“Yeah. That’s Hickok’s move that kills his target so fast that the rest of the world seems to slow down. He was legendary for using it in Iraq.”
Chris leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Did he ever teach it to Victor?”
“I heard he never taught Flash-Kill. The only one who ever used it was Hickok.”
“So why are you telling me all this?”
“Because Victor is dangerous.” There was a slight quiver in her voice. “And I don’t trust him.”
Chris nodded. “I don’t know him enough to trust him, but I don’t know enough to like him, either.”
“Do me a favor,” she said. “If he somehow manages to stab me in the back, kill him.”
“Love to.” He spotted Victor ambling to the gate and smiled at him. He knew she didn’t literally mean stab her in the back, and he knew that she was joking when she said kill him. At least he hoped that was the case.
Victor arrived and stopped next to Chris and Hannah. “What were you two talking about?”
“Nothing,” Hannah said.
“You were both just exercising your lips?” Victor said.
“Are you infatuated with my lips?” Chris asked in a friendly tone, teasing him.
Victor stared at him. “No.”
Jim Bob arrived then, and when he saw Victor arguing, he scolded him in his fatherly tone. “Play nice, Victor.”
Chris wasn’t looking forward to the sixteen-hour trip, wishing he could use the time for more shooting practice. While he sat on the plane getting softer, the tangos would be out running and gunning and getting harder. It was frustrating.
Just after 1630 hours, they boarded their plane. Jim Bob had a carry-on bag, but he couldn’t lift his arms above his head to put it in the overhead compartment, so Victor helped him.
Chris and Hannah sat down, the seats around them still empty. “What’s wrong with Jim Bob’s arms?” Chris whispered.
“He was captured by Hezbollah, and they tied his arms behind his back in torture positions,” Hannah replied.
“So his arms are normal except for motion above his head?”
She nodded. “Jim Bob stalled, giving them false intelligence and unclassified information.”
“How was he released?”
Hannah snapped her buckle into place. “He wasn’t. He escaped.”
Impressive. “How’d he do it?”
“He faked appendicitis, and when two guards came in to look at him, he snatched one of their weapons and shot his way out. Before escaping the compound, he came across Victor’s cell and freed him.” Hannah opened the in-flight magazine and looked at the schedule of movies.
“Hmm…” Chris made himself as comfortable as he could. He wasn’t interested in watching a flick, though. He had other things to do. While he couldn’t physically practice shooting, he could visualize himself shooting, increasing his biological performance and helping him to close the gap between the shooter he was now and the shooter he could be. Russian scientists had learned about the technique when they’d performed an experiment on three groups of Olympic athletes. The first group received only physical training, the second group received seventy-five percent physical training and twenty-five percent mental training, and the third group received half mental training and half physical training. After the training, the third group performed the best.
Chris closed his eyes and went into a monk-like trance, thinking about his combat mind-set — switching on the killer instinct he’d learned in the Teams, from Ron Hickok and during actual firefights. He imagined the basics of marksmanship: stance, draw, grip, trigger control, sight alignment, follow-through, reloading, and clearing malfunctions. Then he practiced tactics in different locations — plane, building, car, grove of trees — where he used movement and cover to his advantage. He continued visualizing each part of the triad: combat mind-set, marksmanship, and tactics. Chris became so absorbed in his training that he missed the in-flight meal. When he needed a break, he called a flight attendant to bring him his food. She obliged him with his meal and a Swiss smile. Chris returned the friendly expression before chowing down.
9
As Jim Bob had mentioned, they weren’t flying directly to Syria. Instead, they boarded an Agency yacht in Cyprus. An Adventure Tours flag flew from its mast. Chris and the others went below to check their gear. The Agency had already loaded their weapons, communications equipment, and other covert items into hidden compartments concealed by secret panels. His Camelbak was in plain view, though, as well as some other survival gear that would go well with his cover as adventure guide. And help keep him alive.
Chris located his compact Glock pistol in its Raven Kydex holster. He made sure the weapon was loaded before attaching his pistol holster so it rode on one hip with two magazine holders on the opposite hip. He concealed both with his untucked shirt. The others concealed their pistols, too. They kept their rifles and other black gear stored in the hidden compartments, out of sight until they were needed. If this were an overt assault, they’d be bristling with armor and other heavy assault equipment, but this was a covert infiltration, so they traveled light — such was the tradeoff of weapons and tactics.
Once everything was accounted for, Chris and Victor climbed up to the main deck. “Cast off the stern line,” Victor ordered.
Chris didn’t like the cold tone of voice he used with him. It contrasted sharply with the respectful attitude he showed toward Jim Bob. Even so, he cast off the line. They still had a job to do.
Hannah and Jim Bob joined them on the deck, and all four entered the bridge, where a debonair pilot in his seventies steered them away from the dock. The hair on his head was darker than his distinguished grey beard, and he wore a classic nautical captain’s hat.
Hannah kissed him on the cheek.
“Hannah!” the man exclaimed with a smile that was beyond big.
Her kiss and his smile made Chris feel a twinge of jealousy, but he brushed it off.
Jim Bob turned to Chris. “Mr. Wolfeschlegelaltona, here, is The Most Interesting Man in The World,” Jim Bob said proudly, quoting the phrase from a Dos Equis commercial. “He can make dead men tell tales.”
Chris couldn’t remember the man’s name, let alone pronounce it, so he only focused on the first part. He nodded and smiled.
Wolf spoke, his voice a deep baritone, “I don’t always pilot boats, but when I do, I drink Dos Equis.”
Chris was amused by Wolf’s jovial attitude, and if Hannah trusted him, Chris figured he could trust Wolf, too.
Once everyone was properly introduced and settled, the team rehearsed their false identities and played poker for several hours, until the yacht came within twelve nautical miles of Syria, west of Latakia. Wolf called Latakia Radio in Arabic. “We are at point Sierra Charlie and have a reservation with the Syrian Yacht Club and wish to approach Latakia.”
Getting the go-ahead, Wolf proceeded into the harbor. To the north, part of a sunken ship stuck up from the sea. After passing the wreck, Wolf steered toward a tall black and white building on the shore. There were a handful of yachts and a dhow in the harbor; the rest were mostly fishing vessels. Meanwhile, Chris and the others checked their cell phones to make sure they all had comms with each other. When the yacht reached the dock, two armed Syrian immigration officers were waiting. Both were muscular and had serious expressions on their faces. The older-looking of the two had a thick moustache.
After Chris and Victor tied the yacht to the pier, the immigration officers came aboard, and Wolf handed Moustache his passport and some paperwork. Chris, Hannah, Jim Bob, and Victor handed over their passports so Moustache could compare the passport photos with the real faces. He stopped at Jim Bob and asked, “Did you visit Israel before this trip?”