop the ‘captain’ and ‘sir’ bit, you know.” He indicated his jeans and polo shirt. “I’m not in the Air Force anymore.”
“Yes, sir,” Hynes said. “We know that. But we’ve got to call you something… and Mr. Flynn doesn’t sound right somehow.”
Flynn grinned at them. “You could try calling me Nick,” he suggested.
“Yes, sir,” Hynes agreed. “We could.” But their stoic faces told him that was a nonstarter.
He studied their own mix of civilian clothes. “So I guess you guys are out of the Army now, too?”
Hynes nodded. “That’s right, sir.” He shrugged. “The brass wanted me to reenlist when my time ran out. But they offered me Fort Polk,” he said in disgust.
“Ouch,” Flynn said sympathetically. Fort Polk in Louisiana had a well-deserved reputation as one of U.S. Army’s worst duty stations. “That sucks.”
“Yeah, Polk. And on a PFC’s lousy pay? Forget that,” Hynes said. “So I told them to shove it.”
Flynn stared at him. “I thought you got your sergeant’s stripes back after our brush with the Russians?” Hynes, a superb soldier otherwise, had a pugnacious streak that had cost him his noncom’s rank and landed him with Flynn’s band of exiles in northern Alaska.
“I did,” the shorter man said evenly. “Lost ’em again. Had a disagreement with a dickhead civilian outside a bar in Anchorage a couple of months later.”
Flynn hid a grin. He should have figured. Outside of combat, Cole Hynes tended to get bored. And when he got bored, it was all too easy for that temper of his to get the better of him. The veteran infantryman didn’t suffer fools gladly. He just decked them.
He turned to Vucovich. “What happened in your case, Wade?”
The other man reddened slightly. “Had a little trouble with the MPs,” he admitted. “So my new CO and I came to an agreement that I wouldn’t reup when the time came.”
“Not another exploding still, Wade?” Flynn asked sympathetically, hearing a muffled snort from Laura Van Horn. Vucovich had tried building a jury-rigged still at the isolated radar station they’d been assigned to guard. The resulting explosion had spewed half-fermented potato slices far and wide across what seemed like half the polar ice cap.