1.

The twilight of the day had arrived. Wade crested the steep, dusty overgrown track that served as a fire access road during the brutal fire danger season of the Australian summer. He had just crossed the sixteen kilometre mark of his run; the final part of his addictive daily fitness regime, which also included surf paddling, Krav Maga, and swimming.

Sweating profusely in the sinking hot summer sun, he stopped short of the heavily tinted SUV parked across the track. Towering gnarled Eucalyptus trees provided limited shade. The sea breeze was trying desperately to fight against the forces of the hot desert, no more than one hundred kilometres away. Three men in their black suits, ties, mirror sunglasses, large black peak caps, with hands behind their backs looked distinctively out of character to the surrounding environment.

His black and white Kelpie, Kiwi, at his heels, stood panting as he looked up at his master and across to the strange sight blocking their running track. The same track they had been running everyday for four years and this was the first time they had met anyone other than the occasional fire truck on patrol.

Smallest of the three, suited men, stepped forward, removed his hat and glasses. “Hi Wade.”

“Joe!” exclaimed Wade as they shook hands.

Special Agent Joe Plant, previously CIA Station Chief, Istanbul, Turkey, had been indirectly seconded, to Langley, to work with Wade and his team on their last mission, five years earlier.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” asked Wade looking across at Plant’s two linebacker-size companions, whose jackets were ready to burst against their pumped up muscles. He saw the bulge of a pistol under their left arms. Their fingers slightly twitched hanging beside their jackets. The car parked at the exact angle to enable a clear line of protection should a firefight eventuate. Feet shoulder width apart and right foot slightly ahead of the left. Ready for the pistol recoil. ‘So, right handed’ he thought.

Bending down and patting Kiwi, Plant whispered, “I had to find you.”

“Well you could have used a phone. Anyway why … and why out here?” he asked, between pants, gesturing towards the sunburnt, dried grasses and trees. The dusty, sharp, rocky exposed track. Thorn bushes and shrubs fighting for survival. The whole area ready to ignite at the mere hint of a spark.

“A situation has arisen and we need your help.”

“My help! For gawd sakes … You know I’ve been out of that for nearly five years now?”

“I know, I know,” he whispered still looking down, patting Kiwi. “But we need to send an undercover team in to Guinea, to extradite a national, and you’re the best qualified to lead that team.”

“What! You can’t be serious,” questioned Wade. “You came all the way from the States, and more than likely Langley, to find me out here in the middle of ‘no-mans land’, to ask me that.”

“Wade please … I’m only the messenger, you know that,” said Plant stepping back.

“Maybe so. But the whole idea of you, or whoever sent you, turning up on my doorstep, and thinking I would suddenly rush back, is beyond stupid.”

“This is an important mission and national security could depend on it.”

“National security!” responded Wade raising his voice as he stepped forward. “Fuck Joe. I’m not even American,” With his left hand he grabbed Plant by the front of his jacket and shirt, bringing them closer. “What’s really going on here?” he asked lowering his voice.

The two guards instantly reached into their jackets and ripped out their Glock 17 pistols. Kiwi leapt to his feet, growled and bared his teeth. Plant could feel Wade’s unbelievable strength as the grip on his jacket got tighter.

“Tell your two meathead mates to drop their weapons and get on the ground,” said Wade calmly over his dog’s growling.

“Put down your weapons. Face first on the ground,” yelled Plant unable to move from the vice like grip. “Do it … now.”

With the two linebackers on the ground, Kiwi stopped growling and wandered over to check them out, sniffing at their heads and hands. Wade released his hold. He stood studying the situation. Here was a friend who had been with him when everything had been at its worst. Even though Plant was CIA, and not military trained, he had travelled with the team to multiple locations across the world. They had witnessed friends and colleagues die, missions go haywire, opportunities come and go. Wade stood like a cobra, watching Plant’s eyes. Plant’s pupils remained rock solid, even with his eyelids flapping like a scarf in the wind.

“Joe, we’ve been good friends,” he said smoothing out Plant’s jacket. “So no more bullshit, out with it.”

Plant fumbled around. He looked at the sky and then to the trees. Desperately trying to avoid eye contact. Eventually he regained his composure. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this but … it appears the Colonel, and some of the team, have been shot down in Sierra Leone.”

Wade Ross had spent sixteen years as one of the most highly trained special forces operatives to have served with the SAS. Having consumed his youth studying and learning survival and tracking skills, from Aboriginal elders, he had then joined the Australian Army and rapidly progressed to Campbell Barracks, SAS headquarters, Perth, Western Australia.

He removed his tee shirt, wiped his face and looked out across the valley towards his home. Byron Bay, a beautiful country town on the north coast of New South Wales, Australia. A world renowned surf beach. Destination for backpackers, surfers and drifters through to the rich and famous; all seeking a bohemian and secluded holiday or lifestyle. Polar opposite to CIA headquarters Langley and all it stood for. This was a place Wade felt contented.

It had been five years since Wade, and his wife Crystal, had left Colonel Jacob Wine and the team. They had established a new life. Crystal teaching Yoga at her purpose built facility on their fifty acre beachside secluded property. Wade in the final year of his online psychology degree with his abstract paintings starting to attract interest.

Wade had often thought about the Colonel and all the ex-military friends he had left behind. He had wanted to contact them but was fearful the pull of the camaraderie would drag him back. He knew he couldn’t, nor wanted, to do that to the woman he loved.

“When and where?” he asked as the shock of the news subsided and he motioned to Plant’s assistants to get off the ground. Both men rose with their eyes glued to Kiwi.

“Don’t worry he won’t bite unless you piss him off,” said Wade.

Plant explained the information they had was sketchy. Reports showed the team were aboard a highly modified Sikorsky UH-60 deployed from the aircraft carrier USS George H. W. Bush that had been undergoing exercises in the southern Atlantic. The helicopter had crossed from Guinea into Sierra Leone when it was locked on to by a surface to air missile.

“Surely the carrier was tracking the flight. Why can’t they just give you the coordinates? … Then you can send in a team,” asked a bewildered Wade.

Plant looked into the eyes of his friend as the sweat cascaded down Wade’s dark olive skinned face and across his hard toned body. Standing, like a jungle cat ready to pounce, his muscles tensed and tried to relax with each breath. Ice blue eyes had frozen like stone. His face scrunched up as he fought with the pain of the news. Fists opened and closed.

“It’s not that simple,” paused Plant whispering even softer. “They went in dark. No comms and when the black box signal was received on the carrier the data was apparently corrupted.”

“Corrupted?… That’s bullshit. You and I both know that’s impossible,” he said pausing and trying to fight back the demons of pain. “There’s more to this than you’re telling me, isn’t there?”

Looking around, Plant removed his glasses and cap a second time. Heran his hand through his military cut hair as he stumbled to find the words.

“We believe somebody at the top ordered the data destroyed.”

“Destroyed… why?” asked a perplexed Wade. “Who was on board?”

“Why we don’t know. We can only guess they wanted the mission to fail. Our limited intelligence points to whoever was responsible also ordered the SAM strike.” Choking back his emotions he slowly continued, “The Colonel, Jacko, Bart, Bassa, Stewie, Morrie, Throb and Chrissie were all on board.”

“My god,” said Wade as he sank to his haunches. Hands on his head. Face to the ground.

Plant paused.

“We are also led to believe President Markham’s illegitimate daughter, Rose, who is supposedly working with one of the remote hospital operators, somewhere in the same area, might be involved but that is unconfirmed.”

Wade looked into the eyes of his constant companion. He ruffled his head. He tried to smile as Kiwi licked his chin.

The pain stretched across his face. He heard the elders from the Aboriginal spirit world talking to him. Having grown up and studied the ways of the Aboriginal, his belief in ‘The Dreaming’ was so strong that as he listened he was already feeling the pull of Africa.

2.

The stone bench top sprawled out towards the six large bifold doors that were stacked to each side. An afternoon sea breeze had arrived and was lightly blowing up from the beach, across the manicured lawns and into their Balinese style home. Palm trees swayed and rocked. The surface of the lap pool rippled. Crystal had just finished her last yoga class for the day. The participants had left and she was standing at the kitchen sink washing vegetables, listening to the waterfall music softly playing through the in-house speaker system.

“Hi,” said Wade startling her out of her dreamy thoughts. “Sorry didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said standing on the threshold that led to the large quartz covered patio.

Crystal instantly knew something was adrift. The tone of Wade’s voice sounded abrupt, forceful and approaching military; unlike his normal passive, acquiescent, controlled voice. They had been married for one month shy of five years and she could not remember once in that time that Wade had not kissed and hugged her every time he saw her. She thought of the times he would be away from her for one or two minutes and he would still kiss and hug her. Looking down she noticed how Kiwi was standing rock solid directly beside Wade. He would always run and greet her.

“Honey, what’s up?” she asked rounding the end of the bench.

Standing in only his running shorts and shoes, sweat glistening from all parts of his skin. Crystal knew she was not a pretentious person but she did love his good looks and rock hard body.

They came together. Wade wrapped his arms around her tightly. She placed her head on his chest. She felt the sweat against her face. Could hear his heartbeat.

“I love you … I love you so much,” he whispered still holding her as Kiwi tried desperately to get in on the action, jumping up against Wade’s back.

“I love you too,” she replied dumbfounded as to what was happening.

Finally releasing his grip, he kissed her and sat her down on their huge leather modular lounge. Still holding her hands, he looked into her eyes and explained what had happened to his old team.

Finished he nervously said with his head down, “I know … I promised … I would never go back … but … I feel I need to do something.”

Putting her hands under his chin and lifting his face until their eyes met. “I know you do. I always expected this day to come and I want you to go.” Changing her face from serious and concerned to smiling she said, “I love you but I’m coming too.”

“But this is our home. Our life. All we’ve built together so far? Our dreams coming to fruition. I don’t want you to leave this. Not because of me.”

“It will still be here when we get back.”

“True … but are you sure you want to come?”

Kiwi softly growled. Ears up, looking out across the pool.

“Mister Ross don’t get any ideas of leaving here without me,” she said smiling and lashing her arms around his neck. They kissed passionately.

“I have some news,” said Crystal.

Before Wade could answer, or she could continue, Kiwi starting barking and Plant stepped around the corner of their house, with his two bodyguards.

“Joe!” said Crystal surprised. “What are you doing here?” as they embraced.

“I came to visit you guys,” said Plant.

“Right … as if,” she said half smiling.“I assume you’re the bearer of the news that Wade has just told me about?”

“Nice house,” said Plant desperate to change the subject.

An affluent couple Wade and Crystal were known for not showing it off but they did have a beautiful house nestled on a white sandy surf beach. The seven bedroom home was large and served a dual purpose allowing multiple guests when Crystal was conducting a week long live in for her yoga and meditation classes. The house was secluded from all neighbours and only visible from the ocean. Wade had a separate purpose built bungalow he used for his studying, writing and training. More like a man-cave where Wade and Kiwi could forget time. Wade practicing martial arts moves or endlessly researching, on the internet, his studies and writing. Completing his papers or painting. Kiwi watching his master or sleeping. Hours would pass until Crystal would need to arouse them from their stupor.

After some quick small talk Plant said, “I know I shouldn’t be saying this but Wade if you’re coming we need to go.”

“I’m coming too,” said Crystal to a surprised Plant. “Don’t say anything, we have already discussed it and it’s agreed.”

“Crystal, you need to think about this seriously,” opposed Plant who had by now been ignored as he stood watching Wade and Crystal leave the room.

3.

The luxury Gulfstream G650 long range jet departed Brisbane International Airport private clientele hangar at 2100 hours. It had been a hasty departure. Crystal and Wade had quickly closed up their property, packed a bag, dropped Kiwi at a training mates and arranged for a friend to regularly check on their home.

Wade Ross, 6’2”, 200 pounds, half Australian Aboriginal and half Italian, had been raised learning the ways and beliefs of the Aboriginal. He married Crystal Carters, a former US Navy helicopter pilot, five years earlier, after deciding to leave Colonel Wine and his freelance team of multi national ex Special Forces soldiers. He thought of his friends as his shoulders slumped and his piercing arctic blue eyes starred out the plane’s window into the soot black abyss.

Crystal glanced across to her husband. She brushed strands of her sun bleached, brunette wavy hair away from her gorgeous olive skinned face and bright emerald green eyes. Sitting back in the cream coloured luxurious leather sofa she pulled the black waist length leather jacket over her white logo free designer tee shirt. She dusted unseen fluff from her slashed, fashionable, worn, ankle height jeans. Admired by men and studied by women; whenever she walked past, heads would turn. Truly comfortable with herself she seemed oblivious to what others thought. She reflected on the last five years and how happy they had been. She remembered and shuddered at their battles with the Cooper family and the final confrontation with the then CIA boss, General Forest.

“You’re not telling me the whole story, are you?” asked Wade turning, from his seat directly opposite Crystal, to the person approaching from behind.

“No,” came the aristocratic English reply from the immaculately dressed, middle aged man. The three piece pin stripped suit with the Oxford University tie and the Tanino Crisci, Lillian black leather shoes accompanied by the Rolex watch and Jacob and Co. cufflinks, all pointed to either someone incredibly rich or very high up the chain of command.

“Wade, Crystal let me introduce you to Sir Roger Dunstall,” said Plant, sitting across the aisle. “Sir Roger is the former head of MI6.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” he said, shaking their hands as he took a seat beside Crystal. Now only two metres away and looking directly at someone he had heard so much about; he fought the urge to ask multiple questions.

“MI6? … Why me?” asked a sceptical Wade.

Sitting back in the luxury sofa, Dunstall crossed his legs and looked down at his hands in his lap. “This has nothing to do with MI6. This is all my own doing. And you because apparently you’re the best.”

Raising his head, he looked at everybody seated and then locked on to Wade’s eyes. Wade sat as solid as a rock.

“Mister Ross, thank you for coming and on such short notice. I know the news you have received is tough but I believe between us we can set things straight.” Paused. “Please note I already know a lot about you but I think it’s important I explain myself first.”

Wade gave the slightest of nods.

“Jacob … is my brother.”

Colonel Jacob Wine, ex British SAS and somebody Wade considered father like and a good friend. While attached to the British SAS and on a failed Kosovo deployment Wade saved the Colonel’s life and thus a strong bond had developed. It had always been the Colonel’s team. He had put it together and he was the ranking officer. For all intense and purpose everybody treated him as such. But when operational time arrived all eyes focused on Wade, the natural born leader.

“He never told me he had a brother,” said Wade determined to catch the tell tale signs of a lie. The shift of the body. The raising of the eyes or eyelids. The slightest movement as a liar dissects his response to ensure the lie continues unabated.

“Half brother actually and he doesn’t know. He is twelve years my senior. By the time I learnt I had a brother I was quite high up in British Intelligence and I decided it was better for both our careers that we should not interact so as not to jeopardize the other. I had always intended to one day explain to him what I knew but as time went by it became more and more difficult. I made a point of following his career, and his life, and thus I know about you.” He paused waiting for a response or a reaction. Silence abound. A Mexican standoff was happening with neither man moving or uttering a sound. Having been aware of Wade’s abilities Dunstall thought better than to try and outwit him. “I am a very wealthy man, Mister Ross, but I have no family other than Jacob. So when I heard what happened I contacted Agent Plant, through my counterparts at the CIA, and here we are.”

“Well and good,” said Wade still not convinced. “Back to my original question. What about the rest of the story?”

“I’ve heard that about you; blunt and direct. I like that,” said Dunstall smiling and slightly tilting his head.

Dunstall explained that at the time of General Forest’s demise (Wade’s previous foe, CIA chief and leader of a breakaway CIA unit) MI6 became increasingly cautious of dealings with the CIA. This caution resulted in them uncovering an outside party accessing CIA internal files and operating procedures. At first they believed it was the NSA keeping a close watch on the new CIA chief. This appeared unfounded and then all indications pointed to the US President or at least somebody very close to him.

“President Markham is now in his second term of office and only has one year left on his tenure. There are those of us at HQ who believe he is frantically trying to locate and connect with his illegitimate daughter before he loses power. Why, and why he is having so much difficulty, we do not know. It is believed she has spent the last eight years working as a nurse or doctor for the French founded Medecins Sans Frontieres or maybe a subsidiary of or even possibly an unknown mission style aid facility, somewhere in either Sierra Leone, Guinea or Liberia. We believe she made contact with her mother fourteen months ago but this can’t be substantiated without blowing our cover. So we watch, listen and wait.”

“This seems like a lot just to get a daughter back,” quizzed Wade now slouched in his chair. MI6 was renowned for having some of the best spies and counter-terrorist/counter-intelligence professionals in the world. As their leader Dunstall would be a master. Wade, still sceptical, needed to be at the top of his game if he wanted to catch him out.

“True but there’s more. We also know Markham went to great lengths to ensure it was Jacob and his team who were sent in. Possibly even to the point of blackmail.”

“Blackmail? How?”

“We don’t know but it seems to involve money.”

“Money? … This gets more stupid by the minute.”

“Please,” said Dunstall slightly raising his hand. “Hear me out. We have been able to trace the purchase of property to a large group of holdings in Argentina. A rabbit warren of cover-ups and criss crossing trails led us to companies partly owned by Markham. The significance being when all the properties are combined the purchase price is currently standing at four and a half billion US dollars.”

“Billion?” asked Wade.

“Yes, billion. And Markham, or anyone closely associated with him, does not remotely have that sort of money.”

“Surely that amount of money would buy a lot of land and I’m guessing especially so in Argentina?” quizzed Wade.

“It is a lot of land. Mostly dry cattle country. But that is only half the story. There are reports of possible huge shale oil reserves in the north at the Paraguay border. The same area that has been bought up. The landholders have been showered in gifts and promises of a better future. Shale oil has been traditionally unviable to extract when compared with crude oil but there has been a breakthrough with a discovery of a thermal process that comes in at about ten percent of the current cost. If this study is correct, and it does seem to be heading in that direction, then Argentina would become the wealthiest country on earth. It is the only known region where deep thermal wells and shale oil lie side by side. The extraction would be simple and the owners would dictate the world’s oil supply.”

“So you’re thinking this has something to do with the money that was never found after Forest?” replied Wade remembering how Mossad and the CIA were unable to locate the reputed missing millions, or billions, that Forest had apparently seconded from illegal international deals, while head of the CIA and its secret black ops division.

“Exactly,” replied Dunstall.

“When you say ‘partly’ who else is involved?”

“That’s not clear yet but our guess is somebody, or bodies, associated with the current US administration at the highest level. We have analysts on the case and we are expecting a breakthrough in days; not weeks.”

Wade turned and looked back out the window as he thought about General Forest and the manipulation the team had been put through until Forest was eventually taken out in the now defunct CIA secret facility ‘The Warehouse’. The undiscovered dollars that had been believed to have gone to Forest’s grave with him and the death of his best friend at Forest’s hands.

The anger within him was building. He closed his eyes and focused to talk with his spiritual elders and clear his mind.

He could feel his adopted Aboriginal mother as she wrapped her arms around his small eight year old body. How she told him not to think about how he could exact revenge on the boys who had beaten him and taken his school lunch money but to focus on helping them understand the ways and beliefs of the Dreamtime. Her strong arms always made him think of protection and safety. Her soothing words had encouraged him to learn and practice restraint.

He looked around the worn kitchen of the small elevated weatherboard home he shared with his mother and younger sister. Wall paint peeling and the Laminex bench top scratched from years of use. A single globe hanging as the only form of lighting. Dripping taps adding to the years of rust stains down the sink. All signs of lack of money but still kept immaculately clean. His mother’s loving dark brown eyes and constant smile had always been his guiding light.

He heard her words of encouragement and the words of the elders. Shivers ran down his back.

4.

The sun tried desperately to break through the clouds. The door of the Gulfstream G650 opened and they stepped on to the tarmac at Heathrow, London. A bitterly, howling southerly ate through their summer clothes and whistled off the puddles scattered across the concrete and asphalt. The wind chill factor was well below freezing point and they raced for the warmth of Dunstall’s limousine.

“I haven’t been cold for so long I’d forgotten how bad it was,” chattered Crystal. She pulled her woollen coat tighter, around herself, and wrapped her arm through Wade’s.

Smiling Wade asked where they were heading. He heard Dunstall instruct the driver to take them home. The luxury vehicle was superbly heated and the power of position in society was evident as they approached the customs officer. The driver lowered the window, handed across the four passports, ensuring the MI6 diplomatic one sat on top. A female officer quickly scanned Dunstall’s passport and handed them all back without opening the others. Exiting the private jet charter area, they headed north then west onto the M4 until they met the London Orbital Motorway, M25. Afternoon traffic was horrendous. Vehicles were at a virtual standstill as they crawled through the Buckinghamshire countryside.

Passing the seventeenth century Newland Park Manor, a large well appointed mansion popular amongst the rich set for weddings, they approached the four metre high stone walled fence and fully enclosed steel gates. Two suit wearing guards parted the gates and the ten metre wide crushed white stone driveway, bordered on both sides by immaculately manicured lawns and rose gardens; sprawled out ahead. Wade was awestruck at the sheer size of the mansion that sat three hundred metres down the drive. The white three storey limestone building comprising twenty two bedrooms, two commercial size kitchens, tennis court, indoor swimming pool, gymnasium, dining room to seat forty four, helipad and an indoor soundproofed shooting range.

The limousine stopped under the portico directly in front of the huge double oak doors that served as the front entrance. An attendant opened the car door. A fierce cold wind cut through the heated interior like an arrow. Snowflakes, caught up in the wind, altered the surroundings to a surreal mystical quality as everything started to turn white. Crystal climbed out and was confronted by three hulking males. Instantly she realised and screamed in delight. She lunged at Sammy and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Sammy, the man mountain, black South African ex-Recces who had helped save Crystal’s life, was thrilled to see her again. Releasing her grip, she kissed him and repeated with Franco, the Spanish ex-French Foreign Legionnaire and Bud, the American ex-Navy Seal.

Exiting the vehicle Wade was stopped in mid flight. It hit him, like a hammer, how much he had missed his friends. The emotion swelled. His breath was taken aback.Tingles ran down his spine. Sammy stepped forward and grabbed him in his typical bear hug. “Hey buddy. We’ve missed you.”

Wade was lost for words.

“Come on, say something. Surely you haven’t lost the ability to talk,” he chuckled releasing his grip.

After many backslaps, embraces and words of welcome, Dunstall ushered them inside. Bringing up the rear Wade had already noticed the security. A sniper hidden on the roof. The gardener pretending to work the roses and the third man acting out an interest in the vehicles of anopen door garage.

The foyer appeared even larger than the front façade. Dozens of rooms leading off multiple hallways. A marble floor led to a large oak staircase that was four metres wide and halfway up, split toward the two wings of the building. A three metre chandelier hung perfectly between the split staircases. Walls were covered in pictures, artefacts, symbols and heirlooms that appeared hundreds of years old. Everywhere Wade looked something was either hanging, mounted or atop a stand. The presentation was picture perfect.

Wade pondered the impressive show of wealth and success. The butler dressed in tails. Two maids polishing crystal and gold antiquities. Two dark suited body guards. It suddenly struck him what had him at odds. He thought back to those outside and looked across to the suit wearing butler. They were all ex-SAS. The body language and demeanor was unmistakable. ‘How quickly he had forgotten’, he thought with a smile.

Dunstall headed up the stairs as the butler led them to an informal meeting room. Closing the doors behind himself the butler mentioned dinner would be at 1900 hours.

The room was covered on three walls with floor to ceiling of books, all perfectly presented. Opposite the entrance was a centred fireplace either side of French doors.

“It’s great to see you guys but what are you doing here?” asked Wade looking towards his friends.

Sammy raised his eyes. Bud shrugged his shoulders. The laconic Franco opened his mouth to speak but was cut short.

“This is probably going to be difficult to get a grip on. So take a seat and I’ll explain what we know and what we believe,” said Plant.

The four men sunk down into the luxurious eighteenth century club lounges and Crystal sat on Wade’s knee. Plant dimmed the lights and two images appeared on the wall above the fireplace.

“The one on the left is Marcus Riol. The photo is four years old. He is a Sierra Leone national who completed a PHD in molecular chemistry at MIT. After topping his class and gaining employment with one of the top US research institutes; fourteen months later he disappears. We have unconfirmed sightings but we believe he is now the leader of the largest rebel gang in Sierra Leone.” Paused. “Apparently all his family, except for one nephew, were killed when US backed Sierra Leone government troops stormed a market place. This tripped him over the edge and he is believed to be responsible for some of the most terrible atrocities in the country.”

