Betrayal Page 3

  There was Bettie Walden, a newer member of the team. Her olive-skinned complexion was due to her Cajun roots, she claimed. There was nothing feminine about the woman. She was about as butch as they came. She was well-muscled and short in stature. Her height and build, combined with her propensity for wearing baggy clothes, made her look overweight. She was anything but. If she decked you, you would quickly realize your mistake. She tended to cuss a lot, though DJ could never tell what she was saying. All of it was in Cajun French. For this reason, DJ referred to her as Coonie. It was short for Coonass. Which was not considered profanity by her people, she promised. It was a term of endearment.

  Latricia Harringer was the opposite of Coonie. Her skin was the color of night and she stood close to six and a half feet tall. Despite her size, the woman could run like a deer and could have been a track star in another life. Because of her height, when she ran, her gait made her appear to be bounding. It was for this reason DJ called her Bounder. She had braids that went past her shoulders that she pulled into a ponytail. DJ saw the long hair as a weak point in hand-to-hand combat and encouraged her to cut it shorter. She had replied that if anyone touched it she would break them in half. DJ believed her and dropped it. To say she could handle herself was an understatement. She had beat every team member on the sparring mat. Including Abbi.

  Lastly, there was the new guy. Doolie was proving to be a good fit for the team. He got along with everyone, could shoot, and had an incredible memory for details. While this would be his first mission with the team, DJ had a good feeling about him.

  Carbon sat across from him and called out over the roar of the engines. “Look, I’m telling you, you don’t need me. Seriously, this is not a mission where tech support is needed. You can do this without me. Just let me ride back to Tokyo. I can figure out my own way from there.”

  It was Argo, sitting next to Carbon, who responded. “Dude, it’s not that bad. Besides, with the cloud cover and no moon, you’ll never see the ocean rushing up at you at nearly two hundred miles per hour.” Argo smiled broadly at Carbon and the hacker looked like he might pass out.

  DJ laughed quietly to himself. The plan was a low open over the water to prevent too much separation from each other once they hit the ocean. In the near blackout conditions, they would have a hard time finding each other normally, so each person was wearing a transponder and a small display on their wrists. Their gear was stored in two boxes designed to float and was also tagged. On touchdown, they would use the transponders to swim toward the boxes as a rendezvous point. The next step was to wait. The sub would be nearby and submerged. It would pick up their transponder, navigate until close, then break the surface. The onboard SEAL team would scoop them up in a couple of RIB boats and bring them in. Piece of cake, DJ thought. All his team were swimmers, save for Carbon, but he could use his flotation vest to float and DJ would tow him along behind.

  The light in the cabin flipped to red and the call came out for three minutes until drop. DJ stood, grabbed Carbon, and turned him around. It took only moments to strap his harness to Carbon and then they shuffled toward the loading ramp and their gearboxes. Two crew members from the aircraft were stationed near the end with harnesses strapping them to the aircraft. In front of him, Carbon started saying something, but not loud enough to be heard. When the loading ramp suddenly began lowering and the air began twisting through the cabin, Carbon stiffened and began to shout. “No! Cut me loose! I’m not doing this!”

  The call came to jump, and the crew members released the clamps on the gearboxes strapped on top of one another. A second later and the bundle was ripped out of the rear of the plane by a smaller chute, vanishing quickly into the night. DJ stepped forward to follow but Carbon began twisting like a snake in front of him, screaming at the top of his lungs. “No, no, no, no,” he repeated over and over again, followed by one longer “NOOOOOOO,” as DJ stepped from the Greyhound. Carbon continued his one-word shout until he was completely out of breath. There was a brief second of silence from the man who had gone rigid, strapped to DJ as if he were a one-hundred-and-seventy-pound statue incapable of anything but making noise, then the screaming began all over again. DJ said nothing to the man, enjoying the moment, savoring every detail for later. When this was all over, the team would relax back at the barn, remembering what they had done, celebrating another victory. When they did, DJ would regale them with the tale of Carbon’s antics as he plummeted from twenty thousand feet over the Sea of Japan in the middle of the night.

