The plane pulled up to the stairs and the door opened. The woman whose file Orson had been perusing stepped out. She had a white bandage taped to the left side of her forehead and looked disoriented. She was a slender, tall woman with dark hair cut very short. Her eyes had a slight angle to them, indicating Asian genes in her bloodline.
"The test was a little rough?" Orson commented, glancing up from the file as Royce started the truck.
"Looks like," Royce said.
"But she's still breathing and mostly in one piece. She'll do. You bring her in. I have to go to Hawaii on that plane to get support for your team's mission rolling."
Orson frowned as he flipped a couple of pages.
"Captain Tai was Military Intelligence?"
Royce didn't reply, since the answer was on the printed page.
"What's our leverage on her?"
"Her sister. And prisoner abuse in Iraq."
Orson flipped through and read.
"I don't think that's good enough. I don't think she'll be a keeper."
He snapped the file shut as Royce brought the SUV to a halt at the base of the stairs.
CHAPTER 5
Ruiz came out of the jetway into the vast expanse of Hong Kong International Airport. The other passengers on his flight gave him a wide berth as he walked up to two men wearing long black leather coats and sunglasses – despite the temperate climate inside the terminal and the fact that it was night outside. Ruiz had to assume these agents of the government had watched too many western videos and adopted their attire based on those images. It was a problem he saw everywhere he went – the American way of life was corrupting the world in ways most people didn't even notice. On the other hand, he also realized that it was a very nice way of life if one was on top of the pyramid of power.
"Ruiz," one of the men barked, holding up a badge.
"Yes."
"We are your escorts," the man said, snapping the badge shut and sliding it into his pocket.
"Come with us."
"My luggage – " Ruiz began, but the men got on either side of him and by sheer momentum began moving him.
"It will be taken care of."
The two moved him along, walking in step. They bypassed customs with a flurry of badge-waving. By the way everyone deferred to the two guards, Ruiz had to assume they were not merely underlings sent to escort him. Perhaps the leather coats and sunglasses were more than just an affectation, he thought as they exited the terminal and the man who had shown the badge gestured for him to get into a waiting limousine.
Ruiz noticed there was someone already in the back as he slid in, trying to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting inside. The two escorts got in the front, separated from the rear by a thick plate of what Ruiz assumed was bulletproof glass. The limousine moved away from the curb.
"I have been to the holding area," the man in the shadows said.
Ruiz waited.
"It is as you said it would be," the man continued.
"Very impressive."
"Then we are set?" Ruiz said.
The man nodded.
"Yes. I don't suppose you will tell me how your group came into possession of these articles?"
"That is not a story I am authorized to tell," Ruiz said.
"As I informed you earlier, we were not the ones who stole them initially. We appropriated them from the original thieves. And now we are trying to make things right."
"And make money."
"For our trouble, yes."
"Let us hope there will be no trouble."
A limousine was waiting outside the Learjet. Vaughn was dressed in black slacks, black T-shirt, black leather jacket, and in his right hand had a metal case hiding a sniper rifle. All had been waiting inside the plane. He felt overwhelmed, but impressed with the efficiency of Section 8.
He'd thought when he went into Delta Force that he had gone as deep into the world of covert operations as one could go. Now he knew he'd just seen the tip of the iceberg. He – and his teammates – always suspected there was more out there. They'd seen too many things, too much that was unexplained, to accept that they were as deep as it went.
The driver got out of the limo and went around the near side near the foot of the stairs, opened the door and waited, still as a statue. Vaughn went down the stairs and inside. The door slammed shut and they were off.
Vaughn leaned back in the plush comfort of the limo. Between the Learjet and the limousine, there could be no more startling contrast between this and the way he had always gone on missions for Delta Force, via military cargo planes, helicopters, and parachuting.
He ran his hands over the metal case and noted in a distant way that they were shaking slightly. Exhaustion? The stress of the past week? The uncertainty of the future? He didn't know. Probably all of the above, he thought.
This was the first time he'd ever gone on a mission without a team. In the infantry, the Special Forces, and Delta Force, he'd always been part of a team. He'd always been able to count on the support of others to achieve the mission. He looked around the spacious interior of the limousine and longed for the cramped quarters of the back of a Combat Talon aircraft.
He'd made the decision on Okinawa because of lack of other paths.
He couldn't go back to the States and face his sister after letting her down so terribly. She'd had a hard life, particularly after the death of her first husband, and he had made that damn, stupid promise that he knew he never could have held Frank to. And now he was gone.
He also knew his career in the Army was over. To succeed in the Army, an officer didn't have to be good, as much as avoid bad. Any hint of screw-up or scandal and the faceless committees that determined one's future simply saw what was in the paperwork and axed a person's career.
Vaughn leaned forward, elbows on the case, and put his head in his hands, as if he could press his scattered thoughts and feelings into some form of sanity and normalcy.
The conning tower of the old diesel submarine cut through the water. Moreno shared the tight space on top with two lookouts. They had no running lights on and had to be wary of fishing boats that might be anchored for the night. At the fore and after of the top deck of the submarine were two strange contraptions shaped like large twenty-foot-high horseshoes welded to the deck upside down.
Moreno looked to his left, toward Jolo. He could see the outline of Hono Mountain silhouetted against the sky. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigar. Ignoring security for the moment, he cut off the end, flicked his lighter and puffed away.
Several seconds later there was a corresponding small flicker of light, high up on the mountainside. Moreno smiled. While he smoked the cigar in his left hand, he brought the tip of the surviving fingers of his right hand to his forehead in a salute.
After ending his business with Orson, Royce had landed in Oahu and was helicoptered to Fort Shafter, where he entered the simulation center. He stood in the back of the room and quietly watched as Foster brought in his team of computer experts and military liaisons. Royce was surprised that David wasn't here. After all, his boss, and friend – insofar as one had friends within the organization – had requested this highly unusual personal meeting. Upon entering the Sim-Center, Royce had been given a note with some coordinates on it, and right away knew where David was waiting for him – but first he had to make sure the "simulation" got off on the right foot.
Foster stood behind a podium, which had the crest for Western Command on the front. Royce had seen such briefings before. The key for Foster was to get everyone in the room, particularly the military staff, to make the transition from thinking they were playing a simulation to some semblance of belief that this was a real mission. Which, in fact, it was going to be, but no one in the room other than he and Foster knew that. In essence, Foster was the cutout to make sure Orson's team had the military support it needed to conduct the mission.