“And he looks like such a nice caring person,” said Crystal, sarcastically, staring at the immaculately dressed and groomed, late twenties, smiling male in his graduation gown.

“Don’t be fooled. Word on the ground is that he has shaved his head and has a mismatched red lightning bolt tattoo down the left side of his neck. He never lets his razor sharp machete leave his hands and is known to always be carrying a sharpened knuckle duster,” replied Plant. “Not much else is known about him because he has a massive network that keeps him hidden. The locals call him ‘The Vulture’ because of his propensity to hack and rip bodies after killing them.”

“What about the other guy?” asked Sammy deciding he’d had enough of hearing about Riol.

“His name is Dwight Alexander Cobart III. He attended MIT with Riol and they became friends. He never completed his studies and went back to work for his father’s company ‘Fundco Inc.’ His father, Senator Cobart, heads up the Senate Repatriation Committee. It appears his position as a senator has given him access, and a high level of carte blanche, to most of the major military contracts. He has made a fortune out of the funding and supplying of equipment to wars throughout the world. More importantly Fundco has recently acquired a prototype weapon.”

“What sort of weapon?” asked Franco who had always shown an interest in new weapon technology.

“A pistol that has a triggering mechanism and an explosive component activated by a chemical reaction. This idea has been tried many times in the past but it seems the Fundco prototype has ironed out the bugs. We now know this technology could be altered and implemented on a mass scale … on top of that, five days ago, Cobart junior and the prototype disappeared.”

Looking around the room at the four highly trained individuals, Plant waited for a response. The crackling of the wood in the open fireplace and the rain pelting against the turn of the century French balcony doors was the only sound. The men scratched their heads, moved in their seats and stared at each other. Crystal stood and walked to stand in front of the fire.

“So what is it with these two guys?” asked Wade.

“Riol is somebody you will need to be aware of while down there and you might want to limit how much you mention his name. Some love him. Some hate him. Most are just scared. Cobart, on the other hand, we believe is the lynchpin that links Riol to outside forces.”

“Outside?” asked Sammy.

“As in neighbouring countries, international gangs, weapons suppliers … Don’t be fooled we might not know much about these guys but we do know whoever is controlling the rebels has an extremely large force, albeit not that well trained, but still large and a large cache of weapons and these weapons need to be supplied.’

“And you think Fundco are it?” asked Wade.

“Correct.”

“How and when?” asked Wade.

“You leave tomorrow morning on Sir Roger’s private jet for Dakar, Senegal. From there by an unmarked Eurocopter Dauphin II to the USS George H.W Bush stationed off the coast of Guinea. Admiral Jack Plower, boss of the carrier and fleet will arrange for your infiltration, by HALO, into the Faranah Region of Guinea.”

“What story are we using for the Admiral? He is definitely going to know it’s something British if we arrive in a Dauphin (helicopter of choice by the British SAS),” said Wade.

“True. Sir Roger used his contacts through British Admiralty who in turn approached the US Office of the Chief of Naval Operations and they agreed. Admiral Plower is unaware of your mission but he believes it to be a search and recon.”

“What about this prototype?” questioned Bud.

“Basically the size of a H&K USP pistol that has zero recoil, massive muzzle velocity, low trajectory, accurate to six hundred metres and ten to twelve times the explosive power of conventional gunpowder. It can be laser guided, holds up to sixty rounds and each round is fifteen millimetres in length. The power is generated by a chemical reaction and there is no resultant heat transmission or residue,” replied Plant watching the expressions on the faces of the men, seated before him, who had fired most known weapons.

“Well that’s definitely different,” said Wade. “What about gear?”

“All in your rooms and ready to go.”

Dunstall had ensured Wade and his team had all the best equipment and technology money could buy. Each man had his preferred weapons, clothing and comms gear laid out on the floor. They dismantled, cleaned, oiled and reassembled the weapons. Checked every round individually. Utilised the indoor shooting range and calibrated the sights. Tested and retested night vision goggles, radios, headsets, throat mikes, altimeters, watches and anything else they would depend on to stay alive. Years of Special Forces work had taught them that being prepared was their, and only their, ultimate responsibility.

Wade was surprised, that after five years, his command of weapons and shooting accuracy had not diminished.

“How do you feel about all this?” asked Crystal, sitting up on the bed watching her husband go through his routine.

“There are definitely a lot of things that don’t add up and I was sceptical of Sir Roger but I feel we’re doing the right thing,” he replied, waiting. Once again quizzing himself as to why he seemed to be able to read everybody he had ever met except his wife.

“Your gut instinct hasn’t let you down in the past so here’s hoping it’s right again.”

Wade stared as Crystal played with the ends of her hair. He thought how happy she made him at the same time her strong willed spirit was perfect for keeping him on his toes. Crystal had topped her class when she completed Naval helicopter training and this had earned her the opportunity of a choice of postings. She chose an active carrier group operating in the Pacific region. She loved the work and was extremely popular with her co-workers. One evening after her squadron had completed a very difficult but successful mission the team were celebrating in the officer’s mess. Two hours and many drinks later her attractiveness got the better of a senior officer who tried to grope her as she left the room and headed down the corridor. The stronger man forced her into a cleaning room. With one hand holding her hands above her head he forced the other under her skirt. Crystal bucked and as the man moved fractionally backwards she drove her knee into his groin. Crashing to the floor Crystal raced to her room. The ensuing enquiry, and after both parties had put forward their case, the tribunal found in favour of Crystal but not to damage a very successful career, of a senior officer, Crystal was transferred to a minor fleet. Many believing her transfer as proof she was the instigator. Crystal continued her career unapologetically until she met Wade and left the service.

Blushing she asked, “What?”

“Back at home you were going to tell me something, just before Joe arrived.”

Still fiddling with hair she watched her fingers moving. “How do you feel about being a father?” she softly asked.

Wade was stunned. His mouth opened but nothing came out. He sat. He stood and he sat again. “My god … really,” he gasped.

“Really,” she smiled. “I had the test two days ago and we are at fourteen weeks.”

“We?”

“Our daughter and I.”

“Christ … a daughter … my god.” He swallowed, choking back the emotion. “This is fantastic. How do you feel?”

“Great actually.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to be sure first. I hope you’re not upset?” she questioned.

“No, no, not at all. How could I ever be upset? This is great news.” A father. A prospect he had not even contemplated. They had discussed a family but nothing ever seemed to go any further than short discussions. Now here he was about to be a father. Would he be a good dad? Would he need to change his mindset? Military thoughts, especially the type associated with his work, would not seem something that would be beneficial to raising a child. He envisaged building a cot, cubby houses, toys, garden swings. He pictured the finished products. The colour. The excitement on his daughters face as she saw it for the first time.

The thoughts were coming to him at the speed of a freight train. One moment he saw Crystal and he walking along the beach swinging their daughter into the air with every second step. Kiwi barking in the background. Just as quickly, he saw her starting her first day at high school and at the blink of an eye he was watching her learn to surf as a teenager. He knew he needed to slow down but the excitement was racing through him.

Wade walked around the bed, bent down and kissed Crystal as he gently touched her stomach. “You realise this changes everything. I can’t go down there now.”

“Why? What’s different? I’m still the same person I was three minutes ago and you were going then.”

“Crystal don’t be silly. You’re pregnant and I’ll be a father. I can’t go running around hunting down people. I have responsibilities,” he rattled off in rapid succession.

“I think you need to slow down. I understand this is a shock. Albeit a nice shock but still a shock. I appreciate how this can change things for you especially after loosing your mum and sister but I know that they would want you to finish this as much as I do,” she replied slowly and softly.

Wade watched as she motioned for him to sit beside her on the bed. They sat in silence for a few minutes with Wade leaning into her head. Did this change anything or was he overreacting? Was he excited or was he worried about something happening? With so many people dying and so much death throughout his life he knew his concerns were justifiable. But he also knew that aside from meeting Crystal this was the best news he could have ever expected.

“If you knew you were pregnant why did you want to come?” He questioned spinning around.

“I’m going to see my dad. I want to tell him, to his face, he is going to be a grandfather.”

“That is so nice. He’ll be thrilled.”

Two hours later after showering and stowing their gear they all gathered in the dining room. The room was palatial. Eleventh century suits of armour stood throughout. Five metre walls were adorned with various six and seven hundred year old fighting and jousting weapons. Wall mounted candelabra dripped their wax. The highly polished parquetry clicked under the heels of the serving staff. Two large fireplaces roared. A magnificent meal had been served, consumed and cleared away when Dunstall raised his glass.

“Gentlemen, and lady, I would like to propose a toast to the success of your mission and also to your help in finding my brother,” he said choking back the emotion. Holding up his glass, “Please let me know if there is anything else I can do to help and I will provide everything within my power.”

“Thanks Sir Roger,” replied Wade. “There is one thing … Can you ensure Crystal gets to her father, in Washington?”

“Better than that. I will personally escort her and ensure my team are on standby until you’re finished,” he said as the two men shook hands.

“That’s very nice of you to offer but if you could just get her there I can guarantee she will be protected,” said Wade putting his arm around Crystal’s shoulder.

5.

The men were chomping at the bit as the Dauphin II gently touched down on the deck of the aircraft carrier. Blue waters of the glass smooth Atlantic sparkled in the afternoon sun. The flight deck burst back into activity after the short delay to allow for the helicopter to land. Men scuttled. Hand signals were flashed about. A catapult thrust the F18 Super Hornet jet into the sky. Ten seconds later a further deafening sound. Arrestor cables and the full thrust of a twenty four tonne jet stopping in one hundred metres; reverberated across the deck. A Nimitz class aircraft carrier is not for the faint hearted.

With a pack on their backs, parachute on their chest, large black bag in each hand and sound suppressant, oxygen enabled helmets; the four men looked like astronauts heading to their spaceship.

Wade felt his emotions stir as the thought of previous missions flashed before his eyes. He had been a soldier involved in some form of military since he had finished school, at seventeen. All his adult life he had felt and seen military weapons, equipment, machinery, clothing and people. He had eaten the food, listened to the commands and put his life on the line many times. He could not remember how many helicopters he had flown in or how many times he had been on aircraft carriers, invited or not invited. But this felt different. It had been five years since he had put on the boots, held the rifle, carried the packs. His psychology studies had opened his eyes to a whole new perspective. He had spent the flight attempting to analyse what he was doing. Why had he returned? Was it some desire to save his friends? Did he feel he was the best suited to successfully complete the mission? Or was it, plain and simply, in his DNA to be a soldier?

A naval seaman escorted them across the deck and up to the flag bridge. At one of the highest points of the carrier the two hundred and seventy degree view was incredible. Sloping glass added to the magnificence. Planes and jets could be seen buzzing around like flies. People on the deck ducked, weaved, signalled and moved like a choreographed dance routine. A first timer would be fascinated by the sheer enormity of what was happening. Upon entering a short, middle aged, grey haired man leapt out of his stately leather chair.

“Wade Ross, great to see you again. My god boy; you look as fit and healthy as ever.”

“Hi Admiral. Good to see you too.”

After dropping their gear and making all the necessary introductions the Admiral cleared his staff from the room. Checking all comms were off, he faced the four hardened faces.

“I know why you’re here. I’m the only one in this fleet who does and I intend to do everything I can to help.”

Looking down into the eyes of the smaller man Wade asked, “Why?”

“Jacob told me he had mentioned to you about Veronica, correct?” asked Plower.

“Veronica? No … not that I can recall,” replied a puzzled Wade.

“Veronica was the woman Jacob was going to marry. She was my wife’s twin sister.”

“I’m sorry Admiral. I didn’t realise. The Colonel never told me her name.”

Plower went on to explain how he had kept up communication with Wine throughout the years. How the team dynamics had changed after Wade’s departure. The fact they had became more affiliated with and the majority of their work was for the current US administration. How the Colonel had felt blackmailed, by President Markham, into his latest mission, even though he was unable to explain why.

“I believe he’s still alive and I owe it to him to do everything I can to help you find them,” added Plower.

“Thanks Admiral. I believe so too and we appreciate your offer,” said Wade as the four men grabbed their gear, nodded and departed.

After being escorted to the officer’s quarters the quartet gathered in Wade’s room.

“Hey Wade. Do they have mini bars in these officer’s rooms?” asked Bud opening and closing doors. “I could get use to travelling in one of these.”

Wade smiled as Franco replied. “No good for you Bud. Too much class required.”

“Fuck you too, Frenchie.”

“Alright, listen up. You need to be geared up and ready to leave at 2245. We jump at twenty three thousand feet. Bud and I first, then you two. I found a clearing north west of Dambara,” he said pointing to the landing area on a map. “The jungle in this area is seriously thick so we travel no more than ten metres apart.”

Wade explained the formation they would move in. The tactics they would adopt if attacked. Their rendezvous point if separated. They studied and memorised the maps and photo of Marcus Riol. Discussed various scenarios. Hit their fists against each other and left for their respective rooms.

Using the secure MI6 sat phone Wade called Plant. He outlined their plan, gave the drop zone coordinates and explained the relationship between Admiral Plower and Colonel Wine.

Pausing until he was sure Wade had finished Plant said, “We were able to intercept some further information on an order that came through from SECDEV. It appears the NSC, on advice from SECDEV, issued an order to the Commander of the Sixth Fleet for a drone strike. The coordinates given were four kilometres west of the small village, Sambalu, in the east province of Sierra Leone. Our analysts have determined through graphical analysis and the available reports that the coordinates were the same as those sent by Colonel Wine … The NSC order arrived two minutes after the Colonel’s was received.”

“Slow down Joe. I am seriously confused. What are you trying to say?”

“We believe Colonel Wine found the President’s daughter and got her on to the Sikorsky. The helicopter flew for a few minutes and was then shot out of the sky by a SAM. At the same time a drone strike was made on the location of the Colonel and his team.”

“Holy shit … so who the hell can we trust?”

“I have no idea,” replied an exasperated Plant.

Thirty seconds had passed when Plant asked, “Wade are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I want you to make sure nobody, and I mean nobody, is told anything. We need to get Director Harel on board. You must explain to him everything you have told me. Okay?” He waited until he heard Plant’s grunt of a response. Knowing full well that Plant felt nervous in talking with the Israeli. “Can you also ask him to get a protection detail on Crystal, and her father, at her father’s home in Maryland?”

Director Ben Harel, head of Mossad and a good friend of Wade’s. After leaving the SAS Wade had trained for many years as a Mossad operative both within Israel and worldwide. His affinity to the plight of the Jewish people, and the similarity to the Australian Aboriginal, had developed a strong trusting relationship between himself and Mossad hierarchy. Wade and his then training and operations partner, Kia, were highly respected operatives with an extremely high success rate.

2250 hours the four men were led into the carrier’s ‘Ready room’. Wearing war torn jungle clothing, cam cream covering their faces, helmets, breathing apparatus, various forms of knives, weapons and explosives strapped to their bodies and carrying their parachutes; they looked formidable. Their demeanour was hard and tough. The young, nervous, escort seaman scurried from the room checking over his shoulder as he closed the door.

The pilots had finished their preflight. They explained what and how things would unfold and ten minutes later everybody was aboard. Take off went as planned and they climbed to cruising altitude. The internals of a C-2A Greyhound are very plush and extremely quiet compared to what they were used to on C-130 military HALO flights.

“Hey Wade. Is there something about all this that seems odd to you?” asked Sammy.

Having had the same thoughts but unable to piece things together Wade probed. “In what way?”

“Well,” replied Sammy looking around to the others. “The Colonel and the team go on a Presidential mission and disappear. Out of the blue the Colonel’s unknown brother, who also happens to have headed up MI6, asks the four of us to go on a rescue mission. Coincidently in a country that is terrorised by some lunatic who happens to have befriended a Senator’s son. On top of that the son disappears with some amazing prototype weapon. Then finally we arrive in our rooms to the exact gear we all normally select … seriously guys … does that not seem suspect to you?”

Waiting for Sammy to finish and studying the faces of Bud and Franco; Wade replied.

“I agree something does seem odd. But we need to see where this is going if we are to find and help the others. It’s another reason that we need to be on the top of our game.”

The three hardened warriors dropped their eyes, nodding, knowing Wade was right.

The flight was uneventful. The jump went to plan. They had buried their chutes and oxygen gear and were gathered at the predetermined meeting point one hundred metres back from the Moa River, the river dividing Sierra Leone and Guinea. Shuffling sounds could be heard off in the distance. Wade’s ears pricked as he listened and waited. Watching the others, and their nonchalance to the noises, he decided it was due to his lack of field work, over the last five years and especially in jungles.

The three men had encircled Wade and were established in a perimeter fire fight position, scanning the area to their respective fronts, while Wade took bearings. Suddenly a loud bang shattered the chatter of the jungle creatures and all four men hit the ground, chest first. The blast was a flare. The sky above lit up like daylight. They ripped their NVG’s off and tried desperately to get their vision to focus. Rounds ripped from the trees on three sides. Within the first five seconds Bud had taken a round through the side of his face and two in the chest. Franco had taken three in the back. His stomach area was gone. Both men dead, instantly.

Returning fire, in three round bursts, Wade knew they were blindsided. The flare had dropped behind the trees and the light was fading. Sammy and Wade crawled backwards. Pumping rounds and grenades blindly into the trees; only slightly delaying their attackers. The twenty metres to the the jungle felt like a kilometre. They had already changed magazines twice, aware ammunition restraint was imperative, when the massive tree trunks, that bordered the rivers edge, appeared.

They leapt to their feet, turned and ran for the water. The head high grass was thick and wet as the indiscriminate rounds slashed around them. Using their rifles to push the razor sharp Wild Jungle Grass aside they charged through the pitch black terrain when suddenly the ground beneath them disappeared and they plunged into the rapidly flowing waters.

Ditching his pack, as the water tried to drag him down, Wade burst through the surface. The openness of the river aided in more available night light. Looking around he saw the black silhouette of Sammy’s pack. Sliding his rifle over his shoulder he swam and kicked as hard as he could.

Reaching the now sinking body he flipped him over. Released the pack. Held Sammy’s head above water and kicked for the shore. Sammy spluttered and coughed. Wade struggled to keep the huge man’s head up and steady.

It had been four minutes since they hit the water when they crawled on to the thick muddy opposite shore, nine hundred metres downstream. Wade dragged his friend into the grasses. Removed his webbing and shirt. The gaping hole across his stomach was opened like a skewered plum. The tree branch he had landed on when hitting the water had ripped a ten centimetre cut, torn his intestine and blood was pumping profusely. The webbing had acted like a bandage while in the water. Now removed it was gushing like an oil well.

Using Sammy’s blood and water soaked shirt and a makeshift grass bandage Wade stemmed the flow. Sammy was pale. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. Wade plunged the needle, from his first aid kit, into Sammy’s leg. The combination of morphine and adrenaline acted instantly. Wade watched as the potion raced through his body and Sammy slowly started to focus. Aware they had limited time Wade gave him a further sixty seconds and then helped him to his feet. Having memorised the surroundings, and being blessed with an inbuilt compass, he heaved the big man across his shoulders and they headed northwest.

They had been moving slowly, with frequent stops, for fifty minutes. The sound was behind them. Downwind. The jungle was dense and the night creatures were frantically going about their business making all their usual noises. Wade’s hunting instincts had heard it. Leaning Sammy against the tree he slung his rifle onto his back. Removed his razor sharp Ka-Bar knife and doubled back.

He had covered ten metres. Had already lost sight of Sammy, when he heard it again but this time it was off to his left. Whoever it was they were quick and stealthy, thought Wade. He had taken three steps toward the sound when the branch cracked behind him. His senses at their peak. The hairs on his neck standing on end. His muscles woven as tight as springs. Sweat rolling down his body. He spun as the Black Panther leapt through the large, wet, elephant ear ferns.

Years of intense battles both in the jungle and in the confines of urban society had skilled him in the art of remaining patient, waiting and reacting at the best possible moment. But nothing had him ready for this as he instinctively brought the knife up and into the chest of the mighty beast.

The two hundred pound, jet black, claws out, fangs protruding, yellow piercing eyes crashed down on top of him. The knife punctured the creature’s heart killing it instantly but the sheer weight and razor sharp claws sliced him from his shoulder down his left arm.

Rolling from the now limp creature he slit further cuts to try and increase the blood flow. Already aware the blood on Sammy was like a beacon to the jungle night hunters. Hoping the scent of the panther’s blood might distract further attacks; he made his way back to Sammy.

Removing his blood soaked shirt and with the limited night light he hunted for the vines and plants he needed. Years of working in the world’s most difficult jungles and learning the art of foraging for various plants and insects, as shown by multiple indigenous races, had taught him survival. His own indigenous upbringing enabled a sixth sense understanding of how and why some things, that appeared poisonous, could be life saving and others that appeared harmless would in fact kill you.

Five minutes had passed. He had rubbed the cuts with the head of the medicinal plant and had wrapped the vines from wrist to shoulder. He replaced his shirt, webbing and was gathering up his weapons when the trees above erupted with the noise of monkeys chattering and scurrying higher.

“Come on. We need to get out of here, and fast,” whispered Wade. “The cats have arrived.”

Every creature in a five hundred metre radius had detected the smell of the blood. Within minutes a frenzy of fights would break out until a pecking order had been established and the panther had been ripped to shreds and devoured.

With Sammy leaning against Wade the two men tried desperately to limit the noise and not rub blood against any trees or plants. Pistols drawn they crashed through the huge Orb spider web. The humidity had become more and more suffocating. Stepping over the one metre high root of the large African mahogany tree it was like entering another world. Seconds later the rain had gone from a mist to a waterfall. The coolness was a relief. The two men stood and let it soak in. Sammy wobbled on his feet.

The rain was relentless. The jungle floor turned to a torrent. Both men, now as wet as if they were back in the river, were glad to have the blood washed off. The rain aided in hiding their noise but increased the difficulty with movement and vision. The ground had quickly turned to a slush pool of mud. Wade pushed his weight against Sammy and used his rifle as a walking stick. Every tree root was an obstacle. Every branch or fern had them slipping and sliding like they were on ice skates. Movement had become incredibly energy sapping. Both men were at exhaustion.

6.

Sitting in the oval office President Markham had all the direct links he needed to his most senior people. All lines in and out were secure and repeatedly checked for hackers or bugging. His chief aide had just left the office when an insignificant, untraceable, encrypted mobile phone rang in his left pocket. Knowing that only one person had the number he didn’t look as he brought the phone to his ear.

“We have a problem,” said the voice.

Aware the two men always tried to limit how much they said on the airwaves Markham replied, “What sort of problem?”

“A four man squad had been deployed from the Bush carrier. They were ambushed, near Dambara, as we had arranged but two got away … one of them is Wade Ross,” came the concerned reply.

“Fuck,” swore Markham as he slapped his hand on the table. “How the hell did we let him get down there and who are the others?”

“We’re not sure. No identification. Plower only knew Ross. But we can guarantee they’re professionals if they’re with Ross. It seems someone got authority through OpNav.”

The two men were quiet as Markham tried to gather his thoughts. Twenty seconds passed before he spoke.

“We keep this quiet. You use the military to get rid of them. I’ve got some people who can find and take care of Ross’s wife. She could be a good bargaining tool if needed … We meet tonight at Goliath at 10,” then the phones went dead.

Walking from behind his desk he stood and looked out the French doors across the White House lawns. He removed a crumbled and folded piece of paper from his top pocket. The photograph had faded. A tear started to form, as it always did, whenever he looked down at the image of his older bastard brother, Stephen Paultier.

Markham, an only child, and in his first year at university, had noticed the attractive French woman at his father’s funeral. Standing away from others in her drab, cheap clothing, which was in stark contrast to the ridiculously expensive outfits worn by the rich and famous attending; he watched the tears trickle down her cherry red cheeks. Markham’s father was a very disliked man and not one other person shed a tear even though they all knew they needed to make an appearance. The power of money and position still evident even after death.

At the conclusion of the service he approached the woman.

“Hello. Leo Markham,” he said with his hand outstretched. “Thanks for coming to my father’s funeral.”

“He was a wonderful man,” she said, between sniffs, with her head bowed and dabbing a handkerchief to the sides of her eyes.

“That is nice of you to say but he wasn’t really very pleasant or wonderful at all.”

Markham Snr, was a womanising self made multi millionaire who hadn’t cared who he trod on to succeed. To the point that many attempts had been made on his life only to be concluded as accidents. His businesses were highly regarded in both the private and public sectors even though there was more than hints of illegality.

Looking up she reached into her purse and pulled out a photo.

“Your half brother. My son. Murdered,” she said handing over the photo and turning to walk away.

Stunned Markham looked down at the face of the twenty four year old man.