  There were three more lengthy screams before DJ finally pulled the chute, slowing rapidly through the air. Just before they struck the water, DJ pulled the release pin on the chute, falling the last few feet into the ocean and allowing the chute to carry farther away from them. The last thing they wanted was for the chute to tangle with them in the water.

  The cold ocean closed over them, and like magic, Carbon’s petrified screams were silenced at once. It was almost instantly replaced by kicking and thrashing. DJ didn’t fight him. He released the pins shackling them together and kicked away. He wasn’t worried about the poor man drowning. They were both wearing auto-inflating life jackets. As soon as they hit the water, the compressed air cartridges did their job and filled the preserver nearly instantly. Carbon was already on the surface and thrashing the water in a panic when DJ’s heavier body emerged from the cold, black water. DJ could barely make him out in the dim light, but it was sure funny to see. He let him go on for a moment more before finally admonishing him. “You’re wearing a life jacket, you big baby. Stop fighting it and just sit there and float.”

  At last, Carbon seemed to understand he wasn’t going to die. The hacker sputtered as they bobbed on the swells. “I don’t understand. Why couldn’t we have just boarded the sub in port?”

  DJ laughed. “Because the Chinese watch our ports with satellites and the Vermont is supposed to be patrolling the Indian Ocean over seven thousand miles from here. That plane we just jumped from-”

  Carbon cut him off. “You jumped! I was nearly assassinated!”

  DJ sighed. “That plane would have looked like any other patrol craft in the air. We don’t want to tip off the Russians we’re about to invade them, remember?”

  Carbon scoffed. “What I remember is that we used to be friends.”

  DJ consulted the small digital display on his wrist and quickly located the others. He also spotted the one identified to be their gear. DJ retrieved a length of paracord from a cargo pocket. He tied one end to himself and the other to Carbon. Ten minutes of relaxed swimming and the two of them reached their destination. Carbon latched onto the box for extra buoyancy. They were the third to arrive, but it didn’t take long for the others to show.

  Carbon was still clearly not happy. “How long do we have to wait? I thought the water would be warmer. It’s summer after all. Seriously, guys. This sucks. We’re just sitting out here waiting for the sharks to just pick us off. I’m telling you. I did research. Do you know how many species of sharks call this body of water home? We’re nothing but a floating buffet out here. And what if the sub never shows? What if they’re a hundred miles away waiting in the wrong location? What are we going to do then? I mean, why couldn’t we have at least brought our own boat? And do you know what this saltwater will do to my gear if this box leaks?”

  Carbon would have continued to jabber away were it not for Coonie shutting him up with a single question. “Hey, Carbon, you know sharks are attracted to noise, right?” Carbon’s mouth clamped shut in mid-sentence and the whole team laughed.

  After a long few minutes of silence, bobbing in the Sea of Japan, waiting for the inevitable RIB boat full of SEALS, Carbon broke the night with one last, whimpering statement. “I hate all of you.”

  __________

  Brett sat in their operations center at the farm. Something was bugging him about all of this, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. There was nothing definitive about what it was. It was just a gut feeling th
at something wasn’t right. Looking at their closed-circuit camera feed of the property, that feeling was growing stronger. Two black SUVs were making the trip down the long drive to the barn. He turned to Abbi who was looking at a computer screen. “We have visitors,” he told her flatly.

  Across the room, playing with an activity set for toddlers, little Cassie was busy trying to put the correctly shaped blocks into the right holes. Abbi looked at the screen, then glanced at her daughter, slight concern crossing her face. “Where’s the team?” she asked.

  Brett sent an image to the video wall. “They just made their jump. Carbon will send us confirmation when the sub picks them up. So, that’s not bad news coming down the driveway. I’ll go meet them. Stay here.” As he rolled to the elevator that would take him to the ground floor, he issued a command. “Prepare to burn our servers just in case. And get a gun. I’ve been having second thoughts about all of this. Something feels off.”

  Abbi stood and called after him, worry coloring her voice. “What have you been thinking?”

  Brett hit the button on the elevator door and then entered. “I have no clue. But maybe you better do some more research on that scientist. Find his last known location. And see what you can find out about Agent Seymour.”

  By the time he rolled out the front door of the barn, two men were exiting the vehicles. Both were wearing jeans and short-sleeved button-ups. The one closest gave a courtesy nod and spoke. “You must be Brett.”

  Brett checked them both out. He could see slight bulges at their waist under their shirts indicating they were armed. “Did the wheelchair give it away?”

  The man smiled. “We were sent by Agent Seymour. You can call me Bill, he’s Ted. We’re here to help you on your most excellent adventure. We’re going to sit with you while you monitor the mission. If you need anything or your team gets into trouble, we’re supposed to coordinate a response.”

  Brett smiled and shook his head. “Sorry to have you waste your time, but I think we can handle it. Have a good trip back home.”

  Bill smiled and glanced at Ted, then back. “Sorry, Brett, but it’s not really an option. I’m sure you can appreciate just how sensitive an op this is. We’re here to help make sure it’s successful.” He produced a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and held it up between two fingers. “For starters, how about an access code for satellite time. I know you would enjoy a bird’s eye view of everything. It’ll give your team advanced warning of anything in their path.”

  Brett hesitated. There was really nothing odd here. The CIA had occasionally demanded access to the team as they operated. But in the past, it had been from someone they trusted. Brett didn’t know who any of these new players were. Even though Ali had vouched for Seymour, something still felt off. Their attitudes were condescending. Their smiles were fake. And Brett didn’t trust anyone he didn’t know. Still, he wasn’t sure if there was anything he could do about it now. Maybe he was just overreacting. Maybe he was just becoming paranoid with age and the environment he worked in. Brett spun the chair around and headed for the door. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll get you set up in the ops. But a word of warning: this is a family-owned business. As such, there’s a baby upstairs. Look at her wrong and I won’t be responsible for what the mother does to your face. Any plastic surgery bill incurred will come out of your own pockets.”

  __________

  DJ was the last one up the Jacob’s ladder and onto the hull of the Vermont. So much for SEALS scooping them out of the water on RIBs, he thought. The giant black submarine eased out of the water twenty feet away from where they floated. For a moment, DJ didn’t even know what it was. It rose from the water like a leviathan, quiet, stealthy, ominous. One minute they were all alone. The next they were looking at a black mountain of steel rising from the depths. It scared Carbon half to death, prompting a long string of profanity that didn’t even make sense. A moment later and a latch opened from behind the sail, the iconic tall tower that protruded from every submarine. A voice called out to them, asking for DJ by name. He answered and the voice told him to hold on a sec. Next came a host of red-lensed flashlights bathing them in crimson, followed by tossed ropes attached to life preservers. One by one they were hauled to the side and up the rope ladder.

  They were told they needed to hurry. They were warned from making too much noise while boarding, and to get down the hatch as quietly as possible. The crewmen who helped them even took extra care to keep the gearboxes from banging against the hull when bringing them on board, lifting them high, and handing them carefully to each other in a chain toward the opening.

  The sailors scurrying along the hull carried an air of concern and DJ asked why they were on edge. One of them grabbed his arm and helped him to the hatch, speaking quietly as they went. “We’ve got an enemy sub in the area. It’s what took so long to get to you. A Russian Yasen-M has been patrolling the coast. We don’t think they know we’re here, but we lost contact half an hour ago. The thing just vanished. We need to dive as quickly as possible.”

  DJ watched as the equipment boxes were lowered through the hatch carefully, handed down the ladder to more sailors who were perched along the length. Finally, he carefully descended into the sub, the sailor he had been talking to following close behind and securing the hatch above him. At the bottom, the sailor nodded to an officer whom DJ recognized as the XO. His name badge said, Watts. He was a seasoned-looking black man with a serious expression on his face. Watts raced up the ladder and double-checked the hatch, then nodded down. As soon as he had, the sailor next to DJ called out over a small walkie-talkie. “Control, Auxiliaryman of the Watch. Plug Trunk Hatch secure.”