“Wait … don’t go … what is this all about?”

“Don’t follow me Mister Markham. I have no answers. It is up to you to find the truth,” she said as she shuffled away like the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

Regaining his composure, he called his aide to organise General Razen, Chief of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Charlotte Bysmith, Secretary of State and Leroy Mackinnon, the new Director of National Intelligence to be in attendance at Camp David that evening.

He then called Hank Jasper, his head of the US Presidential Secret Service.

Hank, a former FBI special agent and leader of a combined agencies special ops department, entered the room and stood at attention on the presidential seal embedded in the rug directly to the front of the president’s desk.

“Hank, please take a seat,” said Markham pausing until both men were settled. “This is off the record,” he said waiting for Hank to acknowledge the importance of the statement. “I need you to find out all you can about a Crystal Carters (nee Ross). She’s an ex US Navy helicopter pilot and I believe her father lives in Maryland. She is the wife of Wade Ross, ex Australian SAS. They live in Australia but she is on route to Maryland. Once you find her I want to know, at all times, what she is doing. I want only your best people on this and they must be prepared to eliminate her if required … is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, sir.” He replied, not flinching, sitting straight as a board.

“Good. Remember Hank, as per last time, I will definitely make this worth your while. Okay?”

“Yes sir, Mister President.” He stood and headed for the door.

“One last thing. Are you still watching the First Lady?”

“Yes sir.”

“Nothing to report?”

“No sir.”

“Good,” smiled Markham as he waved him out the door.

7.

The sun had been up for two hours. The rain had finally abated. Two bedraggled figures exited the thick jungle. The dirt road was only wide enough for one vehicle and was extremely overgrown. Wade dragged Sammy along on a makeshift stretcher he had built from branches and vines. Sammy’s shirt was again soaked in blood. Wade held a pistol in his hand and tried to remain focused.

Wade was exhausted. His shoulders were collapsing under Sammy’s weight. His legs felt like jelly. His left arm was numb. His hands and face were scratched beyond recognition from the razor sharp grasses.

Both men were so exhausted they did not see the four villagers walking toward them. The three men and the woman realised the bizarre looking duo were not rebels. They approached Wade, who had his head facing the ground and was only moving by instinct. Two of the men grabbed the stretcher branches as the remaining man and woman grabbed Wade’s arms. With the weight of the stretcher gone Wade suddenly sprang up, eyes wide open he tried to lift his pistol and fell.

A furnace box of humidity had once again arrived. The sun was setting. Wade opened his eyes. His clothes had been removed and he was lying on an old wire sprung mattress in his boxers. An intravenous drip was in his right arm and his left arm had been bandaged from shoulder to wrist. His face and hands had been washed and covered in a cream. He was lying under a mosquito net. A small fan was blowing across his face. Looking around it appeared to be some form of makeshift tent hospital with dirt floors. A generator hummed in the distance. He heard moans and groans coming from behind cloth partitions. Flies and mosquitos, as thick as soup, buzzed around the netting desperately trying to get to their next victim. Sammy was in the next bed and had also been treated.

“Bon jour,” said the voice behind him as the tall dark skinned man stepped into his vision.

With a stethoscope draped around his neck, he raised the netting, entered and placed his fingers on Wade’s wrist. Neither man spoke. He took Wade’s pulse.

“Where am I?”

“You have been bought to an MSF field hospital. You were extremely exhausted and had large cuts to your left arm. We placed you on a saline drip and you seem to have recovered very quickly,” said the man in broken English.

“Thank you,” replied Wade. “And who are you?”

“My name is Nenwon and I am an intern here with Doctor Prue. She will be along in a moment to check on you and your friend. I will remove this drip for you.”

Once finished and Nenwon had left, Wade groggily got to his feet. He found his clothes, now putrid from blood, sweat and grime. Dressed and having recovered his boots he weaved his way out of the mosquito net.

“Hey buddy. Can you hear me?” he asked sitting on Sammy’s bed.

His friend was caked in sweat. The small fan having negligible benefit against the oppressive humidity and Sammy’s body struggling to fight his injury. His face and arms had been covered in the same cream. A wet, dirty bandage was wrapped from under his armpits to his groin. Blood stained the mattress and antiquated machines whirred, groaned and beeped.

“I think it best you don’t wake him,” said the French accented, American/Canadian sounding voice from outside the netting. “I am Doctor Prue and your friend needs all the rest he can get,” she said as she raised the netting, entered and stood on the opposite side of the bed.

The short, pale skinned, crew cut, flame red headed woman, dressed in her battle worn camouflage greens looked extremely out of place in the makeshift hospital buried within a war ravaged area of the African jungle.

Standing and shaking her small, thin hand Wade replied, “Thanks for helping us. I realise you have done this at great risk so I’ll get my mate and we’ll get out of here.”

“And where do you intend to go with him in this condition?” she asked with Nenwon stepping up behind her.

“I’m not sure but the rebels will come looking. If they find us here, they’ll burn this hospital and kill every last person … can he walk?” asked Wade looking down at his drugged out mate.

“Not without causing more problems,” Prue replied sternly. “I don’t know who you are, why you’re here or what you’re doing. I do know by your accent that you are not American or British. Maybe South African?” She stood studying him intently.

“Australian actually.”

“Australian,” she paused, concentrating and appearing to decide whether to continue. “Well if you’re interested we have a supply plane arriving early tomorrow morning, which could take your friend. The plane can only risk being on the ground for no more than four to five minutes, so there can be no hesitation. Am I clear on that?” came the words more as a command than a statement.

“Where’s the planes return destination?”

“It will make three fuel stops and eventually arrive in South Africa. Johannesburg, I believe.”

“Okay. We’ll be ready. Thanks.”

8.

The interior of the lavishly appointed meeting room, at Camp David, was a buzz as four of the most powerful people in the western world sat around a roaring open fire. Waiters buzzed around like firefly’s circling a light. With their superbly presented five course meal consumed they smoked their cigars and swirled single malt whiskey. The President ordered the room cleared.

Markham, Bysmith and Razen had been together since Markham’s inauguration seven years earlier. Mackinnon had joined the select group after the demise of his predecessor at the hands of Wade and his team.

Leroy Mackinnon was ten years junior to his fellow group members. He had proven his worth as the linchpin connecting he and Markham to fraudulent opportunities throughout the world. A Doctorate in Behavioural Psychology from Harvard University and a Masters in International and Global Affairs; he was the true salesman. Known to have convinced leaders and rulers worldwide to believe in his ideas. He had risen the ranks of the CIA in record time and was not even in the line of succession when selected by Markham to the DNI role. Single, with movie star looks he had multiple lovers at any one time. Not afraid to spend money he drove the latest luxury sports cars and was always wearing his trademark five thousand dollar Hugo Boss suits.

The head of the security detail pulled the door closed and Markham leapt to his feet.

“Okay people. We need some clear direction on what we are doing and how we solve these problems… Firstly, how did Ross and his team get on a US aircraft carrier without us knowing? Secondly, why did we allow them, or anybody, to go into Sierra Leone? Thirdly, is someone on to us and if so who?” He rattled off pacing around the room. “We only have one more year left to get all our loose ends finalised and I’m starting to feel we are a long way from ready,” he commanded.

Remaining seated Razen responded, “Leo, sit and calm down. After the SAM attack in Sierra Leone we always knew that operational command would want to send in a recon party. Admiral Plower would have known this and as the order came from OpNav he wouldn’t have questioned it. Ross and his team had got in through a request from British Admiralty. From who and why we are still chasing. As to whether anybody’s on to us - I don’t believe so but I question how Ross, or whoever made the request from the UK, knew about Wine and his team’s involvement … coincidences, I don’t believe in.”

“I can answer who and why,” replied Mackinnon. “Joe Plant was approached by Sir Roger Dunstall, the former head of MI6, to find Ross and any others from Wine’s former team to go in as a rescue party.”

The group sat in stunned silence.

“Why would Dunstall have any association with any of this?” asked Bysmith bewildered with Mackinnon’s statement.

“According to Plant, Dunstall is Wine’s half brother and he believes he’s still alive,” replied Mackinnon with a smile on his face.

“Leroy … I don’t for the life of me see how this is funny,” said Markham. “And why didn’t you tell us about this earlier?”

Still smiling he replied, “That’s the problem. You don’t get it do you. Do you not realise this is perfect for us?”

Mackinnon went on to explain his plan of making a reward available for anybody locating Wade or Wine or the President’s daughter. All the different options of Wine, or his team, alive or dead. The rebels chasing the money. Wade trying to find Wine. The US military being used indiscriminately, and unknowingly, to hunt out all parties.

“Are you saying you want us to let this whole thing play out and see who is left at the end?” asked Markham.

“Correct.”

“You are one sick individual but I do like the way you think,” said the President as they clinked their glasses.

9.

Wade helped Sammy across the dirt track that served as the runway for the supply plane. Four Guinea nationals were hurriedly throwing boxes on the ground. The South African, payload master, standing at the top of the rear ramp was sweating profusely, gesturing for them to move quicker. The twin turboprop, Red Cross marked, bullet ridden CASA C235 was rocking as the pilot kept the revs up and brakes on. Dust and debris was engulfing the small makeshift compound. The pilot frantically watching for any sign of rebels.

Helping Sammy on to the cargo net seating Wade handed him a note. “Can you get this to either Director Harel or Kia?” he said as he slapped him on the shoulder and ran out.

Four minutes after landing; the plane rumbled down the runaway, in a cloud of dust, with the ramp still rising. Grabbing three of the boxes; Wade walked back into the makeshift ward.

“Thanks for your help,” he said stacking the boxes against the rust encased glass medicine cabinet.

Doctor Prue looked up from changing the gunshot wound bandage on the black woman who was trembling at the thought of being caught by the rebels who had forbidden locals to enter the hospitals.

“What will you do now?” she asked with the sweat trickling into her eyes, trying to push the shoulder of her shirt, the only part not covered in blood, to clear her eyes. Reaching over, with the towel that was lying on the slapdash dispensary, he dabbed her forehead and eyes as he asked, “Do you know anything about a helicopter being shot down somewhere near here?”

Her hand lightly on the bandage, that was stopping the seeping wound, she nodded nonchalantly. Looking across to Nenwon she replied, “There was talk of an unmarked helicopter crashing across the border, downstream near Guagoma. Is that correct?”

“That is correct but I am not sure it was shot down. It is very dense jungle in that area and I don’t believe anything has been found since the reports have started coming in.”

“Why do you ask?” said Prue, now dabbing the infected area with antiseptic and rolling on the clean bandage.

“I’m looking for some friends who are here on gas field exploration work. I know they were working out of a helicopter and when we left Freetown we meet some loggers who had heard about a helicopter, in this general area, and how it had been shot down.”

“Sure,” she replied abruptly, looking him up and down standing before her in his tattered jungle camouflage greens. “We can’t help you anymore,” and returned her attention to her patient.

Wade saw Prue, Nenwon and the two French nurses watching. Knowing his story was not being believed he slung the rifle over his back, checked his ammo, strapped on his trusty KaBar knife, hung the water bottle off his waist, reapplied cam cream and dragged anything else of importance from his webbing.

“I’d bury any sign of us ever being here, if I was you,” said Wade leaving the ward and not looking back.

The hospital was situated on the outskirts of the small riverside village. Bordered on two sides by thick jungle Wade had travelled a mere eighty metres when the trees and vines gobbled him up and no further signs of human occupation existed. Very adept at travel in the jungle he was surprised how quickly his skills had returned but more surprised when he realised he was being followed. With his knife tucked up into his left hand he double timed. Ducking under low branches, stepping around large elephant ear ferns, sliding over huge tree roots he keep up the frenetic pace for ten minutes; the follower still there. The four trees, directly ahead, were like stands supporting a large cargo net. Wade slid around the base and darted under the vines.

He heard the movement. It was extremely light footed and almost floating. The charcoal black skinned boy slithered around the tree trunk like a snake, as Wade grabbed him from behind and thrust the knife under his throat.

The boy was small, he had a shaved head and his back was severely scarred from whipping. Like lightning he tried to escape Wade’s clutches but Wade’s strength and speed held him down. With his hand around the boy’s skinny little neck; he turned him.

His eyes were like fire. His two front teeth were missing. His jaw had been broken and had never mended properly. Wade saw the roughly burned tattoo scars, up his arms, that the rebels inflict to remind the locals of their allegiance.

Fluent in French Wade asked, “Why are you following me?”

The boy’s eyes grew wider as he stared at the knife. The knife scared him. Wade returned it to his scabbard. With his hand now firmly around the boy’s tiny bicep Wade shook him, too look up, and asked him again.

“Goboto,” he replied.

“That’s your name,” asked Wade.

He nodded in agreeance as he looked around.

Wade could see the fear in his eyes that was prevalent amongst the locals. His arms shuddered like an electric shock had been sent from his shoulder to his hands. He saw the busted and misaligned fingers that had been a victim of further rebel brutality. Having seen the best and worst of mankind Wade had developed an instinct to see through the shield that victims would adopt. He could sense that Goboto wanted to help and also wanted his help.

“You very good to your friend. Help him. Now find wop wop. Yes?”

“Friend? … when? … and what do you know about a helicopter?

Pausing and continually looking around. “I saw you just before you leave jungle. Villagers take you to Doctor Prue and then you help friend on plane.”

“Go on,” prodded Wade holding his arm tighter. “What about the helicopter?”

“It down river, near Guagoma. Shot down, sammy.”

“Sammy? What do you mean sammy?”

“Rocket from ground,” replied Goboto still nervously swivelling his head.

Like a bolt of lightning had struck Wade said to himself, “I see a SAM.” He released his grip, looked into Goboto’s eyes and said, “Once again. Why are you following me?”

Now free of Wade’s grip Goboto became even more nervous as he pivoted his entire body.

“Hey! Nobody’s following us. Okay?”

Stopping his manic movements, he looked as Wade gestured to him to sit. With his arms across his chest and hands wrapped around his scrawny little biceps he slowly started to control his breathing.

“I help friends and they get killed by ‘Vulture. ‘Vulture’ kill all family. You help friend. You good man. I help you. I show you where crash.”

Nodding, Wade stood. Nothing further was said and they headed back towards the river.

A super fit and skilled Special Forces jungle operator Wade was in the world’s top echelon but he had to work hard to keep up with Goboto who darted through the thick undergrowth. The sun had been up for an hour and the temperature was already in the high thirties. The humidity was unbearable and the mosquitos were in plague proportion.

Wade was impressed with Goboto’s climbing skills. Every time they came to something blocking their path Wade would go under while Goboto would use his hands and feet, similar to a monkey, and scamper over the top.

The birdlife sounds changed, they were once again back at the river. The Moa River; dividing Guinea to the west and Sierra Leone to the east. The large palm trees curved out over the water as they fought for sunlight in the upper canopy and the head high grasses appeared to come out of the water. Wary that sometimes you could part the grass and fall up to two metres in to the fast flowing waters the duo cautiously approached.

The darkness of the jungle floor was shattered as they opened the grass on to the two hundred metre wide river.

“No go river. Hippo and snake. Need boat,” said Goboto, rocking his head from side to side trying to get Wade to understand how serious he was.

“We’ll follow the river downstream until we find a boat. Otherwise we walk,” said Wade, offering Goboto a drink from his water bottle.

Travelling close to the water’s edge added the difficulty of denser grasses, the possibility of falling in to the river and being spotted by the locals that went about their business on the river.

Approaching 1600 hours the duo were exhausted. The heavens opened and the torrent of rain crashed down on them. The wildlife had moved into the trees, the river was deserted and the locals had sought shelter in their huts. Wade and Goboto’s movement had changed from walking to slipping and sliding. They were standing beside each other as they stepped onto the pile of fallen gigantic fern fronds. The water had undermined the ground and they crashed down the side of the embankment into the waist deep mud. A torrent of water raced down the eroded gulley continually pummelling them. The water was as heavy as a waterfall and the mud sucked harder and harder the more Wade struggled. Freeing his knife from the scabbard he reached as high as he could and plunged the knife into the tree trunk. With his left arm wrapped around Goboto’s waist he pulled and pulled. The muscles in his right arm were like a slow moving crane as the one arm chin up slowly brought them out of the mud. Free of the mud and waterfall they collapsed on to solid ground.

Getting to his knees Wade noticed Goboto wasn’t moving. Turning him over, he was unconscious. The force of the water had been too much for his slight frame. Being lighter than the packs he had lugged around the world, Wade slung him over his left shoulder and started back along the rivers edge.

The intensity of the rain had increased. Ten minutes had passed. Ahead the nine huts faced each other as they sat precariously balanced on the small outcrop at the rivers bend. Plumes of smoke wafted from the open windows. Evening meals being prepared with the smell of cooked fish and wild jungle vegetables. A small child stood in the open doorway of the closest hut, watching the strange duo pass. Two upturned wide beamed fishing boats came in to view, perched high up on the muddy bank. With single slats of timber for seating and poles for propulsion Wade lay Goboto in the bow, untied the securing vines and slid the vessel out into the treacherous waters.

The fragile boats were not made for fast travel or long distances and the wide beam caught tremendous amounts of rain in the heavy deluge. Already quarter full Wade struggled to keep balance as he stood with his legs spread across the rear seat. The boat had been forced to the middle. The river was like a washing machine, churning and turning on its self. With only three metres of visibility he blinked and squinted trying desperately to see the early warning signs of a hippopotamus head. Known to swim around and feed during the afternoon thunderstorms the hippo’s body is hidden with only his eyes, and sometimes his ears, above the murky water level.

10.

Crystal’s trip across the Atlantic had been like royalty. Dunstall had kept his promise and personally escorted her. The heavily tinted limousine did not look out of place as it sped through Washington and into the affluent upper middle class neighbourhood of Clarksville, Maryland. The driver turned the large vehicle into the driveway. A luxurious house, set on acreage, loomed ahead. Huge oak trees, encircled three sides of the house, proudly standing over manicured lawns. An American flag hung lifeless, on its pole, in the non existent breeze. Two ex SAS bodyguards leapt from the vehicle before it came to a halt. Scanning the surroundings, the first walked up the steps as the second tapped on the vehicle’s roof.

Trent Carters opened the door and limped out on to the large verandah. Crystal raced from the vehicle and threw her arms around her father. Dunstall smiled as he watched and signalled to his men to return. After many hugs and kisses Crystal turned to introduce her father only to see the limousine back slowly down the drive.

With the window down, Dunstall leaned out and said, “It was lovely to have met you Crystal and good luck to you both.” He waved and the window returned to its closed position.

“Who was that, dear?” asked Carters, leaning on his walking stick.

They went inside and sat on the beautifully appointed Edwardian lounge. The house was just as grand inside as out. Highly polished American oak floors gleamed in the sunlight. Large abstract framed art lined the walls. A spectacular vintage civil war bronzed cast mirror sat atop a freshly painted white fireplace surround. Crystal explained what had happened and why she was visiting. When finished and after looking around the room she asked, “Why have you got all these photos of mum and I scattered everywhere?”

Crystal felt shivers run down her back as she thought about the mother she had never known. She looked at the photos of the beautiful Columbian woman who had died giving birth to her. She watched her father, as she had many times before, sit transfixed on the photos of the only woman he could, or would, ever have loved.

A tear formed deep in her eye as the thought of her childhood returned. Her father had been a very successful businessman. She had grown up a privileged child having all the material items she could possibly want or desire. Selflessly her father gave all his time to being a parent, both mother and father and she loved him for the sacrifices he made. He forego opportunities to socialise with his peers and friends; to spend time with her. They would play games in the backyard with their dog. He would teach her to paint and draw. They would ride a horse and read a book together on rainy cold days.

But the strongest and most endearing memory was when they cooked together and she learnt her mother’s recipes. His dad called his wife Angel and would work away in the kitchen explaining things to Crystal as if her mother was standing beside them. It was the one time she felt they were a family together. She loved it and clung on to the memories.

Looking down he replied, “I’ve been missing you both and after what happened I don’t want to take my time left on planet earth for granted.”

“Oh dad. I’m missing you too,” she said as she stood and hugged him.

Her father had been attacked, beaten and left for dead by two unknown assailants who broke into his home. Punctured lung, broken ribs, both arms and a leg shattered, broken jaw he had spent time on life support. Even the family dog had been slaughtered. Wade and his team had hunted down and killed the attackers but Carters had paid the price and now struggled with everyday life; even with the aid of a cleaner, cook, nurse and gardener.

“Please come and live with us? It’s beautiful, warm and you’ll love it there,” pleaded Crystal knowing full well her father was too stubborn to leave his beloved USA.

“You know I was thinking I might do that,” he whispered.

“Dad that is fantastic. You have no idea how much I think you will enjoy it and it will be so nice to have you around.” She clasped her arms around his neck again.

Stepping back, she touched her belly. “I have some news.”

Her father stood watching as he looked from her eyes to her hand rubbing her stomach and back to her eyes.

“Are you …” he asked unable to get the words out.

“Yes,” she beamed. “You are going to be a grandfather.”

“Oh my dear,” he replied dropping into his chair. “That is wonderful. I’m so happy for you both. By the way where is Wade?”

“Saving the world. You know what he’s like.”

11.

Goboto stirred and rocked the boat as he dragged himself out of his unconscious state.

“Stay still,” yelled Wade over the noise of the river and the rain.

With his head now above the gunnel Goboto grabbed the side of the boat, and pointed as he yelled “Hippo.”

Wade heard the word but with nothing to steer other than a long stick and body weight he dived for the seats. The hippopotamus had seen the vessel approach and had opened its mouth as a sign of aggression.

The duo braced. The boat tipped sideways. The massive animal’s body rose out of the water, like it was pushing off the bottom. With ears folded back and teeth bared its head smashed through the stern. The rear section broke away and the water rushed in. Wade lunged himself toward Goboto. The boat was rapidly sinking but the flat plane bottom was now acting as a surfboard and the water velocity was skimming them toward the shore. The hippo had swung around and was now chasing. Wade whipped the rifle over his shoulder, steadied himself as well as he could and instinctively fired two rounds through the thick skull, killing the creature instantly.

The speed of the current had eased and they crashed into the muddy bank. Eager to get away from the hippos Wade slung his rifle, grabbed Goboto by the upper arm and dragged him up the bank. They ran through the chest high grasses trying to shield their eyes from the buffeting rain. Five minutes after their ordeal they collapsed on the side of a dirt track.

Now back on the Sierra Leone side Wade knew he needed to get his bearings. The rain stopped, as fast as it had started, and the temperature instantly started to rise. The sun was in its final stages of the day. Shadows of the trees covered the landscape. Quietness lasted only a few short minutes as the jungle creatures and birds reappeared. After a short drink break and time to gather their breath, they started down the narrow track, banked on both sides by spires of trees appearing to be strangled by lianas.

Wade had learnt, many years earlier, that the end of the daily jungle rain was a prime time for rebels and attackers to inflict their punishment. With Goboto directly behind him Wade led with his rifle. Constantly covering his arcs of fire he was like a hawk on the hunt. Watching and listening for the slightest sound or movement. The track veered to the right two hundred metres ahead. Keeping tight against the thick grasses the surroundings were suddenly shattered by the sound of AK47’s.

Diving into the grass, and taking Goboto with him, they watched and listened.

They heard screams, the roar of diesel trucks, repeated small arms gunfire and continual rifle fire. The sound echoed through the jungle and down the road. Wade could tell they were no more than one hundred to one fifty metres away. Erratic and uncontrolled gunfire indicated they were not trained and therefore most likely rebels.

Eyeballing Goboto he whispered, “Do not move … until I return … got it?”

Goboto nodded in agreeance. Wade checked his rounds and magazines and slid, like a snake, into the grass.

He raced bent over through the grasses. At one hundred metres he dived on his front and parted the razor sharp blades. Two rusty tray trucks, with a driver and a man brandishing an AK47 on each side, were racing through the village. He counted four others blindly waving and shooting 9mm pistols. Wade noticed that unless the locals got down on their knees, in a praying stance, the rebels indiscriminately shot them. Many of those shot were not dead and screamed in agony. The rebels ignored them. Women and girls were being dragged from the houses and huts and shunted to a separate side with the rebel’s obvious intention of rape.

Raising his rifle, he waited until both the trucks were in the open. His first two shots found their mark and the drivers were dead. One truck plowed into a mud lined hut throwing its rear occupants against the wall. The shooters on the second truck had only momentarily realised something was wrong when bullets tore through the side of their respective heads.

A pistol wielding rebel was about to shoot a young boy. The mother tried desperately to protect her son. With the pistol raised he smiled, chewed on his hallucinogenic jungle weed and then his body disintegrated all over the young mother, who screamed in shock. Another rebel had seen what had happened and spun around as the bullet passed through his face and the rear of his head exploded. A third rebel shot an old man as a bullet tore through his midsection. Wade stood and slowly advanced the thirty metres separating him from the closest hut. He had been counting and knew one rebel was still unaccounted for.

A scream came from behind a building off to his right. He approached the corner. With his rifle behind his back and pistol in his hand he slowly turned. A rebel had his pistol against the throat of a small child and was forcing the woman to remove her clothes. The tears flooded down her cheeks as she pleaded with the man not to hurt her baby. An older boy lay on the ground. Blood gushing from a pistol whip wound to the side of his head. Wade slipped the pistol back into his holster and removed his KaBar knife. In two giant steps he leapt the four metres separating them. The surprised rebel had half turned as Wade’s left fist crashed down on his pistol held wrist and the knife slashed across his neck. The mother screamed louder. She lunged for her baby.

After ensuring the village was clear Wade proceeded to help the villagers attend to their injured and remove the dead. The air stank of cordite, blood, urine and human excrement; all signs of a bloodbath.

With the sound of shooting gone Goboto appeared. He watched Wade bandage the pistol whipped boy, who had now regained consciousness.

“You are good man. You save us. We help you,” said Goboto as the young boy and mother listened.

“Yes, we help you,” agreed the mother. Watching family members sob at the loss of loved ones.

Other villagers had started to gather and were agreeing they wanted to help. Wade explained the first priority was to completely remove any sign of the rebels. The uninjured dragged the bodies of the rebels in to the trucks. Others helped Wade move the trucks to the edge of the river. Puncturing the fuel tanks, and severing the fuel lines; Wade fired his pistol at the leaking fuel. The village shook from the explosion. A fireball leapt above the trees. With the flames abating and the heat subsiding; Wade and the villagers, using long sticks, slowly forced the mangled truck shells into the river. The villagers watched on as he tied the rifles together and weighted them to the river bed. They followed his lead and gathered all the empty rifle rounds, throwing them into the river. Still wanting to help they waited as he replied.

“Thank you,” said Wade, “but I just need to find a helicopter.”

“Helicopter that get shot from sky crash near next village,” said a young boy standing off to the side. Wade saw the same rough burned tattoo scars up his arms.

“Which way?”

The young boy pointed west as he said, “Guagoma.”

Wade nodded and he and Goboto left on the same dirt track they had arrived.

The villagers all bowed their heads. A sign of respect to their saviour.

Once clear of the village Wade checked his ammunition supply. Sixty pistol rounds, two thirty round rifle magazines and two fragmentation grenades. ‘Not much if I get into a firefight’ he thought.

With food and water, offered by the villagers, the unlikely duo quietly drifted along the road munching.

Darkness blanketed the sky. The sounds changed as the night creatures came out. The track was back following the river and the mud got deeper. By now above his boots Wade searched desperately for an alternative path but to no avail. The jungle and trees were too dense. Two hours and eight hundred metres later, they collapsed on the huge mangrove tree root. Having carried Goboto, Wade fought to stay focused. His eyelids felt like lead. He opened and closed them repeatedly hoping they would snap back into reality but sleep deprivation and exhaustion were catching up with him and he fell back against the tree.

Goboto knew he wanted to help and scampered up the tree. The sturdy, hard skinned trunk was like a ladder for the young boy who had spent many years escaping his tormentors by climbing the highest trees. He would sit there for days, if need be, until they lost interest and moved on.

The huge tree gave him a magnificent view across the night sky. He saw Guagoma and the villager’s lights and the fires of their huts four hundred metres further on.

Back down he grabbed Wade by the shirt, “I find village … wake … I find village.”

Wade sprang out of his lying position. Goboto leapt back to avoid being knocked off the tree root.

“I find village,” he said again as Wade focused on where he was and what he was doing.

His eyes ached. His mouth was dry and he could feel the mosquito stings on his face. The five minute power nap had served its purpose and he stood as Goboto pointed.

“Through the jungle?” Wade queried. “I don’t think so.”

“I find track.” With that he leapt into the mud and headed toward the denser area of trees.

They slugged through the mud for a further ten minutes when without warning the ground rose and hardened. A further fifty metres and a narrow track appeared. Wade had his rifle drawn and was back leading. They covered the remaining two hundred metres and stepped into the village.

The village consisted of eight mud huts, set in a semi circle facing each other. All in various states of disrepair. Some with roofs collapsing. Others had walls collapsing. Dried mud relinquishing to the forces of gravity.

A dog, all skin and bones, growled and barked as they approached the closest hut. A young man and his wife appeared, sloshing through the mud engorged ferns that covered the floor of their home. The woman was holding two babies and a third had grabbed her leg. A single kerosene lantern offering the only form of light in the hut and the last remaining embers of a fire were glistening off to the side.

The man saw Wade, and his rifle, and grabbed a stick. Yelling and screaming, in Krio, the de facto national language of Sierra Leone, two further men raced around the corner. Wade saw the fear in their eyes. The three men yelled swinging their sticks. He lowered the rifle trying to quell the situation. Goboto jabbered on and finally the villagers relaxed.

“We bring you no trouble. I am looking for the helicopter that crashed,” he asked.

The three men looked at each other puzzled by the question from this stranger with the unusual coloured dark skin.

Wade made some gestures trying to show a helicopter. Eventually the men nodded.

“It in very thick jungle,” replied the man with the three children. “Behind lion dying ground.”

“I don’t understand?”

“Lions go when sick or old to die and young lions watch over.”

“I see … There are lions in the area near the crash site?”

The villagers all nodded.

“Where is the crash site?” he asked again.

“Follow track,” the same man answered pointing to his left at a small opening in the trees. “Until small creek. Then go up creek three bends. But you not go. Lions not like visitors. Very dangerous.”

“Thank you,” replied Wade acknowledging their concern. He and Goboto turned and headed toward the opening.

The track was very small and thickly overgrown. Wade had to stoop to keep under the branches and ferns. An extremely difficult journey by day, the added darkness had them continually crashing into things. They found the creek and three hours later after much backtracking they arrived.

The area was as if it had been hit with an atomic explosion. Every tree, bush, plant or blade of grass within a fifty metre radius had been obliterated. Fragments of metal were spread across the dirt. The entire area was lit up by the brightness of the moon. After walking around and across the site twice; Wade knew there was absolutely no way anybody escaped the inferno. It was impossible to determine it was even a helicopter; the fragments were so small.

The full brunt of the realisation of what had happened, hit him like a sledgehammer. He stumbled back into a tree and slid to the ground. Goboto watched as Wade slumped his head into his hands.

With his eyes closed he thought of all the adventures they had shared as a team. Missions they had completed successfully and sometimes not so successfully. Camaraderie they had developed working in a specialised field of operation that only fellow Special Forces operatives could understand. Pain of loosing a team member and/or friend. The sacrifices they had made to be the best they possibly could. The father he had never had, in Colonel Wine. All gone.

His head thumped. His eyes burned in back of their sockets. His body felt like it had been electrocuted. Hot, shaking, then cold. He saw the images of all those he had killed slide, as if portrayed in a collage, across his mind. He felt the finality of death. The loneliness it brought; even though he was no stranger to being alone.

Wade’s childhood as a loner, being not considered a white man nor an Aboriginal but a half cast had made his life in the military and as part of the Colonel’s team all the more special. His youth, as a loner, had been perfect for learning, hunting, tracking and the elder’s stories of the Dreaming. Wade was an excellent student and studied hard in both societies, excelling at both.

12.

Director Harel was in deep concentration, focusing on the three screens set in an arc across his desk. Studying images of Palestinian activities on the Israeli borders. Watching the movement and allocation of Mossad staff worldwide and listening to Israeli Prime Minister Asimov address Knesset. He didn’t notice his aide slide the note across his desk until he heard the door close.

Reading the note, a second time, and convinced it had come from Wade he buzzed his aide.

“Get Kia on the phone. I need a protection squad at the Carter residence Clarksville, Washington and find Meshulam,” he commanded and clicked off without waiting for a response.

Several minutes later a knock came at the door and a short, balding, unshaven, disheveled man nervously approached the desk.

“Please Meshulam, please … take a seat,” motioned Harel.

Meshulam Hammerstein had been with Mossad since being recruited as a seventeen year old computer wiz. Having spent the last thirty five years developing programs and hacking into computer systems worldwide he was Harel’s go to man. The Israeli’s spent billions developing their state of the art IT system and it was imperative those managing this system were always at the top of the game. With a staff of ninety Hammerstein could access, monitor and control data worldwide.

A very introvert man his life had been devoted to the Israeli cause. Single, no relationships, no family, a workaholic. Wearing his trademark ruffled shirt, un-ironed and uncoordinated pants, head bowed he slowly sat on the opposite side of the desk. Always nervous when around Harel, he waited.

“Meshulam, I have just received word from a very reliable source that our friends in the US administration might not be the friends we had thought. I need you to step up your surveillance. Can you go back through the SECDEV orders and can you also dig up everything possible on President Markham and General Razen?”

“Yes sir. How deep, with Markham and Razen, would you like me to go?” apprehensively asked Hammerstein.

“All the way. Their finances, families, interests, acquaintances, habits and any dirt you can find.”

Hammerstein nodded, as he knew their meeting was over. He was half way to the door when one of the four phones on Harel’s desk started vibrating. Looking at the caller ID Harel called to Hammerstein.

“One moment Meshulam.”

With the phone on hands free he answered, “Hello Kia.”

With the pleasantries of all three completed Harel continued, “I have just explained to Meshulam about Wade’s concerns with Markham and possibly others of the US administration. Wade is currently somewhere downstream of the small village of Dambara, western Sierra Leone. He is searching for the helicopter that was carrying Colonel Wine and his team. It has been reported as shot down, by a SAM, in thick jungle. He is alone with very little gear. He has asked for our help and requested you.”

“Yes sir. I will arrange immediately. Meshulam can you access the satellites and get me a visual? I will also need coordinates,” said Kia.

“Right on it,” replied Hammerstein, who had a soft spot for her, as he raced for the door.

“Kia, you and Wade need to be very careful how you play this out. I will keep Prime Minister Asimov informed but remember the US are still our greatest ally and we must keep our hand hidden until we are certain,” ordered Harel.

“Yes sir,” she replied aware of the tone of concern in her boss’s voice but also thrilled her long gone partner had returned.

13.

Wade and Goboto spent the remainder of the night at the crash site. Perched three quarters of the way up a tree. They had heard, but not seen, the lions the villagers had mentioned. Wade estimated they were four hundred metres west of the crash site closer to the river.

The early morning sun burst through the trees. They descended and Wade went about another study of the crash site. He saw the indentation of where the fuselage would have struck the ground. How the resultant explosion of the avgas fuel had blasted out and up into the treetops. The singed and blackened leaves all signs of the fireball effect of the explosion.

Desperately choking back the emotions he continued his search. Goboto had been watching and emulated Wade’s actions of walking into the jungle fifty to one hundred metres, searching, and then back to the crash site. They had been at it for two hours when Goboto called out, “Look … look.”

Wade stared down at the fully intact one metre sections of the four bladed helicopter main rotor blade still connected to the vertical mast, rotor head. He thought, puzzled something was wrong. He lifted the damaged rotor section, turned it over and over. Lay it back on its side. He could sense something trying to leap out from the back of his brain. Goboto watched in amazement as Wade stood, sat, stood and fiddled with the object.

It had been ten minutes when suddenly he leapt to his feet.

“Of course, why didn’t I see that earlier. The chopper couldn’t have exploded in the air. The explosion would have initiated from the fuel tanks, which would have concurrently blown the two turboshaft engines, the gearboxes and attached main rotor,” Wade said as if talking to himself.

Further searching uncovered the two rear tailplanes. Wade stood in the middle of the crash site and moved around and around studying the jungle. Like a detective he eventually saw what he was looking for. The ferns had been expertly laid across the path. The rain had removed most signs of traffic but a slight indentation of a boot, broken branches and the burnt leaves at head height was all he needed. He pieced his thoughts and deduced the helicopter had crashed through the trees. The occupants had been removed and a rocket propelled grenade launcher had been fired at the fuel tanks.

With one final check of the site, he removed his highly modified KaBar knife. Checked directions, on the compass mounted in the knife’s handle, and then the duo headed along the obscured path.

Years of working in the world’s densest and most inhospitable jungles enabled Wade to see the small tell tale signs of human movement through the thick terrain. The occasional broken branch at shoulder height, the ground fern leaves squashed on top of each other, the bare surface of the large creeper vines where a small tentacle had been sliced off. The canopy was thick and the light was minimal as they moved along.

Approaching late afternoon they were exhausted. The sun had all but vanished from view. The leaves cast shadow upon shadow. It was like a dark room continually moving when Wade felt the ground start to rise under his feet. The small mountain range was not very high or wide but it had steep cliffs covered in thick vines and layer upon layer of mosses and ferns. A thick canopy kept the ground moist, muddy and slippery. Humidity rose higher and higher, trapped as if in an oven. The creatures became restless. Noises abound. It was like an out of sync orchestra that got louder and louder. Thunder could be heard but not seen. Wade motioned to Goboto to climb the tree and check what lay ahead.

By the time Goboto returned the afternoon rains were torrential. The cooling effect was instant. The sounds abated.

“Huts in circle. Like ‘Vulture’ village. Many men. Many guns,” said Goboto becoming agitated at the thought of being near the rebels.

“Along the path?” questioned Wade.

Goboto nodded.

“How far?”

Goboto thought for a moment and replied, “Like hospital to river.”

“Hospital to river?” he replied puzzled. Paused. “I see about seven to eight hundred metres. That’s about twenty minutes in these conditions. Okay … no noise and you stay behind me,” he commanded.

The track widened, as they got closer. The distance between the tyre tracks indicated small wheel based vehicles. All light of the day was gone. The noise of the rain and thunder was tumultuous. The ground was slippery. The side of the mountain was like wearing high heels on a skating rink. Wade stumbled; fell, grabbed at vines as he slowly inched up the slope. Shots echoed across the ravine. They slammed themselves against the wall. Waited. Turning to check on Goboto he saw he was now scampering along the wet tree trunks trying to avoid the undergrowth and mud.

An hour later they had arrived at the camp. Searched for any early warning detection devices and determined the layout. There were two guards on the lower side of the slope, both drunk and nearly asleep. Three makeshift huts, on stilts, to the either side of a cave cut into the mountainside. Two men sat around a sheltered fire. They were drenched, high on jungle weed and their rifles lay behind them on the ground. Two naked, wet, whipped and beaten women, shackles around their necks, long ropes attached; they wandered around in front of the huts. Too scared to sit. Occasionally a rebel would come from a hut and fire an AK47 indiscriminately into the trees. A cave opening was evident behind the overgrown jungle.

Wade checked a round was loaded in his rifle as he turned to Goboto, “You can’t help me out there,” he said pointing to the rebel stronghold. “You must wait here.” He tapped him on the head and vanished into the jungle.

The two guards hadn’t flinched as he lowered their bodies into the mud. Crawling behind the first hut he waited until one of the naked women ventured near enough for him to clasp his hand over her mouth and drag her behind the wall. Motioning for her not to move the petrified woman watched, wide eyed, as he released the shackle and dropped the thick rope and put his boot on it.

A rebel walked from the hut. His rifle at the ready. He saw the rope disappear behind the hut. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder he grabbed the rope and started around the corner. Smiling at the thought of what he had planned he didn’t see the knife as it lodged into his throat and slit up into his mouth. The woman went to scream. Wade had anticipated her reaction and clamped his left hand over her mouth. Calming her down he released his gripped and nodded for her to wait.

Removing two magazines from the dead rebel he slung the AK47 over his shoulder and proceeded to check out the huts. Five men, in the first three huts, were all high and wasted. The powerful hallucinogenic jungle weed had rendered them incapable of acknowledging an intruder. He removed their weapons. The two men seated around the fire had fallen off the logs and landed face first in the mud. Wade also grabbed their weapons.

Removing the bolts and launching them into the thick growth jungle he slid the stockpile of rifles under the third hut and covered them with mud encrusted ferns.

The fourth hut was empty. The fifth and sixth had two stoned rebels. Once again he removed and disabled their weapons. Releasing the second naked woman he motioned for them to leave.

The cave entrance was large, flat and shaped like a clam shell. Set back behind the huts the entrance was covered in Lianas, intricately woven like a spider web. Closer observation revealed they were in fact placed as a camouflage and easily able to be moved. Parting the thick wall of vines and Lianas; the smell of diesel, from an electricity generator, wafted out. Unlike most caves, that seem to twist and turn, this one went straight into the mountain. He had covered one hundred and fifty metres. The cave size had not decreased. Supporting timbers appeared rotted. Dirt and small rocks fell at intermittent stages. Apart from the cable connecting the thirty metre spaced single light globes, the sound of a generator and the occasional muffled female scream; it appeared empty.

A further hundred metres, two large doors loomed ahead. One was slightly ajar. He could feel the cool air from the air conditioning. The air reeked of homegrown drugs, alcohol and smoke. With no guards or detection equipment evident he entered.

The cave was no different in size on the inside. Two smaller caves led off to the left. Makeshift corrugated iron lean-tos were lined against the right side. The ground was covered in litter, bottles, blood, empty rifle cartridges and the smell of human excrement was intoxicating. The lights were dimmer, with men mumbling and muffled female screams emanating from one of the smaller caves.

Hiding behind the first corrugated wall Wade watched as he figured who was where and how many of them there was. The first small cave appeared to have women being attacked; most probably raped. The second seemed unoccupied and the rebels filled the corrugated shelters.

He unslung the AK47. Checked for a chambered round and with both rifles lying in front of him, pulled the pin on the grenade. The grenade landed outside the third shelter, thirty metres down the line and exploded in a hail of fragments and shrapnel. Corrugated iron was thrown in every direction. Light globes shattered. Small fires outside the furthest lean-tos were the only form of light. Screams echoed as rebels in their drunken and stoned stupor staggered out, further down the line. Wade fired single head shots and they dropped like flies. He grabbed the second of his two grenades, a flashbang, and threw as far as he could. With his eyes closed, ears covered and mouth open, to help with the percussion effect, the sound was still deafening reverberating through the semi enclosed cave. Wade watched as two further rebels crashed to the sodden earth. His rifle clicked empty. Aware he had shot thirty rounds, he dropped the H&K and grabbed up the AK47. The bolt jammed. Without missing a beat, he ejected the magazine, reloaded and aimed. Jammed again. Dropped the rifle and checked his pistol; nine rounds.

The area became deathly quiet. The suffocating smell of cordite, blood, dust and human excrement filled the air. Everything black. Obstacles unidentifiable until you crashed into them.

Standing he slowly crept forward. His ears ringing from the percussion of the grenades exploding in a confined area. Nobody had exited from the two small caves. He entered the first. Pistol in his right hand and knife in his left. Taking a step then waiting he heard the groans of the women. The cave twisted and turned and seemed to go on forever, as the groans got louder. Blanketing the noise of the women he strained to hear any other sound. Covering one hundred and forty metres the cave swung around to the left. Waiting he heard it. The muted sound of deep, guttural breathing. Light slowly began to appear. The closer he crept the more he could make out the walls and what lay on the ground.

Using his Parkour skills, he leapt at the far wall two metres in the air. Bent his knees, pushed off and fired a double tap as he came around the corner. His assailant, who had been standing guard and very much aware of the noise from the main cave, never saw him as the bullet lodged in the side of his head. Landing in front of the falling figure the second rebel, naked from the waist down, tried desperately to bring his rifle into an aiming position but Wade’s second double tap had already found its mark. The bullets sliced through his throat and chest knocking him backwards.

Scanning the dimly lit area he saw the twelve severely beaten, naked women cowering in the corner. Motioning he was finally able to entice them to follow him as he led them back to the larger cave. The stench was overpowering. With his focus on the women and watching for further rebels he didn’t see the barrel slide from behind the two large entrance doors. He spun to the sound of the whistle through the air, as the dart lodged in his shoulder. The potion was instant and his world went black.

14.

“A word, Mister President?” asked Jasper.

Markham nodded. His aide looked up and excused himself. Jasper flicked his ear piece out and covered it with his hand.

“We have found Carters. She is currently holed up with her father at his home in Clarksville, Maryland. There appears to be no protection detail. We have monitored her movements and apart from going to her mother’s grave, at the Maryland Cemetery, they have not left the house,” said Jasper.

“Excellent,” replied Markham wandering around the oval office. Scratching his chin and rubbing his eyebrows he thought for a moment until mid stride he stopped and leant toward his head of Secret Service. “I want her and her father eliminated. Make it look like a burglary gone wrong … no witnesses,” ordered Markham.

“Consider it done, sir,” replied Jasper heading for the door.

“Remember Hank no witnesses,” emphasised Markham.

Nodding he closed the door.

One of the three phones on his desk rang. Markham ignored it and continued his head scratching wander around his office. His aide stuck his head through the door. Markham shooed him off advising he was not to be disturbed. Retrieving the untraceable mobile from his left pocket, he dialled and waited.

“I have taken care of Carters. So you need to organise those air strikes in Sierra Leone,” ordered Markham waiting for the reply. With none forth coming he disconnected.

Martin Drybin had worked extremely hard through his career and Markham’s appointment of him as the US Secretary of Defence had been the pinnacle but it came at a price. A former US F4 fighter pilot, a returned Vietnam Veteran, a strong advocate of the NRA (National Rifle Association of America); he was extremely popular on Capitol Hill.

After two failed marriages, with both wives leaving him for younger and in their words more virile men, he became very bitter and twisted towards the female sex. An extremely vain and egotistical man, Markham was easily able to manipulate him.

“Get me General Razen,” ordered Drybin as he slammed the phone back on its cradle, not wanting to talk to his female PA any longer than he had to.

The light lit up. He punched the button and spoke. “General. I have just spoken with the President and you need to get some birds in the air and rounds on the ground in Sierra Leone.”

With no sound or response. “General did you hear me?” said Drybin again, slightly louder.

“I heard, Martin,” replied Razen slowly.

“Well,” ordered Drybin. “Make it happen.”

“And how do you and the President think this will happen? … I can’t just ring OpNav and say we need more bombing in western Sierra Leone. I need some formal directive.”

“You will have a Presidential order on your desk in the next ten minutes. I expect air strikes within the next two hours. You know the drill General, we have a lot at stake here and we can’t have any weak links. The order will outline the reason as ‘increased vulnerability to US stability through actions of the rebels and their training of terrorist groups’. Leroy will manipulate data so that the pilots are led to believe they are bombing rebel strongholds.”

Razen grunted as the line went dead.

15.

“Admiral, we have received an order from AFRICOM (United States Africa Command) that has come down from SecDev. We are to implement air strikes in western Sierra Leone,” said Admiral Plower’s aide.

“What!” replied a stunned Plower as the aide handed the formal document with the US Presidential seal.

Plower read the command document a second time before he looked up.

“Scotty can you get me Brookes and Tanner ASAP?” ordered Plower, to his aide, as he once again read the order he could hardly believe.

Plower knew the order had come from Markham and he was aware the administration were desperate to ensure no one came out alive.

Captain Joe Brookes, Commanding Officer, of the George H.W Bush and Captain Alec Tanner, Air Wing Commander, responsible for all aircraft on the carrier.

Standing pin straight at attention in front of the Admiral’s desk the two men saluted as Brookes, the more senior officer, spoke, “Sir.”

“At ease gentlemen. Please have a seat,” responded Plower. “You need to read this,” and he handed the order across the desk.

Both men read every word twice until they were sure they had completely understood the implications.

“Admiral, this is like an act of war,” stated Brookes.

“I know,” responded Plower sighing and looking up at the US flag above the door. “Joe, Alec I have known you both for many years,” pausing “and I know this is going to be difficult but we have to find some way of following this order, without starting a war and having OpNav breathing down our neck. We all know they will have satellite imagery watching everything we do and lord knows how many eyes they will have on the ground.”

“Sir the order says we are to start sorties within two hours,” said Tanner.

“I know … I know. Can you organise F18 and Viper squadrons, and their backup, in the air ASAP. All fully loaded. No flying over Sierra Leone, only Guinea. I will contact AFRICOM and confirm targets. Until such time this conversation does not leave this room,” ordered Plower.

“Yes sir,” replied both officers as they leapt to their feet, saluted and marched out the door.

‘My god Wade. I have no idea how I can stop this’ said Plower to himself.

16.