  He waited for only a second and then a man’s voice came across a speaker mounted above their heads. The voice was low and the volume minimum. “All stations, control, commence emergency dive.” This was almost immediately followed by a whooshing sound of air and the sub tilting forward sharply.

  The Auxiliaryman gave orders to the soaking wet team dripping in the hallway, keeping his voice low. “Everyone listen up. I will lead you to your berthing assignments so you can change into something dry, but we have an enemy sub close. I need you to talk softly and keep from banging anything around. I also need you to remove your footwear. Until further notice, socks only.” No one moved. The team looked at each other with uncertainty, the unfamiliar environment bombarding their brain with questions. The Auxiliaryman repeated his command more sternly. “Boots off, now.” Hesitation left them and everyone sat to remove their boots.

  Coonie was the last to sit, she stood on the other side of the auxiliaryman looking up at him with a smile. “I like a man who’s bossy.” She then slapped him on the butt and winked. A look of horror washed over the surprised man’s face.

  He looked first to his XO, then to DJ, and back again to Coonie. “I, umm, ma’am, I’m gay.”

  Coonie shook her head. “Of course, you are. Why are all the cute ones hitting for the other team?” She sat and removed her boots.

  As DJ began unlacing his boots, the XO, who had elected to remain silent until this point, picked his way through the hallway, reassuring them as they went. There was an edge to his voice. “We’re on a fifteen-degree dive. It won’t get too steep. And remember what you were told about keeping quiet. I would hate to launch you from a torpedo tube for failure to follow orders.” It was clear to DJ that none of these people wanted a bunch of civilian contractors on board. As a former corpsman for the Navy, DJ understood completely. They had invaded these submariner’s home. To add salt to the wound, they weren’t even military, to say nothing of being distrustful of the CIA. He would order his people to stay out of the way and keep quiet. Hopefully, they would be gone and out of these people’s hair as soon as possible.

  __________

  Carbon sat at a table in something resembling a cafeteria, only smaller. It was where the crew of the sub gathered to eat. Since it was in between normal mealtimes, the only ones present were his
team and the cooks in the tiny kitchen. They had changed clothes and gathered here to go over finalizing their plans for the ambush. When they entered, a cook wearing coveralls and a hat with a logo of a cougar in front of a mountain, emblazoned with the words “Catamount Tavern,” asked if any of them wanted something to eat. Carbon was the only one who spoke up and said yes. It was pizza night, the young man said. They still had some leftover garlic parmesan wings and a few pieces of cheese pizza left. He could reheat them and set them out. Carbon was eager and readily agreed. Maybe there was something good to be salvaged on this god-forsaken trip.

  He had been bounced around in the back of a small cargo plane with seats that had to be the most uncomfortable and cheapest the Navy could buy. He had been strapped to an uncompassionate DJ Slaughter and forced out the back of the thing. The freefall was loud, windy, and black. Carbon had been certain they were going to splat into the ocean in the mother of all belly flops. The landing in the water wasn’t a bone-cracking impact; it had been far worse. The idiot he was strapped to had cut him loose without warning. He had then become convinced he was going to drown. When he bobbed to the surface and was forced to float and wait, he had been positive the shark from Jaws would swallow them all whole. Now, he was finally dry and warm but had been told that if he so much as sneezed, a Russian submarine with a name he couldn’t spell would blow them all up. This was the suckiest mission ever. Usually, he was tucked safely out of the way, employing the technical skills he was good at in the back of some van or an apartment nearby, while the rest of his team went and grunted like Neanderthals and played with their big guns. Pizza and wings wouldn’t make the memory of what it took to get here go away, but it would at least make him feel less like the victim in some movie where he had been kidnapped for a ransom.