Wade could sense he was awake but couldn’t open his eyes. He felt the rain pelting on his face but no muscle would react to his commands. His eyelids were like lead. He tried to move his head but nothing happened. Sounds, like banshee war cries, could be heard above him. This reminded him of a previous experience with the North American Indians and their muscle relaxant drugs.

He tried to listen and focus on his surroundings when he felt something smooth, slide across his face. Concentrating harder he realised it was a snake. Thirty seconds later another slid across.

The rain continued to pour. Wade thought of ‘The Dreaming’ and the elders who had taught him. He focused on listening to them tell the stories of the beginning of time. The creation of all things; plant, animal, land and how everything is equal. He heard the story of the Rainbow Serpent and how it slid across the land as the creator of waterways and the bringer of water to arid areas.

The witch doctor stood at the top of the hole looking down at the hundreds of deadly pythons as they crawled in, out and over each other. He watched as they tried to climb the five metre sheer, slippery, dirt walls.

“What the hell are they doing?” asked Riol, standing with the other ten rebels around the hole. “Why are they moving away from him?”

“I do not know. But I do sense a strong, dangerous spirit,” replied the witch doctor.

The witch doctor started his chanting. Throwing his head back and forth. Thrusting his skull topped staff into the air. Stamping his feet into the mud soaked ground.

“You make sure you get rid of him, old man,” yelled Riol, motioning to his troops to follow.

Goboto watched from the trees as the rebels piled into their two trucks. Firing their rifles indiscriminately in the air, they yelled and screamed. The first truck swung in a tight circle and a small boy hanging on the back was thrown across the track. Trying to get to his feet the truck slammed in to him dragging him under the front wheel. The truck bounced over the small frame and raced down the dirt track with the occupants laughing and yelling. The second truck followed suit. Riol leant out the passenger door and fired two shots into the already smashed body. The three in the back cheered and fired into the air.

The rain was still very heavy. The witch doctor built himself in to a frenzy. Ranting, screaming and thrashing about until he collapsed on to his hands and knees. Looking back down the hole he saw the snakes had all retreated to the opposite side from Wade. Panting he tried to yell but exhaustion had taken over.

Goboto watched the two young teenage girls walk from the hut, fifty metres away. They were both naked with a long ceremonial headdress falling down their backs. Their heads bowed, they slowly approached. Once certain the witch doctor needed their help they reached under his arms and carried him back to the hut.

Waiting a further fifteen minutes Goboto slowly approached the hole. Seeing the snakes, he became petrified and pinned to his spot on the ground. Staring down he watched as they crawled and slithered over each other but never near Wade. Minutes later he started to relax. He had decided Wade was some form of spirit. Seeing Wade’s clothes and equipment, lying off to the side, he grabbed everything and ran back in to the jungle.

Using the knife, he cut vines and twined them together. Having many times watched his fisherman father the finished product was like rope. Tying a knot on the bottom and every metre up the length, he looped it into a coil and crept back to the hole.

Wade was concentrating hard on the elders and their stories when the ball of vine smashed into the side of his head. The jolt was all he needed for his eyes to spring open. Getting his bearings, he saw the snakes slipping and sliding over each other but all the while watching him. The hole was eight feet by eight feet and the bottom had two inches of water. The snakes were stirring up the mud with there insistent action of trying to climb the walls.

He saw the ball of vine come at his face but could not move as it again crashed into him. Looking up the rain splashed across his face as he blinked and tried to decipher where the vine was coming from.

Goboto had tied the vine around the closest tree and was lying facedown in the mud. “Grab vine … you grab vine,” he said trying not to yell but hoping to be heard over the noise of the rain.

“Grab vine … you grab vine,” he said again, louder, puzzled why Wade wouldn’t move.

“Goboto. I need you to find a Malu tree and bring back the stem of a leaf … do you understand?” mumbled Wade.

“Grab vine.”

“Goboto listen. I can’t move … so find a Malu tree. Do you understand?”

After four more attempts Goboto finally realised what Wade was asking and ran off into the jungle. Born and raised in the Sierra Leone jungles Goboto had no trouble finding his way in the dark. The Malu tree has a thick trunk with large elephant ear sized leaves sprouting from it. A very prickly and poisonous tree; animals and humans avoid contact. The syrup inside the leaf stem is mustard yellow in colour, very toxic but when mixed with water is the perfect antidote for the drug the witch doctor had used.

One hour later Goboto arrived back at the hole. Wade explained what he needed to do. The concoction was made and Wade then needed to convince Goboto to climb down the rope.

“No … no … snakes kill,” he said petrified at the thought.

“They will not go near you. I promise.”

After much coaxing and the rain easing, he started to descend. Wade knew the snakes would not come near him, as he had no fear of them. But the lower Goboto came the more they started to rear up, sensing his fear. Wade concentrated hard but to no avail.

“Goboto, back up the vine. I can’t stop them,” ordered Wade as the snakes started to fan out toward the hanging vine.

Scampering back to the top he listened as Wade explained to find a hollow reed. Pull the vine back up to the length of the reed. Climb down until the reed was in his mouth and pour the Malu solution down the reed.

The entire exercise had taken three attempts. The first two Goboto had either dropped the concoction or missed Wade’s mouth. Third time the drops of the sickly yellow fluid trickled in his mouth.

Twenty minutes ticked by. Goboto watched as Wade’s muscles start to regain their strength. The snakes had backed away. Wade shakily got to his feet. He opened and closed his hands. Shook his arms and legs. Rocked his head from side to side. Grabbed the vine and gingerly pulled himself up. Goboto helped him from the hole and they crashed into the mud.

“Thanks. I owe you,” said Wade patting Goboto on the head. “Let’s get out of here?”

Goboto smiled his gap toothed smile. He helped Wade to his feet and they staggered to the trees.

17.

The postal express Boeing flight landed heavily on the runaway at Faranah Airport, Guinea. Potted and cracked asphalt shook the passengers as the plane taxied to the terminal. The flight from Conakry, the capital, had been uneventful. Nationals, in their bright coloured clothing, had entertained the three men and two women sitting in the rear seats, with their singing and chanting.

The group of five exited the rear stairs. Swept through the unmanned baggage area and bee lined for the unmarked aid helicopter parked to the left of the terminal. Throwing their carry bags on the floor they climbed aboard, signalled to the pilot and strapped themselves in without saying a word.

Two hundred and sixty kilometres later the helicopter touched down, outside Koundou-To, a small village fifty kilometres southwest of Gueckedou, a southern provincial town. The group leapt from the chopper, grabbed their gear and the large black bags that had been there when they boarded and raced for the trees.

Certain they were not being followed and clear of watching eyes, they gathered together.

“Gear up and get ready,” ordered Kia.

The four Mossad agents removed the travel clothing and donned their jungle camouflage gear. Helping each other they wiped cam cream across their faces and hands. Stuffed jungle greenery in their hats, packs, webbing and around their weapons.

Bazak, at thirty two was the older of the two men. A demolitions expert he had a Shipon on his back, Glock pistol in its pouch, explosives in his pack and the Tavor 2, assault rifle, at the ready.

Shimon, ex Isayeret, Israeli Special Forces, and Kia’s current field partner. An expert knifeman, he was indebted to Wade for saving his life.

Both men were helping Joe Plant with his camouflage and weapons as Kia spoke. “We are approximately five kilometres from Wade’s last known position. It will be dark in two hours so we double time. Nirit you lead. We move out in three.”

Once again checking each other’s gear, they nodded.

Nirit, the fifth member of the group. A trained Kidon, with golden blonde hair, extremely lithe and agile, supermodel qualities, and had served as part of Director Harel’s protection squad.

The super fit Israeli’s raced through the jungle. Having relieved Plant of all his gear, except his weapon, he still struggled to stay in contact. Shimon remained directly behind him, continually edging him on and not giving him a chance to think about how exhausted he was. With his lungs about to explode and his legs like jelly, Shimon’s hand crashed down on his shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

Puffing and panting Plant tried desperately to get his breath controlled as the four Israeli’s squatted in the tall grass and looked across at the ‘Medecins Sans Frontieres’ hospital. Slowly Plant could feel his breath easing.

Kia ordered the group to cover all exits. Like mice suddenly exposed, they scattered.

“Joe, take off your weapons. I want you to go into the hospital and find out if they know anything about Wade,” said Kia now convinced they had not been detected.

“Why would they listen to me?”

“You’re American and far more convincing than us,” smiled Kia, who was becoming fond of this amicable CIA agent.

The group watched as Plant scrambled across to the tent. He could be seen wandering through the makeshift wards asking questions. Most of those questioned seemed to ignore him or were too frightened and turned away.

Plant was making his way back from the tent hospital when two jets, at five hundred feet, screamed overhead. The ground thundered and shook. The trees were sucked forward. Dust and debris flew everywhere.

The surroundings started to settle as he burst through the grass and dived for the ground.

“My god, what was that all about?” he asked looking toward Kia.

“US F18 fighters in attack mode.” Hitting the control button on her throat mike, “Let’s go. To the river and downstream. I’m sure our friends will be back.”

The squad raced for the river and using the trees as cover charged along the bank. Travelling Indian file, they had covered four hundred metres when the Viper sprang into view on the opposite side of the river. In unison they dived. The explosions were deafening. The F18’s Paveway, laser guided bombs and Maverick, air to ground missiles, had found their mark and were exploding ahead of the group. The bombing seemed relentless. The explosions crept closer and closer until the sound of the jets and helicopter disappeared over the horizon.

The four Israeli’s had spent their lives in war zones and were comfortable with explosions. Helping Plant to his feet they moved on almost oblivious to what had happened while Plant looked and scanned nervously expecting a military attack aircraft to reappear and start firing at any moment.

“What did you learn at the hospital?” asked Kia.

Plant explained that he met an intern who said a man matching Wade’s description had been at the hospital. The intern advised he had gone looking for a believed crashed helicopter downstream near Guagoma. He also mentioned about a large black man being evacuated out by their supply plane.

Darkness had arrived. The group approached the small fishing village. Unsure of the occupants and their reception, they spread out. Like chameleons they snuck everywhere checking huts, sheds, vehicles and anywhere a rebel might hide. Convinced there were only fishermen, they found the furthest downstream boat. Climbed aboard and drifted away.

Kia answered the sat phone on the first ring. Hammerstein explained that an order had been issued for increased air strikes on known rebel strongholds, predominately in western Sierra Leone, and how a drone image of Wade, outside Guagoma, had been uploaded twelve hours earlier.

18.

“Hank, all good I hope?” asked President Markham as his head of the US Presidential Secret Service entered the oval office for his daily debrief.

“Actually sir, we have a problem,” softly replied Jasper.

“Well,” quizzed Markham.

“The two men, and driver, I sent to complete the task have disappeared. Plus, the two backups are now gone.”

“Disappeared? What do you mean disappeared?” quizzed Markham.

Jasper explained how the driver was to remain one block over while the other two would break in. Kill Carters and her father by breaking their necks and then slicing and stabbing them with shards of glass, taken from a broken window somewhere in the house. They would ransack all the rooms and plant some incriminating evidence.

None of the five ever reached the house. Both cars were where they were parked. There was no sign of a struggle at either the house or the cars.

“How is this possible?” asked Markham falling back into his chair.

“No idea, sir. Agents Baker and Omat are two of our most highly skilled undercover operatives. Both had near perfect records of success whilst serving in the Army Special Forces.”

“What can we do now? We have to get rid of Carters.”

“That’s the second problem, sir. Carters and her father are gone and we have no idea when or where.”

“What,” said Markham slapping his hand on the desk in frustration. “How the hell can this be happening? We have the best technology and the highest trained people on earth and they just vanished.”

Jasper stood with hands clasped behind his back staring straight ahead.

“Well?” questioned Markham.

“I’m sorry sir. I have no idea.”

“Completely unacceptable, Hank. Completely unacceptable … Go.”

Markham had recovered from his outburst. Cancelled all his upcoming appointments and sat facing Mackinnon.

“Could be the Brits.”

“The Brits! Why and how would they do this?” replied a stunned Markham.

“Dunstall personally delivered Carters to her father and departs immediately. We know Dunstall arranged for Ross to try and find Wine. We also know Dunstall has a very good relationship with the British SAS and probably felt some need to protect Carters. As much as we might not like to admit it those British and their SAS are definitely the best. They could have quite easily taken out your secret service guys and moved Carters and her father.”

“It’s possible.”

“Damn right it’s possible and more than likely probable. We need to focus our attention on Sierra Leone and let it unfold. We can worry about Carters later.”

Not convinced Markham tentatively nodded in agreement.

19.

The sun was breaking through the trees. Intense heat was shattering the early morning crispness. Mosquitos, thick as soup, swarmed about their heads. Wade had jumped to the ground and was helping Goboto down from their overnight perch high in the tree. He heard the sound; spun and saw Nirit.

“Hello Wade.”

“Nirit … it’s so good to see you,” said the exhausted but surprised Wade. Goboto grabbed for the tree trunk at the sight of the heavily armed, camouflaged, Amazonian, blond staring from behind the elephant fern.

The balance of the team appeared. Wade’s adrenaline had run dry. He collapsed and slid down against the tree trunk.

The three agents formed a defensive barrier. Kia injected a vitamin, cortisone, and hydration mixture. The team remained on high alert as the minutes ticked by. Wade’s focus slowly returned. Plant fed him some food and water. The humidity was rising like a steam bath as the sun climbed higher and higher. Goboto sat glued to his spot, in the fork of the tree, as he watched the agents and Kia go about their business of establishing a defensive perimeter and helping Wade.

With his head covered in perspiration and his clothes stuck to his body, Wade explained what had happened. His speech occasionally slurred he detailed the crash site and the cave. Still slightly shaking he gestured to Goboto to come down. His head frantically pivoting, Goboto watched the newcomers, as he stood beside Wade.

“Goboto this is Kia and Joe,” said Wade with the after effects of the drug abating. “They are friends and will help us.”

Pointing to the three agents who by now were so well hidden and could only be recognized by their movements. “That is Nirit, Bazak and Shimon,” he said as they turned and nodded at the mention of their name. “They are also friends and will ensure ‘Vulture’ pays for what he has done.”

Whispering Goboto said, “But he has many more men. You will die.”

Wade smiled and handed him some food and drink, motioning for him to sit. Kia removed her battlefield Tablet and brought up an image of the rebel’s cave and huts.

“We have actually already completed a recce of the cave you mentioned. It is now deserted except for numerous bodies, which no doubt you know about. A helicopter pad was formed into the mountain off to the west. The ‘Institute’ (a name commonly given to Mossad) tracked a flight that departed early hours of the morning. The satellite continued its surveillance and two hours later the chopper returned to a second stronghold closer to the river. Imagery shows this stronghold has a larger force but once again lacking in structure or control,” said Kia.

“Ground,” yelled Nirit as they all dived for cover with Wade grabbing and covering Goboto.

The US fighters screamed across the sky releasing their deadly payload one kilometre up stream on the Sierra Leone bank. After the noise and dust had subsided Kia went on to explained the SECDEV order for increased bombings.

“How far to this second stronghold?” asked Wade.

“Approximately five klicks but it’s over a fairly steep mountain range,” replied Kia regretting she had said it the moment the words left her lips.

“I’ll be fine,” replied Wade ignoring Kia’s thoughts of him, in his current state, not capable of making a difficult hill climb.

Nirit led the way. Followed by Bazak then Kia, Wade and Goboto with Shimon directly behind Plant trying to limit how much noise Plant was making. Goboto was stunned at how quickly, easily and quietly the new arrivals slipped through the jungle. He watched as they lifted themselves one arm over obstacles. Slid under trees as nimble as a snake. Followed each other perfectly without looking or speaking. Everything was done by sign language and whenever something was spotted they would instantly hide so well he had trouble distinguishing them from the surroundings.

The climb up the mountain had been far more difficult than they expected but the instinctive nature inbuilt into a Special Forces soldier had no one show any signs of struggling or weakness. With Plant gasping, and partly carried by Shimon, they crossed the peak and headed for the river.

The rebel’s cave was superbly sourced. Set thirty metres back and facing the river. Large vines and ferns with towering thick palms overhead shrouded the entrance. Completely undetectable, except from the river. The group spread out. Equipped with throat mike and earpiece they took up their respective positions. Screwed the sound suppressors to the end of their rifles and watched.

The trees bent like bananas. Debris and dust covered all visibility as the two F18 jets screamed across the sky. A cavalcade of bombs exploded, the jungle shuddered and the noise reverberated through their ears. All team members were face down covering their ears waiting for the shockwaves to abate. The explosions were three hundred metres south of their position and Wade knew their luck would eventually run out.

“Hold your positions,” whispered Wade. “Let’s see what they do.”

With the dust and noise settling the rebels raced from their underground stronghold like ants under attack from an anteater. Firing their weapons indiscriminately they fanned out.

“Stay down. I want as many outside as possible,” whispered Wade. “Pick them off when they’re not visual from the others.”

The group watched. The cave had been damaged by the bombing as the rebels shook dust and debris off themselves. They ran in uncoordinated paths. Crisscrossed. Wildly waving their rifles they indiscriminately and sometimes even accidentally shot each other. Whenever one strayed, the group’s silenced rifles quickly picked them off.

“Stay calm. Keep your cool and let’s see how long before they realise,” said Wade.

The noise had lessened to a dull roar. The group had shot five. The numbers exiting the cave had slowed to a trickle when a huge, bald, black as midnight African stepped out into the sunlight and fired a Magnum 44 into the air. The rebels froze and turned to watch their leader.

“Find me Lokos. Now,” he screamed.

With the lull in shooting Wade had ordered the removal of the suppressors from the rifles. The rebels calmed down, obeyed the command and headed away from the cave.

“Wait … wait … wait,” whispered Wade. “Now,” he yelled. The automatic weapons fired with deadly accuracy and tore through the rebels. They were mown down like grass. “Go. Go,” he yelled again.

The four men and two women charged at the entrance. The rebels were falling like skittles. A young teenage boy raised a hand held missile launcher and had his finger on the trigger, aiming when Kia’s round slammed into the bridge of his nose and blew out the back of his head. The momentum of the shot, threw him backwards and the missile raced across the mouth of the cave disintegrating one of the two dilapidated Unimog’s and a bullet ridden jeep. The remaining rebels were in disarray, firing blindly, scampering for the cover of the jungle.

Reaching the entrance, they spread out in covering fire formation. All shooting had stopped. Bazak prepared the plastic explosive. Inserted the remote detonator and took cover. The explosion ripped through the cave entrance. Previously large enough for a vehicle to enter the group ducked and entered single file. Shimon doubled back around looking for a rear or second point of entry.

The dust and heat was suffocating. The group, now wearing NVG’s, slowly advanced. The cave grew narrower and narrower with the descent getting steeper. Muddy ground was turned like a ploughed paddock from the continual stomping of feet and washed in rain. Unable too dry; the stench of mould and mildew abound. Nirit, as forward scout, saw the guard and hit the ground. The others followed suit. A round ricocheted off the dirt ceiling. With the suppressor screwed back on the dull thud of Nirit’s Tavor-2 found its mark. The remaining two guards had not moved when the bullets smashed through their foreheads.

Passing the dead guards, they swept to their left and the ground levelled out. Large shipping crates were stacked three high on both sides of the now thirty metre wide cave. Four single globed lights hung from the ten metre ceiling, one hundred metres ahead. Huge industrial fans roared and diesel generators could be heard in the distance.

The group separated, advancing behind the crates. With their NVG’s raised, shadows of movement, danced faintly across the walls and floor.

“It’s too quiet,” whispered Wade. “Kia, smoke.”

The sound of the two smoke grenades reverberated through the large cave. The rebels had been expecting company but not the smoke. Blinding contents were pumped from the canisters while the fans blasted it into their faces. Once again the rebels fired indiscriminately. Rounds slashed the ground, walls, ceiling and timber crates.

The smoke cover enabled the group to crawl to within twenty metres. With the rebels in a state of chaos they easily picked off the remaining resistance.

“Wade, I’ve got a problem,” came Shimon’s voice above the gunfire. “There’s about ten of them. They have me pinned. They came out somewhere to the west of you so I’m guessing a rear entrance.”

“On our way,” said Wade. “Nirit, Joe. Check out in here. Bazak, Kia let’s go.”

The trio, closely followed by Goboto, raced further into the cave picking off any last resistance. Behind the last crate a set of dirt stairs rose steeply. Taking two at a time they burst through the double corrugated doors, only to see the second Unimog smash through the trees and out on to the track.

After clearing the surroundings and reunited with Shimon they returned back into the cave.

“Wade you might want to get down here,” apprehensively said Plant. “We’re behind the second last crate.”

Nirit had activated a glow stick. Wade and the others entered the small igloo style secondary cave. The stench of human body parts was overpowering. Wade bent over and grabbed his knees as he looked around.

Bassa, Morrie and Throb lay slumped over on the left side with their throats slit. Stewie was seated against the far wall blinded with his face unrecognisable from grenade shrapnel. Chrissie lay across his arms, with the front of her body and clothes burnt, shaking violently. Colonel Wine was spread-eagled on the mud floor burnt the same as Chrissie. Jacko and Bart were lying in the fetal position off to the right. Both severely beaten, eyes swollen shut, whip marks and dehydrated.

Calling on his spirits Wade kept looking as he asked for guidance. Martha, his mother and Camira, his sister, who had both been murdered in a car bomb explosion, told him to remain focused on his beliefs and remember his training. Listening to their voices, in his head, gave him renewed strength.

“Come on, let’s get them out of here and back to that hospital where Sammy and I were taken,” he ordered.

After rapidly burying the three bodies, in a shallow grave, and discovering a military transport truck, the rebels had hidden, they readied the injured, set explosives to destroy the cave, and all its contents, and departed. Two kilometres down the partially formed track the explosion rumbled through the jungle.

Plant had been driving as carefully as possible trying to limit the impact on the injured when he turned along the rivers edge. Shimon had loaded the Browning M2 .50 calibre, truck mounted, belt fed, machine gun aware the river was the most likely detection point.

The Viper pilots had met no resistance on all thirteen of their previous sorties so they blindly fired Hellfire air-to-surface missiles along either side of the river. They had no chance of evasion as Shimon’s rounds slashed across the rear of the helicopter, destroying the motor and exploding the fuel tank. Only able to get off a mayday call the explosion obliterated everything. The fragments splashed into the river.

The truck passed around Kailahun and crossed the deserted bridge in to Guinea. Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the hospital.

Doctor Prue watched the nurses and Nenwon help the injured from the bullet ridden truck.

“Is that not a rebel truck?” she asked the approaching Wade.

“Could be,” he answered.

“Well, if they find it here they will punish us.”

“True. But if you worry about our friends, I’ll ensure you have no trouble from the rebels.”

“Right,” replied Prue turning in disgust.

20.

“Admiral, CAG’s on the blower,” said his aide as Admiral Plower picked up the handset.

“Hi Alec,” said Plower.

“Afternoon Admiral. Sir, we have just received confirmation that Viper VH-161 has been shot down over the Moa River on the Sierra Leone side of the border,” said Captain Tanner.

“How and when.”

“Radio comms indicate approximately ten minutes ago. We don’t know how as the voice recording was only a mayday then dead. We have a squadron on route ETA fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks CAG. Keep me posted,” replied Plower leaning back in his chair watching the female seaman approach.

“Admiral new target coordinates have arrived from AFRICOM,” said the aide handing across the typed message.

Glancing at the short note, he looked across to his chief advisor.

“Scotty this is Guinea, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“We don’t have any beef with Guinea do we?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”

“This is getting more ridiculous by the moment,” he mumbled to himself. “Can you pass this on to Brookes and Tanner for immediate action and get AFRICOM on the phone.”

21.

The Medecins Sans Frontieres field hospital was a large marquee with various smaller tents attached. Able to provide a makeshift operating theatre, the remaining area was occupied with fold out stretcher beds.

With Kia standing beside him Wade looked down the eighty metre length of tent. Bed after bed lay men, women and children with limbs missing, lacerations, severe infections, broken bones, gunshots, shrapnel wounds, malaria, dysentery and any other infliction possible from a war ravaged, poverty ridden environment.

The flies were as thick as fog buzzing around the mosquito net covered beds. The faces showed all the signs of those who had given up the will to live. A naked anaemic three year old sat on the dirt floor beside a bed, with flies swarming over his face, as his mother lay motionless. A victim of rebel torture they had cut off both her breasts and left her to bleed to death. Rescued by a passing MSF worker she now fought to live as the intravenous blood drip provided the life giving substance.

Plant approached. “How are they?” he asked.

Kia and Wade looked at each other as Kia slowly grabbed Wade’s hand. “Chrissie died on the operating table,” she softly said. “Bart is in there now.”

“I’m sorry guys … I’m truly sorry,” replied Plant dropping his head and knowing no words were ever going to help the situation. Stumbling to speak. “If there is anything …”

“Thanks Joe … you did everything you could,” said Wade cutting him off and walking away.

Kia wanted to hug Plant for his caring, considerate demeanour and kind words but she noticed the doctor approach.

“I’m sorry but your friend died of complications whilst in the operating room,” said the young female doctor dressed in her red and white MSF tee shirt. “Doctor Prue can give you a more detailed explanation. She will be out in about fifteen minutes. Once again I’m sorry.”

Looking across to Plant, Kia spoke. “This will hurt him. This will really hurt him.”

“I know.”

22.

“Rocky 1 to Avenger, over,” came the request from the F18 Super Hornet pilot as he flew over the target at five thousand feet.

“Avenger copy, over,” came the reply from the USS George H W Bush.

“Avenger are you sure of the co-ords? It looks like an MSF field hospital from up here.”

“One moment, Rocky 1,” came the reply.

The request for confirmation raced through command on the carrier.

“Sir, we have just received confirmation of a target from one of our Hornet pilots. The request raced through to AFRICOM who have confirmed the co-ords are correct. The problem is that the target is a MSF field hospital,” said Plower’s assistant.

“Scotty are you serious?” asked Plower.

“Yes sir and AFRICOM have ordered immediate execution of the order.”

“My god.”

“Admiral I have CAG, the CO and the pilot on the line now. Go ahead sir,” said the flight deck radio controller.

“Who have I got?” asked Plower.

“Admiral, Lieutenant Torren sir. I have a visual on the target and I can confirm it is an MSF field hospital. Do I release my load? Over.”

“Sorry to interrupt Admiral but we have just received another command from AFRICOM asking us to explain why the order has not been executed,” said CAG.

“Gentlemen I can only think there must be a legitimate reason for this so go ahead and god bless,” ordered Plower.

“Rocky 1 confirmed target co-ordinates, out.”

23.

“Down, down,” screamed Nirit. The F18 screamed towards them like an oversized, out of control, wasp. At attack speed the low flying beast had gone from visual to beyond sight, in seconds.

The team dived for cover waiting for the aftershock. They had not expected the JDAM laser guided bombs that exploded along the rivers edge, fifty metres from the tents. The noise was deafening. The tents, ground and vehicles were shattered. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Hospital equipment was destroyed. Beds upended. Dust mushroomed blanketing the sky.

Wade and the team had been nursing Wine and Jacko in the abandoned mud hut, that had now collapsed, three hundred metres from the hospital. They watched for the jets return. None forthcoming, they raced to the hospitals aid.

Mangled and dismembered bodies littered in every direction. Bandages, wrappings, tent fragments swirled and drifted back to earth under the weight of settling dust. Like sniffer dogs, on a scent, they charged through the debris checking for any form of life. Reaching the furthest end, Wade saw Prue and Nenwon stagger and stumble out of her customised office, and treatment room, built into one of the shipping containers. They were suffering the effects of sonic burst concussion. Grabbing her arm, he watched as her eyes rolled about in their sockets. Her head lolled rocking from side to side. Swaying as the brain tried desperately to find equilibrium. Wade had seen the effects many times and knew the only recourse was sitting and rest.

Ten minutes of searching; Prue, Nenwon and a nurse were the only surviving MSF staff and a Sierra Leone woman and her baby were the only surviving patients.

Stewie had died from shrapnel and the bomb blast.

“Okay doc. I don’t know what’s going on with the Americans and all this bombing but we need to get out of here and now,” ordered Wade.

Bazak had returned with the rebel’s truck. Prue and Nenwon had grabbed their medical bags and were helping the young woman and her baby get comfortable. Plant had scrounged some food and water. Nirit and Shimon had readied the weapons and prepared all their gear. Kia helped the suffering Colonel into the front seat while Wade hastily buried his friend, the fourth one for that day, in a shallow grave.

The truck raced from the destroyed facility, across the border bridge into Sierra Leone, through Kailahun and Koidu on to Makeni. Twenty kilometres west of Masingbi the truck had crested a small hill in a dense forested area when Wade spotted the missile launch. Lunging across Wine and Bazak he heaved the steering wheel and sent the truck crashing into the trees and thick undergrowth. The fire-and-forget missile whistled past shattering the trees immediately to their rear.

“Shimon, Viper ten o’clock,” yelled Wade.

“Got it,” he yelled. Instinctively Shimon, already strapped into the rear webbing, spun the Browning and opened fire.

The Viper pilot had known he had missed but had thought the truck was now crashed and disabled. Rising above the trees, and at such a close range, the .50 calibre rounds tore through the glass killing both pilots instantly. The subsequent explosion gave no time for the on board computers to activate a distress call and the chopper appeared, as a vanishing blip, to the tracking staff aboard the USS George H W Bush.

Everybody helped to get the truck back on the road while Wade spoke with Wine.

“How’re you feeling?”

“I think I’m near the end, my boy,” he whispered unable to lift his head.

“Bullshit,” replied Wade unable to contemplate the thought of loosing his friend twice in two days. “We’ll have you back in Hereford, drinking pints, before you know it.”

“We will Colonel,” said Kia who had stepped up behind Wade and placed her hand on his shoulder.

Wade felt the tingles run up his back. The mixed emotion of possibly loosing his father like figure and the person he had spent more time in combat with than any other, offering her support.

“Get some rest,” said Wade as they stepped away.

“What do you think is going on here?” asked Kia.

“I don’t know but I do feel we’re being tracked. Is there any way you guys could have been compromised before you arrived?”

“Impossible. Everything was either Mossad or with us at all times.”

Rubbing his head Wade watched as the group readied the truck.

“Give Meshulam a call. He might be able to fill in some blanks,” said Wade.

They had been travelling for ten minutes when Hammerstein called.

He had seen the Viper attack, on satellite, and had preempted Kia’s call. His fingers danced across the keyboard as his computer desperately tried to keep ahead of the US Department of Defence hacker firewalls.

“Hello Kia. I know why you have called and it appears somebody travelling with you is carrying a tracking device. Knowing how the DoD and the CIA operate I would have at a guess that it is very small. Probably half the size of your smallest fingernail and transparent. It will most likely be able to transmit for up to two months.” Pause. “A small trick that might help?”

“Sure. What is it?” she quizzed.

“If any of you have tick repellant and pour it over a suspected area, the repellant will bubble like acid on metal.”

“Thanks Meshulam, you are a darling,” replied Kia disconnecting the encrypted Sat phone.

After explaining to Wade they all agreed to separate into males and females and thoroughly search each other.

They removed clothing, equipment, gear and frantically searched for the needle in a haystack.

Weapons were completely dismantled. Clothing was searched, squeezed, rubbed. Seams squashed together. Bags turned inside out. Everybody took turns in searching each other. Tick repellant was used sparingly.

They had been at it for fifteen minutes and Wade was becoming increasingly concerned at the possibility of further attacks or a search and rescue party for the downed Viper.

They had driven eight kilometres down a jungle track, away from the main road, but with transmission emanating Wade knew each minute was another minute closer to detection.

“Wade,” coughed Wine, wincing at the pain across his burnt chest.

With his head near the Colonel’s face Wine explained that the CIA were sometimes known for planting tracking devices in the toe of boots.

Further searching and the small mobile phone SIM card size device was detected, with the aid of tick repellant, in the toe of Plant’s boot.

“Joe do you remember when or where you got these boots?” asked Wade as he smashed the wafer thin transmitter and dropped it in water.

“I do actually. I was summoned by Director Mackinnon to give a briefing of affairs prior to my departure to Israel. The meeting was held in the CIA London office and I remember just as I was leaving an aide of Mackinnon’s gave me boots, a mobile phone and a belt.”

With the group dressing and gathering up their gear Wade asked the obvious question.

“Boots, phone and belt? Didn’t that seem odd to you?”

“Not really,” said Plant slightly taken back by Wade’s tone. “We’re given some unusual things at times. So I wasn’t surprised.”

“Do you still have the phone and belt?”

“Sure,” he answered. Pulling the belt through the loops of his pants and retrieving the phone from his pocket.

Wade plunged both items in the water and placed on a rock to weigh them down.

“Why would they be tracking Joe?” asked Kia more as a general group question.

“My guess would be in case we came across the President’s daughter,” said Wade.

With the mention of ‘President’s daughter’ Prue inadvertently raised her eyebrows but then quickly dropped her gaze. Hoping nobody had noticed.

Wade had caught the doctor’s reaction and stood studying her face. With nothing further forthcoming, he decided to file the thought.

24.

Sierra Leone is a poor third world country and Freetown, as the national capital and home to the country’s largest population, fiercely struggled for existence. Gangs and crime are rife with the law enforcement unable, or unwilling, to intervene.

Diamonds, predominately called ‘blood diamonds’ due to the number of deaths inflicted whilst mining at the height of the country’s civil war, are Sierra Leone’s major export cash contributor. The gangs control the trade in diamonds and the largest and most feared is Marcus Riol and his band of rebels.

Inside his heavily fortified, three, ex WWII aircraft hangers, positioned along Cline Bay, adjacent to the Kissy Ferry Terminal, he was tapping away on his laptop. He didn’t hear his second in command approach.

“Marcus,” nervously asked the 2IC.

Looking up as he continued to type.

“We have just got word there has been a reward posted for finding the US President’s daughter and they believe she is either here or in Guinea.”

Staring at his lieutenant he finally spoke. “Do we have a photo of her?”

“Yes sir but it is six years old,” he replied handing it across the table.

The long blonde hair and pale skin made Riol realise that in a country of dark skinned people the girl should be easy to find.

“Interesting.”

After studying the photo for sixty seconds he continued.

“How much is the reward?”

“We are unsure. It appears to be between one and ten million US dollars.”

“Get the word out. Everybody will help find her. Those not helping will die and so will their families. Whoever brings her to me will be well rewarded … Go,” he ordered returning to his laptop.

Days went by and Riol’s command had reached all corners of Sierra Leone. Locals were more scared than normal as gangs stormed houses, buildings, camps; smashing rooms and walls believing the locals were trying to hide the US President’s daughter.

Report after report came back to Riol of locals that recognised the photo. Prue, not wanting to be recognised, had kept moving from field hospital to field hospital. All the locations of suspected sightings were stormed by Riol’s men and burnt to the ground. Becoming increasingly frustrated Riol personally joined many of the gang attacks.

Foreigners were attacked, searched, beaten as the gangs sought information. International spy agencies were reporting that the reward had driven the country to a point of anarchy. Police, local officials, politicians and even the army had been caught up in the frenzy.

25.

Dwight Cobart looked around the small, quaint office nestled above the high-end ladies’ fashion store. As the son of one of America’s richest men he had known wealth and extravagance his entire life. He would never had expected that one of Germany’s richest men would have such an insignificant barren office.

He sat in one of the two, uncushioned, black forest hardwood, chairs facing across the standard sized clerical desk. A laptop sat closed and an ink pen, with unusual fine carvings, was protruding from an inkwell. The remaining desk was empty. No pens, no paper, no phone.

The four metre by four metre room was painted a dull mauve and small pictures adorned the walls. They depicted and were concatenate of religious history and associated events.

The small colonial window looked down on the chic shopping village mall of Ingolstadt, Bavaria. Cobart had stood and was watching the privileged and wealthy as they entered and exited the various retail outlets with their large fashion house labeled bags.

“Dwight. It is good to see you,” boomed Claude Jaeger, in his broken English, as he burst through the door, frightening Cobart out of his wits.

“Claude,” he replied, turning trying to appear calm while he watched the rotund man crash down, behind his desk, on his chair.

Claude Jaeger, early seventies, smoking a cigar, gasping for breath. Two failed marriages, no children. A descendant of the Porsche family and a major shareholder of the Volkswagen and Audi Group.

Upon hearing of the prototype Jaeger had approached Fundco with an offer to purchase. Senator Cobart point blankly refused. Jaeger then devised a plan to blackmail the Cobart’s into freely handing it over.

Dwight Cobart had not been aware of anything out of the ordinary when he met the gorgeous, olive skinned, brunette in the low cut gown at the swanky upmarket Washington DC fundraising party. Immediately attracted to her flirtatious actions, the not so attractive Cobart, finished the night at her apartment.

Two days later an envelope arrived on his desk with photos of he and the woman in explicit sexual positions. Also in the envelope was an additional photo of the woman standing beside her Russian husband, Viktor Spanov, who Cobart instantly recognised as a known Brigadier, of the Russian Mafia and a truly vicious man. Perplexed as to why she would have seduced him he hid the envelope.

A further two days passed when a registered mail envelope arrived at reception with a return address of Bavaria, Germany. Inside was a short message ‘Ingolstadt, Munich. 10am. Two days from now or VS is shown the photos. Claude.’

“Well, well, well. Haven’t you been a naughty little boy,” said Jaeger.

Cobart trying to muscle up some courage replied, “Claude what is the meaning of all this and what’s with that message I received? I’ll have you know we Cobart’s don’t take kindly to threats.”

“Dwight Cobart … you are a fool. Do you not realise that I now have you in the palm of my hand? You want to fool around with another man’s wife well then expect to pay the price. I’m not here to make threats. I’m here to give you an ultimatum. Either you hand over the prototype, which I might add I am still willing to pay a very significant price for or I send the photos to the press and our friend Viktor.” Laughing with his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “And we would hate to think what he could do … wouldn’t we.”

Cobart dropped his head into his hands.

“You have until tomorrow morning. There is a room next door where you will stay. Food will be brought up. Don’t get any ideas of leaving as my men are everywhere and will be watching you.”

“You can’t do this,” mumbled Cobart. “This is kidnapping and blackmail.”

Jaeger struggled out of his chair and departed. Continually laughing to himself.

Cobart sat for twenty minutes, feeling sorry for himself, questioning his stupidity and trying to decide what to do. With no one else to turn to he used his mobile phone and called his friend Marcus Riol.

He explained his predicament. The woman, Viktor Spanov, Jaeger, the prototype and how it was hidden in a safe deposit box in Geneva.

Jaeger had predicted the weak, scared Cobart’s action and had the room wired. Hearing of the prototypes location he knew he had to keep Cobart alive. At least in the short term.

Jaeger had been a silent major shareholder of Heckler and Koch when the company was sold to British Aerospace. Now in partnership with a powerful Arab family, who coincidentally, are Spanov’s most hated enemy; he was attempting to regain ownership by convincing his fellow board members of a new revolutionary weapon that would send profits through the roof.

It was his association with the Arab family, Joseph and Peal Samal that had brought Spanov’s wife and he together. Her hatred toward her violent husband and her relationship with the Samal family had been all Jaeger needed to construct his plan.

26.

The President’s daily briefing had concluded and Markham had instructed his Chief of Staff to organise an Oval Office meeting to discuss the situation in Sierra Leone.

Markham sat in the Presidential lounge chair, with his back to the Resolute Desk. Bysmith sat to his right with Mackinnon to his left. Razen and Drybin sat across the coffee table.

Using the meeting as a cover for the ‘Group of Five’, as Mackinnon so aptly liked to call them, Markham looked around waiting for somebody to start.

“Field agents have reported a sighting of westerners, with what is believed to be a doctor, in a rebel’s truck southwest of Makeni. This is the same area where the tracking device we had in Plant’s boot stopped transmitting. We can only assume it was either discovered and destroyed or somehow became submerged under water. The direction they have taken, since crossing back into Sierra Leone, can only mean they are heading for Freetown,” said Mackinnon.

“What are the coordinates and time when the transmission stopped?” asked Razen.

Flicking through the reams of pages that made up his report the group sat in silence. Finally, Mackinnon located the page and read out the numbers.

Checking the information against his operational report sheets, Razen raised his head frowning.

“Well General, what seems to be the problem?” asked Markham.

“Mister President, this is the same time and same location where our second Viper went down.”

“Who is Plant supposedly with?” asked Bysmith.

“He’s attached to a UN goodwill team that originated in Switzerland and then went in through Guinea,” answered Mackinnon.

“Are you sure of that?” asked Razen questioningly.

“Of course I’m sure. I met him in London, personally, and we discussed how, what and when. We planted three tracking devices and everything has gone as planned. What exactly are you trying to say General?” said Mackinnon raising his voice.

Waiting for Mackinnon to calm down. Loosen his grip on the arms of his chair and take three or four breaths; the General replied.

“Don’t you find it slightly odd that we have never had a plane, helicopter, drone or any vehicle of flight lost since we have been in West Africa, except the helicopter ‘we’ ordered shot down or accidents of our own doing. Then, within two days, two of the most proficient and deadly attack helicopters ever built are shot out of the sky and coincidently your guy just happens to be at both locations. On top of which we know Ross is running around somewhere down there. Answer me that?” boomed the large husky voice.

Pausing, Mackinnon slowly and individually looked around the group as all eyes focused on his response.

“General, I don’t have an answer but it confirms my suspicions we need to get boots on the ground and take out whoever is responsible. Speaking of which; why can’t we get eyes in the sky as well?”

“We can,” replied Razen moving forward in his seat and eyeballing the CIA chief he had always distrusted. “But we need to have some idea where we are looking. We can’t just send up drones, satellites, Hawkeyes, various helicopters and hope for the best. There are large areas to cover, some of the thickest jungle on earth, a virtual civil war going on and we have to consider the political implications of criss crossing a foreign country.”

“All right gentlemen,” said Markham raising his hand. “Let’s all calm down and focus on a plan.”

The room was in silence as Razen glared at Mackinnon.

“Mister President. Taking on board General Razen and Director Mackinnon’s comments I suggest we send in a Black Ops team and have them ready to intercept Plant, and whomever he’s with, before they reach Freetown. Now we know where they’re heading we can also get some aerial surveillance,” said Drybin.

“Sounds good to me,” said Markham raising his eyebrows. “General?”

“Yes sir,” said Razen tapping away on his laptop. “I can have a SEAL team on the carrier in,” pausing as he waited for the computer to calculate, “Um … seven hours. Then on the ground two hours later. AFRICOM could have eyes in the sky from Makeni to Freetown in less than two hours.”

“Excellent. So we all agree?” asked Markham looking around the nodding heads. “General, make it happen.”

27.

The trip had been slow as the bullet ridden truck crept and bounced along the dirt road that paralleled the freshly laid two lane bitumen road serving as the main thoroughfare through Masiaka.

The sun was in its last rays. The afternoon storms had been and gone. Humidity was oppressive. The road was a quagmire. Barefooted mothers, with babies on their hips, stood outside their single story, two room, gable roofed, low cost government houses waiting for the darkness and cool of the night.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” ordered Wade not looking at Bazak.

With the majority of the others either lying on the checker plate steel floor in the rear of the truck or having slid down their seats; Shimon seated beside the gun was the only other visible face.

They entered the poor, typical African town. The torn canopy flapped; hiding Kia, Nirit and Joe.

The truck passed the various shops, houses and buildings that served as makeshift offices, trading depots, aide facilities and hidden rebel strongholds. Grasses and weeds, standing higher than a man, fought for sunlight between the buildings. Empty cans, rubbish, tattered clothing and old tyres lay scattered.

Both sides of the road were lined with vehicles all in dire need of repair. Some stacked high with boxes, bags and bundles of food. Others bearing the hallmarks of shootouts.

Children mindlessly kicked deflated balls, hit sticks against whatever they could find and chased each other.

No one took any notice of the rebel truck.

Nearing the end of the buildings they passed a single story shack that had one door and a single barred window. Alcohol and money were being traded. Four white bodied, vacant, Toyota utes stood scattered across the front. As they passed Wade caught the flicker of a camera lens.

“Did you get that?” he asked not turning.

“Yes. Two males. One a national, the other white Caucasian. Camera still filming,” replied Bazak watching in his filthy rear view mirror.

Quickly scanning his maps Wade said, “Okay next right and then left, at the ‘T’ intersection. We’re heading for Port Loko. Nirit, Shimon, Kia we need to ditch this truck, ASAP. So be ready.”

After sliding around the right hand bend, the rear tarp was ripped off. Shimon stood manning the gun. Having left the main road and the blanket of darkness now over them, the only light was the two dull headlights of the truck.

Six kilometres from Masiaka with the truck sliding into the worn mud tracks they crested the hill. Thick jungle growth enveloped both sides. Wade saw the lights at the bottom of the gully.

“Nirit, Shimon with me. Grab your gear. Bazak, three kilometres and wait. Give us twenty,” ordered Wade. The three operatives grabbed their rifles, stood on the trucks edge and waited for Wade’s signal.

One hundred and fifty metres from the first hut, with the truck relentlessly bouncing, they dove and parachute rolled into the wet, prickly undergrowth. Having practiced and executed the manoeuvre hundreds of times they were on their feet charging through the dense vine strangled trees using the noise of the truck as cover.

Forty metres from the two small huts the trees stopped and a rough attempt at a clearing appeared. Large trunked, two hundred feet African teak trees towered over the makeshift huts. Slashed and cut smaller trees lay covered in new growth vines. Signalling Wade instructed them to cover their hands and face in the thick jungle mud and listen out for dogs.

Like snakes they slithered under the vines, around the trees and behind the corrugated protected earth built hut. Smoke poured from the low level, leaning chimney. The two men working the smoke house seemed oblivious to the intoxicating smoke and stench. Wade and Shimon crept across the saturated dirt floor, clamped their hands around the men’s necks and applied pressure point knockouts.

Meanwhile Nirit had checked and cleared the other hut that served as their home. Tying and gagging the unconscious men they removed any form of communication and stole their beat up seven seater Mazda van.

Further along the road, in a deep wide washout, the group transferred across to the new mode of transport while Bazak crashed the truck into the jungle undergrowth and rigged a tripwire explosive to the vehicles undercarriage.

With the Colonel lying across the rear seat Prue and Nenwon struggled to control his pain. Having grabbed her emergency bag, as they fled the bombed out hospital, her supplies were rapidly depleting. The suspension of the small wheel based vehicle was completely destroyed, with every small bump feeling like a crater.

“How much further?” yelled Prue trying to stem the opening wounds. “If we keep this up he’ll die.”

“We should be at the river in about five minutes,” said Wade from the front seat, checking his map and turning as another scream of pain tore through the vehicle.

“Why can’t you sedate him?” questioned Wade.

“I can,” she screamed back over the rattle of the vehicle. “But his response to pain is our only way of knowing when something has happened with his burns. If he’s sedated, he could die and we would have had no idea.”

Wade looked out the window as the Rokel River came into view. The waters were a torrent swishing and swirling like a mad washing machine. The rickety single lane timber bridge looked incapable of carrying a man’s weight let alone a fully laden van. Nirit had leapt from the slowing vehicle and cautiously crossed from one side to the other. Checking for weak points or broken timbers she eventually signalled everything seemed okay. The unlit rattle trap slowly edged across as Wade, Kia and Bazak followed. Halfway across the momentum of the vehicles movement started the bridge to sway. Shimon slowed as much as possible but he knew he couldn’t stop or he would loose traction. The swaying slowly abated. Everybody breathed a sigh of relief and the slow journey continued.

Reaching the far side, the van dropped off the bridges timber supports and sloshed into the mud. Realising he needed traction to climb the mud covered incline Shimon floored the accelerator and slipped and spun as he raced up the hill.

Noise of the acceleration woke the two teenagers who were on guard duty. The thirteen year old, and smaller of the two, swung his rifle and blindly fired across the bridge. The trio had reached Nirit and all four dived for the mud and protection of the overhanging thick undergrowth. The teenagers swung their rifles, on fully automatic, from side to side into the darkness as they emptied the magazines.

With the click of the bolts, and having determined the location, the team opened fire in covering arcs. After each firing four three round bursts, they spread out and skirted their attackers.

The four hardened soldiers let the rifles swing in their hands at the sight of the two small boys splattered across the tree stump they had been sleeping against. The silence was deafening. Wade turned and walked. The others followed single file.

Opening the van doors Wade nodded for Shimon to go.

“What happened?” asked Prue.

Looking around at the four head dropped, slouched, battle covered operatives, she asked again. “Tell me. What happened?”

“They were boys … two young boys who had a lifetime ahead them,” whispered Kia pausing. “And we shot them.”

The rest of the trip was in silence. The roads had improved and thus slightly more comfortable.

0500 the van entered the shed that acted as a departure terminal for the unmarked and unlisted flights from Port Loko to Conakry, capital of Guinea. The ten seat freight and passenger plane had its propellers turning. Wade and the team helped get Wine secured in the makeshift flight stretcher. Kia explained to Plant, Nirit and Bazak the flight route. Prue, Nenwon, the nurse and the Sierra Leone woman and her baby; buckled in.

Wade watched as the Hammerstein organised, Mossad flight, lifted into the early morning sunrise and swung out to the northeast.

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” asked Wade to his buddy.

“No problem, mate,” replied Jacko trying to impersonate Australian slang.

Wade knew his friend had the intestinal fortitude as strong as any man he had ever met and therefore he would not do him the dishonour of questioning his resolve.

28.

0400 hours and the sun could not be seen across the billiard table flat South Atlantic Ocean. The twelve black clad, highly camouflaged figures dropped like spiders from a web as they rappelled from the two hovering helicopters on to the deck of the guided missile destroyer USS Truxton. Completely in sync with each other they gather their gear. Raced across the forward deck and into the forward observation room.

Commander Tony Simmond was on hand to welcome his important visitors and saluted as they raced past. Last man to arrive was their leader and the current Commanding Officer of SEAL Team 6, Joe Carr.

“Welcome aboard,” yelled Simmond over the noise of the departing helicopters. Having never worked with SEALs Simmond was slightly awestruck as he watched the US Navy’s most elite warriors enter his warship. “Let me know if there is anything me, or my crew, can do for you while you’re on board,” he said racing to catch up.

Junior officers and Seaman jostled to get a glimpse as the legendary warriors raced down the corridor.

“Shit they look mean. I’d hate to be on the wrong side of one of those guys,” said a young radio controller to no one in particular.

“Ain’t that the truth,” replied a young, off duty, kitchen hand, in his Chicago drawl. “I heard if you look at’em the wrong way, it’s all over bro.”

“Well I reckon it would be pretty sweet to get one of them in the sack,” said the smiling female munitions worker.

“All right. Shows over. Back to your stations,” ordered Simmond, following behind Carr.

Carr stepped through the door to the forward observation room, grabbed the handle and swung the door in front of Simmond’s face. Stopping short.

“Thanks for your help Commander. Has our gear been made ready?”

“Yes, it should all be in there,” he replied attempting to step through the door.

“What about the Zodiac’s?” asked Carr blocking his path and obstructing the view of his men.

“Both ready, fuelled and on the rear deck.”

“Good. We’ll take it from here. Can you have your ship drop back to eight knots in exactly twenty five minutes. Five minutes later you won’t see us again,” ordered Carr as he went to close the door. “One more thing Commander. I’d strongly suggest you keep your people, and their eyes, away from the rear deck.”

Carr shut the door and turned to face his men. Weapons were being cocked, checked and reloaded. Gear, supplies, water and ammunition were being checked and rechecked.

“Listen up,” ordered Carr. “Zodiac’s are on the stern. Billy can you check them out? We leave in twenty and we take everything. I want no evidence we were ever here.”

He gave the beach coordinates, infiltration technique, location of the ambush and the intended evacuation.

Pausing he scanned each individual cam cream covered face. “Some of you have been with me for a long time and the news of our targets will probably surprise you.”

Stopping at Peter Barber, his second in command. “We’ve been ordered to take down Colonel Wine and Wade Ross.”

“Christ Skip,” replied the bewildered Barber. “That can’t be right … surely.”

Most of the remaining men in the room either knew or had heard of Wine and Wade. They shuffled their feet and fidgeted at the news.

“Why?” asked Barber.

“It appears they’ve gone rogue,” replied Carr struggling to believe the words he was saying.

“But Wade’s nearly one of us,” replied a section leader remembering the time he had served with Wade during Wade’s brief stint with the SEALs.

“If it’s true, and I’m really struggling to believe it is, how in god’s name do we expect to catch Wade off guard?” asked Barber.

“Just for the record. I agree with you Pete. But orders are orders. So we go into this operation fully aware of our responsibilities. If something changes along the way, I’ll make the decision at the time.”

Carr went on to describe the search for the President’s daughter and how if found she was to be unharmed and brought back with them. Everybody else was expendable and they were also expected to leave no trace of their visit.

A photo of a short, stumpy, blond was passed around.

29.

The first ferry of the morning was packed like sardines. Hordes of workers fought for their own piece of space as they endured the one and a half hour ride from Pepel to Freetown. Unrestrained four wheel drives and trucks strained against their brakes as the seas rocked and swayed. Wind and waves lashed against the bow and the unprotected travellers used anything they could find to protect themselves.

The ferry rose up on the swell and the passengers screamed as the most astern vehicle started to slide toward the bow door. Cresting the wave, the Landcruiser changed direction and smashed into the overladen truck that lay ahead. Men acted as a human chain, holding the vehicle against the truck. Others frantically roped them together.

Wade, Shimon and Jacko pulled the hoods of their oversized coats further down their face. The crowd, now in a frenzy of self preservation, jostled for safer positions. Dressed in war torn, dirt encrusted, typical rebels clothing the three men ensured their weapons remained hidden. Wade looked across and nodded to his two companions as the rain intensified. The storm had aided in their boarding and blending into the crowd. Passengers desperately struggled for a foothold. The combination of years of vehicle oil, the volume of rain and the ferry listing on the waves had the deck as slippery as ice.

Fifteen minutes, after the storm hit, the ferry approached the Freetown Kissy Ferry Terminal. The deck was covered in vomit. Passengers had cuts, scratches and bruises. The two deckhands crashed the bow door on to the pocked concrete boat ramp. The chaos of vehicles backing out and people slipping and sliding was the perfect cover for the trio to slip unnoticed, through the rain and behind the four abandoned rusty shipping containers that lined the entrance to the ramp.

Avoiding main thoroughfares, the trio raced along mud covered dirt roads. The rain, uncommon early in the morning, kept the locals inside. Pigs and dogs fought for food scrapes as the flowing waters washed the rubbish along. They had been following the beach, and avoiding built up areas, for nearly twenty minutes. The seaside slum area was the perfect location to obtain information. Wade and Shimon held back behind the barbed wire topped, precariously leaning stone wall.

Jacko approached the young, shirtless, barefoot, rebel tattooed boy sitting on the hessian bag of rotting wheat. The local currency slightly protruded between his fingers.

“Yo bro. Interested in providing some info?”

The boy stood, eyes transfixed on the money and nodded.

“Vulture’s hangout? Where?” asked Jacko.

At the mention of the rebel leaders name the boy’s eyes shot up to meet Jacko’s. “No go there. He not like visitors,” he stammered starting to tremble.

“It’s okay. I know him. Just don’t know where to find him.”

Nervously the boy described the three deserted British WWII hangars that abutted the ramp at the ferry terminal. Handing over the note Jacko never noticed the second youngster who had heard the entire conversation.

Turning back Wade motioned Jacko to keep walking. Shimon fell in beside him and quietly explained he was being followed.

A tall, gangly teenager sporting a dyed red bandanna moved from cover to cover. The blood covered singlet stuck to his body as the relentless rain continued. His head and eyes swivelled, like a hawk, searching for followers. Wade saw the broken handled knife protruding from his rear waistband. He noticed his hand movements which had the tell tale signs of signals.

Returning to the ferry terminal the two operatives ducked behind the four rusty containers. Jacko and Shimon ditched their coats, cocked their weapons and took up defensive positions covering each other. The teenager saw the two men disappear from sight. Instantly he dropped over the side of the boat ramp on to a pile of washed up rubbish. With his head still swivelling, like a clown in the sideshows, he removed his knife and waited. Four minutes later three more knife wielding, blood covered singlet teenagers, joined him. Handing out jungle weed the four chewed on the leaves, fidgeting, swaying, nervously shaking their hands, until the numbness kicked in. Now full of bravado they charged, screaming like Banshee Indians, across the ramp. None of the four boys stood a chance against the two highly trained Special Forces soldiers and their weapons.

Looking across to the four blood splattered, limp bodies, soaking in the rain; Wade lowered, and slightly shook his head, at the idiotic waste of life. Approaching his two companions. “I think they had some form of signalling, as we crossed through the slums, so we could have more company very soon,” he said.

The trio, weapons drawn, skirted the highly fortified complex. After circling a second time they again squatted behind the containers.

“What do you make of that?” asked Jacko. “More flaming guards than Fort Bragg and walls thicker than Fort Knox.”

30.

Carr and his SEALs had landed at Whale Bay and under the cover of darkness crossed through the Western Area National Bay. They set up their ambush on the new double lane concrete bridge that spanned the flood tributaries of Waterloo. With three hours until sunrise Carr posted men at either side of the bridge. Wired the bridge with explosives. Stationed a machine gun crew on the roof of a bombed out school. Ensured all areas of crossfire were covered and had a forward scout one kilometre up the road.

The early morning sun crested the hills off in the distance, which caused a rainbow effect through the continuing rain. Traffic had been light and the SEAL team was at full alert.

“Skip. You’ve got a beat up old bomb coming at you. Five young tangos, off their tree, waving AK47’s out the windows,” whispered the scout in to his helmet mounted microphone.

“Roger that, Billy. Okay. Keep your heads down. No movement,” ordered Carr.

The team watched as a speeding, bullet ridden, smoke bellowing Datsun raced across the bridge. Arriving at the far side the driver locked the brakes and the car slid sideways, aqua planning across the concrete into the opposite wall, blocking both lanes. Leaping out the occupants started firing in to the air.

“Hold you fire,” whispered Carr.

The barefooted teenagers slung the rifles over the shoulders and stood on the side of the bridge as they urinated. The older boy, who was also the driver, squinted as he looked in to the sun, out over the floodplains. Suddenly he unslung his rifle and yelled to the others.

“We go. We go,” he screamed racing for the driver’s door.

In a frenzy of wheel squealing and shouting the car raced toward Freetown.

“Do you think they were on to us, Skip?” asked Barber.

“Not sure but something definitely spooked them,” replied Carr.

“Skip. I think I know what it might have been,” said the machine gunner from his roof mounted lookout.

“Go ahead Massa.”

“If you look out behind you, across the floodplain, you’ll see our footprints in the mud. Pretty hard to miss.”

“Shit,” said Carr to himself. “Okay we can’t do anything about that so just remain focused.”

31.

Wade, Jacko and Shimon had conducted two further circuits of the compound. Still struggling to figure out how they would get inside. Suddenly the pair of sliding, razor wire topped gates opened.

Four ex Sierra Leone army trucks, fully loaded with screaming rebels and followed by a black Range Rover, with blackened windows, bull dozed into the rapidly increasing early morning traffic. Cars swerved, horns blared and vehicles collided with each other as the trucks made a passage. Any driver unwilling to move; the trucks would shove them in to the closest building. Any further attempts at restricting their path and a rain of bullets would bear down.

Convinced the Range Rover was the last vehicle the trio dived and rolled through the closing gates. The rifle round ricocheted off the ground. Shimon spun and expertly fired a direct hit double tap. The young boy closing the gate collapsed face first. Expecting further company, they darted for the first hangar. Backs to the wall they checked for surveillance cameras, observation posts or any form of early detection.

“Seems clear,” whispered Wade. “Jacko you take the back. We’ll give you two minutes. Then we go in.”

Nodding Jacko turned and swept along the rubbish riddled side of the building. With the gutters either rusted or gone the volume of roof water was akin to a waterfall. Jacko fought desperately to keep his footing on the mountain of rubbish while fully aware that Wade would be expecting him to come through the rear door in two minutes. Squinting and holding his head down, to avoid the torrent of water, he leapt the four rotting timber pallets. Not expecting the pallets to be serving as a dog kennel, he slid on the excrement and food scrape covered mud. Crashed to the ground, cracking his head on the top pallet, he landed face first. Two mange covered, open wound, sore infected dogs charged from their lair. The first latched on to his calf and the second to his hip. The dogs growled and hissed as they tried to tear chunks. Instinctively Jacko pushed his rifle in to the closer dog’s head and fired. The bullet disintegrated its brain and lodged in the neck of the second. With the dogs now off him he grabbed his knife and lunged it into the head of the second.

The pain was excruciating. He could feel the blood running down his leg. His left wrist throbbed from the fall. Still weak and not fully recovered from his earlier beating he stumbled and crashed against the walls. Rounding the rear of the building he heard the front doors flung open as Wade and Shimon charged in. Gasping for breath, sweating like a sauna, he tried to open the door. His left hand and arm were useless. His head started to spin. His eyes lost focus and he crashed down against the door.

Wade and Shimon had met no resistance. The internal of the first building was a large open concrete area covered in oil, grease and rain water. Rubbish, paper, broken beer bottles, empty ammunition shells and battered chairs were strewn about. The rusted corrugated walls precariously tried to resist gravity and the heavy rains as they tentatively hung on to the steel portal frame. No natural light entered and the few flickering lights, that worked, gave a surreal feel to the surroundings. Three more ex army trucks stood idly off to the right. Two smaller, open doors to the far left.

Skirting the trucks, they entered the offices. The first had an unmade stretcher bed to one side and a bar fridge acting as a bedside table. Otherwise empty. The second a fold up table with a laptop and printer. A small white plastic garden chair and a large woven basket, filled with A4 binders. Once again, otherwise empty.

“Where’s Jacko?” whispered Wade scanning the surroundings.

“I’ll check the rear,” replied Shimon.

Wade opened the computer. Removed the USB stick. Scanned the files and uploaded to Kia. He was tearing out relevant pages, from the binders, when Shimon returned.

“I think we have a problem. Jacko’s in trouble.”

Shimon had dragged the unconscious Jacko inside, removed his equipment and gear and applied a makeshift tourniquet to his leg. He had ripped Jacko’s shirt open and covered the hip wound with the bandage.

“Jacko, what happened?” asked Wade, bending over and slapping his face. He watched as froth started to trickle from his mouth.

Blood covered the floor as the bandages struggled to slow the ever increasing flow of blood. Shimon had both hands, and the remainder of the shirt, pushed hard on the hip wound but the blood was like an erupting crater.

“I think he has been bitten, by a dog or something.”

“A dog? Why would that make him froth and convulse like that?” asked a bewildered Wade, still trying to revive his mate. “Jacko … Jacko,” he yelled.

The blood had soaked through the water logged shirt as Jacko’s head fell back. Wade felt for a pulse.

“No, no, no,” he said to himself, closing his eyes and searching for help from the elders of the Dreaming. “No more, please. No more,” he whispered questioning why he was loosing all those close to him.

“Come on Wade, we need to get out of here,” said Shimon grabbing him under the bicep.

“He’s coming with us,” said Wade standing and lifting his mate on to his shoulder in a fireman carry. Shimon grabbed all their gear.

He could feel the warmth of his dead buddy’s body against his neck and shoulder as he trudged along. His head throbbed like a relentless bass drum and was reverberating inside. Jacko’s body weight felt like a feather but his own legs and arms felt like lead. Struggling to stay balanced he continued.

The two men found one of the trucks loaded with explosives.

The second and third hangars were packed with trucks, cars, two boats, a bullet ridden helicopter and piles of military ration packs. A large store was crammed with assorted rifles, pistols, rocket launchers, SAM’s and three metre high stacks of ammunition. Fifteen minutes later two further guards had been accounted for and all three buildings were wired as they sped through the gate.

The billowing clouds of exhaust smoke and the gun riddle bodywork did not look out of place. Shimon expertly avoided contact, with vehicles and pedestrians, weaving the small Toyota sedan through the rain drenched morning market.

Without looking back Wade pushed the remote detonation button.

32.

“Skip we’ve got company. Five M35’s packed with tangos waving AK’s everywhere. A black Range Rover following. They’re coming from Freetown and should be on you in sixty seconds,” said Massa.

“Razor this is Paperweight. We have a large force, heavily armed, unknown targets, possibly rebels about to contact. Do we have permission to engage? Over.”

“Negative that Paperweight. You are not to engage unless fired upon and then only in self defence. You are to remain focused on your target. Over,” came the reply from Carr’s radio.

“Roger that Razor but we’re talking about a heavily armed force approaching one hundred. Over.”

“I repeat Paperweight. You are not to engage unless fired upon. Do you copy?”

“Roger that. Paperweight out,” replied the frustrated Carr.

“Listen up. We don’t engage unless they open up on us first. Am I clear?” said Carr into his throat microphone, swivelling his head to ensure his men had received and understood his command.

The five trucks were slowing as the undisciplined rebels leapt from the rear and started blindly shooting into the trees. Carr and his men had received all the intention they needed to open fire. The 5.56 SCAR-L and 7.62 SCAR-H rifles easily pinpointed their targets. Rebels fell like ten pins. With rounds coming in from both sides the ambush was quick and brutal.

“Back up, back up,” screamed Riol to his driver.

The rear end of the Range Rover spun around. The passenger side wheels left the ground. The occupants grabbed for a foothold. The wheels squealed as the rounds ricocheted off the concrete.

“Go, go,” yelled Riol. “Get us out of here. We’re sitting ducks.”

The vehicle violently shook as the SCAR round found its target in the rear wheel. The driver fought hard to keep the steering wheel straight. With his foot flat to the floor the rubber started to peel away.

“Massa, can you get him?” yelled Carr over the cacophony of gunfire, vehicles and screams.

“On it skip,” replied the machine gunner who had already unleashed his deadly arc of fire.

The rounds tore through the thin skinned vehicle. Windows shattered. Seats and paneling disintegrated. The two rebels seated in the rear seats both died in a hail of bullets.

The vehicle was like a cork in the ocean as it rocked and rolled, tearing along the highway.

“Skip, I lost it. It’s out of range,” said Massa.

“Roger. Alright, let’s go. Back to the RV. Double time,” ordered Carr.

33.

Riol, his 2IC and the driver had ditched the Range Rover and hijacked a Ford Transit van from two unsuspecting Swedish tourists. The crowd was huge and growing as the driver tried to force his way through.

“What has happened?” asked the driver to the policeman as he wound down the window.

“An explosion at Kissy Ferry Terminal. The ramp, a ferry and all the surrounding buildings gone. You won’t be able to get through so you might as well back up,” he replied turning his attention to further vehicles approaching.

“Get Tejan or Bai on the phone,” ordered Riol to his 2IC.

After numerous tries. “No answer. All the phones are dead.”

“Come. We will walk,” said Riol.

News of Riol coming through the streets spread like wild fire. Crowds parted like the ocean before Moses. People dropped their heads for fear of retribution.

Three streets from the terminal and signs of the explosion were already evident. Windows blown out. People lying injured on the ground. Ambulances and aid workers jostling with onlookers. Rounding the large stonewall the scene was chaos. People screaming. All the buildings flattened. Bodies strewn everywhere. Food, rubbish, pieces of weapons, blown out vehicles were all being saturated in the ever increasing rain storm.

Furious with rage Riol kicked at dead bodies. Swung his machete and screamed as the crowd pushed back further to escape his arc of terror.

His mobile phone vibrated in his hip pocket. He squinted at the small, wet screen with the international number. With the phone pressed hard against his ear he answered.

“Uncle it is me, Nenwon,” came the whispered voice.

34.

“Come in Avenger, over,” said Wade into the blood soaked encrypted Satnav phone.

“Avenger, over.”

“Wade Ross for Admiral Plower, over.”

Wade looked into the back seat at the mutilated body of his friend. He reached across and lifted Jacko’s head off the floor. He knew the dead deserved respect as much as the living.

“Go ahead Admiral,” came the voice of the female comms controller.

“Wade are you okay? Where are you? We’ll come and get you?”

“I’m fine thanks Admiral. We’re in a cove four klicks south of Tokeh resort. There are two of us and a body.”

“Roger that. Will you be okay until nightfall and I’ll send in an IRB team?”

“Yeah we’ll be fine until then.”

“One other thing. I believe we have a friend of yours on board. Joe Carr has paid us a surprise visit.”

Pausing for a moment Wade tried to decipher why a SEAL team would be needed at this time and in Sierra Leone.

“That’s great. What are they up to?” asked Wade trying not to sound to inquisitive.

“They have just returned from a mission in Freetown. I imagine they should still be here by the time you arrive. Anyway I’ll have the team on the beach at 0100.”

“Thanks Admiral. Out,” replied Wade still pondering why the US Navy’s most elite Special Forces squad had been flown half way across the world, to a desperate third World country that had no apparent conflict with the US.

The rain had been relentless all day. Wade and Shimon ditched the vehicle and carried Jacko’s body, now in the early stages of rigor mortis. Finding cover in the dense jungle, that abutted the white sandy beach, they set up for the ten hour wait.

Carr knocked on the door to the Admiral’s private quarters and waited for the enter command. He entered and saluted.

“Sir. Commander Joe Carr.”

“At ease Commander. Please take a seat,” gestured Plower. “It’s a pleasure to have you and your men aboard.”

“Thank you, sir. Just doing our job.”

“Something of interest for you. I believe you are a friend of Wade Ross. Correct?”

At the mention of Wade’s name Carr lifted his head and shifted back in his seat. Momentarily stunned he tried not to show any emotion as he replied, “Yes sir.”

“Well at this moment he is stuck on a beach, south of Freetown, not that far from your RV. I need somebody to go in and pick up him, another person and a body at 0100.”

“Sir,” stammered Carr. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Why?” questioned Plower surprised at the response from one of the US Navy’s most decorated servicemen.

“Sir,” he stammered again. “My orders were to come here and eliminate Wade and Colonel Wine.”

Plower pulled his head back, raised his eyebrows, sat with his mouth half open.

“Orders? To eliminate? From who?”

“OpNav, sir.”

“And what happened?” asked the Admiral bewildered with the whole story.

“They didn’t turn up and instead we were contacted by a large, heavily armed rebel group. Our ambush was very effective, with only one vehicle escaping, then we made our way back to the RV,” replied Carr trying to control his voice. “Sir, if I may speak freely.”

“Go ahead Commander. I definitely want you to speak freely.”

“Sir,” he stammered again. “I don’t believe I could take them out, the Colonel and Wade, if I met them,” he said stony faced with his eyes to the floor.

Standing the Admiral said, “Thanks Commander. That’s the best piece of information I’ve heard in this whole conversation.”

Carr raised his head with his eyes wide open and stood at attention before Plower.

“Let’s forget this conversation and the orders you’ve received. I want you to take a team and pick them up,” ordered the Admiral.

35.

“Okay and again,” ordered Kia.

The sweat rolled down their hard toned bodies as Nirit, Bazak, Kia and three further Mossad agents practiced Krav Maga. A fast, dangerous form of contact combat they traded blows. Knives swirled and slashed. Guns were pushed and shoved. Kicks and punches found their mark. Heads ducked. Bodies spun, rolled, jumped and crashed to the mats.

Ten minutes passed. The exhausted group dropped as Kia called, “Enough.”

Gasping for breath and gulping water Nirit looked across and said, “Kia this is ridiculous. We should be helping Wade. We should never have left him there. Instead we are stuck here in Tel Aviv. Absolutely pointless.”

“Nirit, calm down. I am just as frustrated as you but orders are orders … we both know what Wade’s capable of so we wait.”

Knowing the chain of command, and not wanting to show any disrespect, Nirit dropped her eyes and head.

The super fit agents had regained their composure and had taken up their fighting stance, when the doors of the training room burst open. A three man, heavily armed, black clad, security detail stepped into the room. With rifles and eyes in unison they scanned the room. Turned, nodded and stepped back outside.

The six Mossad agents sprung to attention and dropped their weapons as Director Harel entered.

“Please at ease,” ordered Harel eyeing his most highly trained operatives. “We have just received word that Wade and Shimon are holed up on the coast south of Freetown and should be picked up early tomorrow morning. Probably 0100 local time. They will be taken back to the US aircraft carrier George H.W Bush. Wade has a good relationship with the fleet Admiral and will most likely convince the Admiral to somehow get him back here. Our problem is Meshulam intercepted orders from US command to strategically bomb areas that were Wade’s last known locations. Therefore, we must assume there will be further attempts to take them out.”

“Do you want us to pick them up before the Americans?” asked Kia.

“Unfortunately we will not get there in time. Instead we have a trawler, disguised as a fishing boat, operating sixty five nautical miles due south of the fleet and I need you to get them off the carrier and on to the trawler. The trawler will then get them to ‘Rahav’ (an Israeli AIP Dolphin 2 class submarine) that is currently steaming down the west coast of Morocco … organise you gear. Your flight leaves in forty five minutes.”

Placing a file and a set of the carrier schematics on the side table he walked to the door, turned and said, “One last thing. There is a SEAL team currently on board the carrier … Mazel tov.”

A brilliant strategist Kia immediately began planning the operation. She read every page and studied every drawing, twice. Her notepad looked like hieroglyphics as she continued to write, read, draw and join lines.

“We will HALO in three thousand metres up wind of the carrier. That will let the carrier come to us. We need to be ten metres below the surface. So grab your Drager. That will help avoid detection from any submarines they have operating. Three groups of two. Each leader a mag grip and the number two a Jesus line.”

Glancing around and ensuring each member of the group was keeping up she continued.

“Caleb, Elam. You will be dropped adjacent the trawler with two underwater delivery vehicles. We will get the trawler to within twenty five nautical miles of the fleet. You will have twenty minutes start and you need to be centre of the fore deck at twenty five metres.”

Scribbling numbers, as the sweat dropped on the page, she quickly calculated. Without looking up, “You need to be in position by 0320.”

Still drawing lines and scribbling she continued.

“Bazak with me. Gideon you’re with Nirit. We go up port side at the second stabiliser and through the lower hangar observation deck … remember we only get one chance to latch on to the stabiliser,” said Kia as she glared into their eyes. “No mistakes.”

With everybody’s attention focused on the carrier’s layout.

“I would expect them to be in the visitor’s cabin of the officer’s quarters. I will mark the route, which you need to memorise on the flight. Twenty five minutes in and out. We go in black, silent and if spotted no witnesses. No friends. I want all our uniforms to be low rank general enlistment. As you heard there are SEALs aboard so expect the unexpected.”

All six hit their fists together, dropped their heads, turned and darted for their respective rooms.

Kia shouted over their shoulders, “Flight deck, twenty six minutes.”

Raising the handset, she punched in the director’s number.

“Sir, on a ship with five thousand people, that will be lit up like a Christmas tree, what do we do if we are spotted?”

“I had been thinking of that Kia and unfortunately I think we have no choice but to eliminate,” replied Harel.

“Yes sir, understood sir.”

36.

“Good morning Dwight,” bellowed Jaeger as he crashed through the door, followed by a stocky, suit and tie dressed, eastern European, sporting a military style haircut.

Cobart frightened and surprised, tried to rise from his chair, stumbled and crashed to the floor. Using the chair as leverage he lifted himself back up.

Stammering, he said, “Claude. Claude. You can’t do this to me. Don’t you realize what could happen to you?”

The chair shook and vibrated as Jaeger crashed his two hundred and seventy pound, extremely overweight body into the office chair.

“Dwight I will give you credit for bravado. Even at this point you make threats but unfortunately they are useless and fall on deaf ears,” whispered Jaeger.

Cobart tried to watch as the suit man walked behind him.

“Dwight. Stay focused. No more games. The prototype, where is it?” yelled Jaeger slamming his jelly like fist on the desk.

Cobart felt the cold sweat of fear as it trickled down his back. Not knowing what the man behind him was doing and too afraid to look, he stared down at his hands. Tears slowly formed as his hands started to shake.

“Dwight,” screamed Jaeger this time slapping the table openhanded.

Cobart bolted up in his chair. Tried to speak but his mouth felt as dry as chalk. His lips moved but no words came out. Tears flooded from both eyes, mucus from his nose.

“I … I … I haven’t got it,” he spluttered.

Slowly Jaeger leant forward and softly said, “I know you haven’t got it but where is it?”

“I … I … I’m not sure.”

“Wrong answer Dwight,” he said leaning back. “Let my friend, Anatoly, show you something and take very clear notice.”

Anatoly stepped around Cobart and placed a laptop on the table. Hitting the play button, he stared into Cobart’s eyes, smiled and stepped back.

The video showed his father, Senator Cobart, boarding his private jet. The jet taxing down the runway. The jet rising into the sky. The ensuing fireball. A news reporter explaining that all aboard were killed instantly and how the aviation investigation authorities believed they would never know what happened.

“Unfortunate about your father,” said Jaeger as he slowly shut the laptop. “We wouldn’t want that to happen to any other family members, would we?”

“You … you murdering bastard. You killed my father. You’ll pay for this,” spluttered Cobart as he went to stand. A vice like grip latched on to his shoulder and forced him down.

“There will be more,” came the strong Russian accent, “unless we see the prototype.”

“I think we might keep this,” said Anatoly reaching in Cobart’s pocket and taking his mobile phone.

Having gathered up his ink pen, laptop and standing at the door, Jaeger turned.

“Sorry Dwight, no more pleasantries. No meals. No phones. The glass is bullet proof and the room is sound proof. You have four hours.”

37.

The clouds arrived perfectly on cue. The beach was flooded in darkness. Wade heard the soft hum of the sound suppressed outboard motor long before the IRB bounced over the small one metre shore breaking waves. The five black clad figures appeared to skim across the water as they leapt from the fast moving inflatable craft and formed a protective shield up the beach.

Wade, carrying Jacko’s now stiff body, and Shimon stepped from behind the protection of the thick jungle that had grown to within fifteen metres of the waters edge. With heads down they ran toward the waiting vessel. Three metres from the closest man the rifles all cocked. The two men instantly stopped in their tracks.

“Wade. It’s me Joe. Don’t do anything silly. Put the body down. Drop your weapons and lie facedown on the sand.”

Slowly lowering Jacko’s body, Wade stood back up.

“Wade, I need you to drop your weapons. We have orders. I’m sorry but you must drop your weapons,” said Carr again. “Now,” he screamed.

Wade remained as ridged as a rock. Shimon replicated. He watched the SEALs begin to fidget and move, unsure of their next move.

“For god’s sake Wade just drop your weapon,” yelled Carr looking down the barrel of his rifle.

“Why Joe? What’s this all about?” questioned Wade.

“Look my orders were to come here and eliminate you and the colonel. Why? I don’t know. What’s going on? I have no idea. Am I following my orders? Obviously not. But I can’t let you come back to the carrier armed. So drop your weapons and we can do this peacefully,” pleaded Carr.

Turning to Shimon, Wade nodded as they both placed their weapons slowly on the ground and stepped back. A SEAL raced forward. Picked up the rifles and pistols. A second SEAL raced forward and zip tied their hands behind their backs.

“I’m sorry to do this,” said Carr helping the men into the IRB.

“Don’t worry about it Joe. I know it’s not your doing,” smiled Wade. “Maybe just don’t drown us on the way back,” he joked.

“Okay,” said Carr tapping him on the back.

38.

The gentle rolling swell was perfect for what the Israeli’s needed but the bright moon darting in and out of clouds was increasing the chances of detection.

Caleb and Elam had started their underwater journey. Kia and the three others fell like spears into the dark waters. Coming up and stopping one metre from the surface they waited for their parachutes to float down. All the chutes together they weighted them to the bottom.

The team activated their Drager’s and dived to the ten metre mark. In formation they watched as the escort destroyer slowly passed overhead. Eight minutes later the huge hulking form of the bow rose above them. Once clear of the forward observation posts and under the cover of the overhanging flight deck they kicked with all their might for the surface. Even at its slowest speed the sound and turbulence generated by the slow turning propellers was deafening. The force of the water being sucked against the carrier dragged the quartet along the steel hull. Using their rubber gloves they pushed hard against the steel desperately trying to avoid being crushed. Level with the stabiliser Kia and Nirit, freed one hand, pulled the mag gun from its pouch, that was seated against their upper chest, and fired. The magnetic head locked on to the protruding fin. The cord flew out and snapped tight. Both women two hand gripped the pistol and each pair were lifted above the churning bow wave. Free of the water all four hit the button on their large wrist bracelets, activating the magnetic power. Joined at the waist by a link rope, they each started the difficult ascent.

The spray smashed against their bodies as they planted the magnetic handgrip against the slimy, slippery hull. Activating and then deactivating the strong magnet on each wrist, they hung like trapeze artists as they inched higher. Slowly the hull levelled out from an overhang to vertical sides and the steel was cleaner. The climb got easier but fatigue grew and the wind got stronger. Finally, with all four on the stabiliser, and certain they hadn’t been spotted, they removed their diving gear and hung it from below the overhanging viewing platform.

The lower hangar was a hive of activity. Tradesmen, assistants, orderlies, ammunition specialists were making the array of helicopters, planes and jets ready for the next day operations. The lighting was brighter than a surgical operating theatre. Everybody was so focused on their own work nobody noticed the two pair of general enlistment dressed sailors walking around the perimeter.

Passing through the tight corridors they grunted, nodded and dropped their heads, anytime they were spoken to or acknowledged. The visitor’s cabins were the first three as they entered the officer’s quarters. Unsure of which held Wade, Nirit unbuttoned her shirt revealing an ample amount of her well endowed breasts. Checking all clear the group kept guard as she knocked and walked straight in. The room was black. Light from the corridor gave a very provocative image as the two pilots stirred in their bunks.

“Hey sweetheart. Come in. Don’t be shy,” mumbled the pilot from the lower bunk.

Making out as if she had come into the wrong room she snapped her shirt across her chest and stepped back quickly pulling the door behind her.

Kia signalled to Bazak to watch the door in case the pilots had ideas of chasing after Nirit.

The remaining two rooms were off a side corridor. Nirit opened her shirt, stepped around the corner and was met by a rifle toting guard.

“Ma’am,” said the guard snapping to attention trying not to look at her breasts. Noticing she was dressed in general enlistment clothes he lowered the rifle, stepped forward. “Hey. You’re not allowed down here so get lost,” he said this time not bothered about staring at her breasts.

Nirit’s knee came up crashing into his face, smashing his nose and shattering teeth as her hand came down and chopped into the back of his neck. Gideon raced and grabbed the falling victim. Dragging him aside,Nirit prepared for the same routine as she approached the door.

Wade and Shimon had heard the ruckus. Unable to resist they stood and watched as she entered.

“Thank god you are both alright,” she said as she wrapped her arms around their necks respectively.

Kia entered followed by Gideon carrying the guard. Kia explained their plan. Nirit fixed her blouse and cut the zip ties binding Wade and Shimon’s hands and feet.

“Our major problem is the SEALs. If they spot us it’s not going to be easy,” said Kia.

Wade thought for a moment. Picked up the receiver and dialled Admiral Plower.

“Plower,” came the foggy reply as the Admiral tried to wake up.

“Admiral it’s Wade. Are you alone?”

“Yes Wade. At my age and on this floating Juggernaut I can guarantee I am alone,” smiled the now wide awake Admiral. “Why do you ask and why are you calling me at this hour?”

“I have some friends who have come to get me off this carrier but I need your help in distracting the SEALs.”

“I won’t ask who these friends are and how the hell they got on my carrier but I think I can guess.” He smiled. “What do you want from me?”

“We need to get from the officer’s quarters to the stern observation deck. If I give you about twenty minutes could you concoct some reason to call them to the briefing room?” said Wade as Kia frantically gestured to him he had the wrong areas.

“Will do. Good luck.”

Wade replaced the receiver as Kia spoke.

“You have that all wrong. Not the stern observation deck the lower deck and if he has them at the briefing room we will need to walk straight past.”

“Come on. We leave now,” said Wade grabbing the fallen guards pistol and checking it was loaded.

The three groups of two moved hastily and inconspicuously through the corridors, around the perimeter of the lower hangar and on to the stabiliser. Ready in their diving gear they lowered the ropes. Checked the times. Waited the additional six minutes. Received confirmation that Calem and Elam were ready and slid down the rope.

“How did you know?” asked Kia as the group munched into their hearty meal aboard the submarine.

“If I was in Joe’s position I would have tapped into the phone. He would have been expecting us to either attempt an escape or some form of rescue mission,” said Wade between mouthfuls. “The time frame I mentioned gave him enough opportunity to set up an ambush. I doubt he would have expected us to get out of there by sub, so soon after our arrival, therefore the stern observation deck was the most logical escape point. He would have deduced we would go into the water and be picked up by helicopter many hours later. Plus, he would have expected the carrier group and their detection capabilities to be more than sufficient.”

“Hmmm … what now?” she asked.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said the Israeli comms controller stepping up behind Kia. “I have an important message from Director Harel for a Wade Ross,” he said placing the folded page on the table and returning to his post.

Reading the decoded message, a second time Wade fold the page in half and stared at the blank paper. The furrows on his brow grew deeper and deeper. His eyes appeared to sink far back into the reaches of their sockets. His face became deadpan.

“What is it?” asked Kia reaching across to the note as the others looked on in concern. Like Wade she read it twice. The tears formed. She grabbed his hand. “I’m so sorry Wade … this is so unfair,” she said sniffing back the emotion.

Turning to the others she quietly spoke. “Crystal has been admitted to hospital in Tel Aviv. She was bleeding and has lost her baby. She was thirteen weeks pregnant.”

The seven battle hardened, emotion toiled Mossad operatives expressed their condolences as the numbed Wade stood and walked from the galley.

He sat on the edge of the bunk and stared into his hands. He went into a psychic state and made contact with the Aboriginal ancestral spirits from the ‘Dreaming’. While questioning his loss and trying desperately to understand why. Asking why all those he loved or cared for were being taken from him. He waited for the answers as the image of his mother appeared in his mind.

‘They are not gone Wade. They have returned to the earth. They will always be there and you will be reunited. Believe in your existence. Follow your destiny and we will guide you on your journey. I know it hurts but you are not alone,’ she whispered, then faded.

Taking deep breaths, he concentrated on his mother’s words. He focused on all he had learnt from the elders. He relaxed his mind and dreamt of the beautiful places he had visited growing up even though he could not get the image of his wife alone and grieving at such a critical time.

39.

The three thousand five hundred kilometre, seventy five hour, journey to Ksar Sghir, northern most naval base of Morocco had been incredibly tough. The seven Israeli’s had focused on cleaning their gear and preparing for what might lie ahead. The confines of the submarine had magnified Wade’s hurt. No words seemed to be adequate as everybody tried to avoid each other. The quietness was stifling.

Desperate not to attract unwanted attention the submarine captain had remained at periscope level for as long as possible as they approached the unmarked reserve dock. The hatch flew open. Six men and two women scampered out. The early morning moon was cloud hidden and the spray slashed their faces. Activating the self inflating IRB Shimon and Bazak threw the rubber boat into the water. Caleb tied off the rope ladder. Nirit locked down the hatch. Elam leapt into the not fully inflated craft as the gear was thrown to him. Four minutes later the rope ladder was released and Wade tapped three times on the metal hull. Given sixty seconds to paddle clear the two thousand ton vessel slowly sunk below the surface.

Back in operational mode Wade’s leadership returned and he instructed them to paddle under the two large wharves, behind the French frigate and up stream to the refuellingdock.

With the team, dressed all in black, the four paddlers quietly stroked in unison. They crept passed the guarded French naval ship. Large security lights beamed over the waters and down onto the dock areas. Sailors could be heard loading supplies. Vehicles traversed the concrete pavement. Cranes moved back and forth. Guards paced the ship deck not expecting any company. Further guards leant against the walls of the docks enclosures trying to avoid the slashing wind. The four remaining operatives kept their weapons trained on the guards as the IRB slowly slipped past.

The refuelling dock was deserted and dark. With rifles over their shoulders and packs on their backs they climbed the slippery wooden ladder. Elam deflated the IRB and waited until it started to sink. The group snuck around the three metre high, barbed wire topped, fence enclosure. Avoiding detection, they cut through the fence and exited the naval base. At the staff carpark they approached the indistinguishable dirt covered transit van. The back door flew open. Once all aboard the agent in the rear handed out clothing, passports, money and carry on luggage. The driver started the engine, slowly passed the guard house and on to the main highway.

During the twenty five minute drive in to Tangier the rear guard explained their flights and the devised plan of entry back in to Israel. Dropping the operatives at five different locations, throughout the main commercial area, they would then be responsible to get themselves to the international airport.

Arriving at the departure terminal Wade was ready to leap out as the driver put out his hand.

“I am sorry for your loss Wade.”

Nodding he acknowledged the kind words and closed the door.

The early morning flight was characteristically quiet with most travellers choosing to sleep. Wade had seen Nirit enter the first class cabin posing as a successful model. Shimon sat at the rear of business class appearing to be captivated with his work notes dressed in his impeccable business suit. Elam blended in well wearing his hooded Moroccan Dishdasha. With the others catching the earlier flight Wade closed his eyes and tried to sleep but the demons of pain would not leave him alone.

The six hour flight had been horrific. Wade’s clothes were stuck to him as the nervous sweat continued to run down his body. Hiding under the blanket and consuming copious amounts of water he stood to the surprise of the elderly lady seated beside him.

“Young man are you ill? Look at your clothes. I will get some help.”

“No. I’m fine don’t worry,” he said trying to push past her seat and into the ever growing barrage of travellers jostling to be first off.

“That is ridiculous. You could be bringing some African virus into our country,” she said raising her voice above the increasing noise.

At the mention of ‘virus’ heads spun. People tried to push away. Some wrapped cloths, scarves or their coats over their mouths and noses. Eyes stared. Fingers pointed. News of a possible virus outbreak spread through the aisles like an out of control bushfire. A cacophony of languages and noise erupted. Stewards were forced to quickly open the exit doors. The throng was multiplying. People desperately fought to get out of the enclosed airspace. Wade sunk back into his seat.

He stared out the window as Elam dropped down beside him.

“You okay?”

“Fine, just really need to see Crystal.” Looking around he dropped his head and whispered, “You better go.”

“I don’t think it matters too much now, some how,” he replied referring to the possibility of their cover being blown.

The plane had emptied as Wade and Elam headed for the exit.

“Sorry sir. I can’t let you leave,” said the head steward, motioning the security guard forward. “We will need to take you in for tests to confirm you have not brought anything undesirable into our country.”

“I’m fine. Just sweating,” replied Wade starting to move forward and noticing Nirit and Shimon coming back down the aerobridge.

The heavily armed security guard grabbed Wade’s left forearm as the steward put his hand in front of Wade’s chest.

“There’s no need for this,” said Elam.

“Sir, please stay out of this,” instructed the steward.

Turning Wade glared at the security guard as a second guard entered the exit portal.

“I’m leaving here and I’m leaving now. If you try to stop me you will get hurt,” said Wade emphasising the words to show his seriousness as he continued to glare into the guard’s eyes.

The second drew his pistol. “You will be coming with us,” he ordered.

With that Wade’s foot flew up and smashed in to the guard’s pistol wielding hand. The round tore through the thin layer of the planes outer skin. Elam’s fist smashed into the steward’s nose knocking him unconscious. Wade spun in the opposite direction and his elbow crushed into the first guard’s throat, killing him instantly. The second guard went to leap, at Wade, as an iron grip locked around his neck.

“Don’t move,” said Shimon applying a ‘sleeper’ rear chokehold.

The second steward screamed. Elam shoved her into the planes toilet cubicle and locked the door while reaching across and locking the pilot’s door.

“Come on,” ordered Wade charging out the aerobridge emergency door and down to the tarmac.

Shimon dropped the now unconscious guard and followed. The sound of the gunshot had alerted the entire airport. Multiple sirens could be heard racing along the runways. Israeli soldiers, police and security personnel appeared from everywhere. Travellers watched in fascination, from the raised waiting lounges, at the unusually dressed quartet weaving, ducking, leaping around baggage carts, over cars and under Jumbo jets.

Arriving at the entry to the baggage carousel, four rifle raised soldiers stepped in front of them.

“Wade stop,” yelled the leader. “I have been instructed by Director Harel to take you wherever you want.”

Nirit, Shimon and Elam bent over and grabbed their knees gasping for air. Wade coated in sweat, hardly puffing said, “Assuta Hospital … now … or you better shoot.”

Police cars, military vehicles and all forms of security screamed in behind them. Weapons were drawn. Instructions were yelled. A helicopter buzzed overhead.

“Come,” said the leader stepping out in to the sunshine. The noise suddenly abated at the sight of the Yamam leading the group of four. All those present knew the Yamam was the most senior and most highly respected unit.

40.

The beautiful paintings, elegant furniture and superbly presented surroundings were lost on Wade as he scrambled down the carpet hallway of Tel Aviv’s most prestigious private hospital. Weak with exhaustion he crashed in to the side stand. Shimon grabbed his arm and steadied him. Brushing the help aside he raced on.

The two large doors had ‘intensive care’ imbedded in them. Wade burst through and at the sight of Kia crashed to his knees. Shimon and Harel help him to his feet as Kia locked her arms around his neck.

“I’m truly sorry, beautiful man,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m sorry you found out like this.”

The tears flowed down her face like a waterfall; as if the dam had been building and building and finally broke.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” he replied. “Can I see her?”

She led him to the door. He pushed it open. The large single bed, private room was covered in flowers and cards. There was no window or natural light. Wires and tubes crisscrossed to various machines that beeped and whined. Crystal was propped up by two pillows. A nurse was checking vitals and scribbling notes.

“Could we have a moment alone please?” asked Harel, of the nurse, as he escorted her and Kia from the room.

Wade stood at the side of the bed. He lightly wrapped his fingers around her hand and watched her slowly breathe. Her lips partly open he wanted to kiss her but wasn’t sure he was allowed or should. He brushed a small piece of hair from her eyes. Ran his hand over her beautiful face and cried.

He could not remember the last time he had cried. He remembered hurting his leg as a ten year old and his six year old sister crying for him. And as a thirteen year old the adopted stray family dog being hit by a car. How he picked up its body and its head fell like a rag doll. How its stone cold eyes stared straight back at him and no matter how hard he tried he could not cry.

The tears of pain and love swelled and trickled down his cheeks as he watched the love of his life lying so peacefully. He held her hand against his face as he thought of his mother’s words of wisdom ‘You are not alone’. He contemplated the loss of the child he would never know and the pain Crystal must be enduring.

With his face down on the bed, eyes closed and stroking Crystal’s hand he heard her voice.

“Darling … I’m so sorry,” she stammered in her groggy state.

“No. Please no, don’t say that,” he said leaping to his feet. “It … it is so important we remember our child and how beautiful she would have been.”

Crystal’s dried lips turned up as she tried to smile against all the hurt.

Wade leant forward, kissed his wife and held her as they both cried. He had seen and felt the worst of mankind. He had watched suffering of men, women and children that nobody should ever have to endure. He had soldier on as those around him broke down emotionally distraught but it was the pain of his own that had finally been the straw that broke the camels back. He tried to rationalise the pain as he tightly held his wife. Was it because he was getting older? Or maybe it was love? Could it be the time away from military action? Or had he just plain and simply lost something he so dearly wanted and now was hurting with the love of his life. He tried not to get bogged down in the thoughts as he felt tears wetting the back of his shirt.

“Excuse me Mister and Mrs. Ross but I need to take Crystal’s vitals,” said the nurse moving around the end of the bed.

“And we need to take a blood test from you,” said the doctor stepping through the doorway and looking at Wade.

Kissing Crystal’s hand, Wade gave a crooked smile and followed the doctor to the adjacent room.

“How is she doc?” pleaded Wade. “And I want the honest answer?”

“She is very sick. She has an acute infection that has spread through her bloodstream. We are now trying to transfuse new blood before any permanent damage can be done to vital organs. I can’t give you any guarantees but she is fighting very hard and we can now only monitor her and hope for the best.”

“Thanks doc. I … I appreciate that,” he replied as Harel and Kia stepped into view.

The doctor took the blood test and gave Wade a sleeping shot. Kia explained that Crystal’s father, Joe, Prue, Nenwon and Goboto were under guard at a safe house on the eastern side of the city and how they were intending to bring her father to visit Crystal tomorrow morning. Harel promised that he would ensure the best possible medical treatment would always be on hand until Crystal fully recovered.

Wade smiled, nodded and crashed back on the pillow.

41.

The humidity was merciless. The five hour drive from Freetown to Conakry International Airport had been reasonably uneventful except for the two Guinea border guards who attempted to enforce bribes.

The blackened windows of the bullet ridden Toyota Landcruiser restricted view of the occupants. Riol’s 2IC, Foday, wound down the driver’s side rear window.

“We are heading to Conakry and we are in a hurry,” he said.

“The visa fee is four hundred thousand Guinean Francs,” said the closer guard as the second spun his pistol in his hand. “You will pay or not enter,” added the first guard.

Both guards stepped forward and could feel the cold air of the cars’ air conditioning. They dropped their stare to the bag Foday was unzipping. Neither heard or saw the passenger side front door open, Riol rest the pistol on the roof as the rounds smash through their skulls. The two bodies toppled in their own blood, the door closed, the window returned up and the vehicle moved off.

The airport terminal was a chaos of arriving and departing passengers. Taxis and cars jostled for parking position and road space. Construction workers added to the melee as they attempted to build a new facility.

“Foday I am depending on you,” said Riol turning in his seat. “A man by the name of Jacob will meet you both at Tel Aviv, outside the southern most taxi rank. He will be in a black BMW with a red card on the dash. You are to get in the back seat and ask for Levinsky Park. You will be taken to an area known as Nave Sha’anan. There you will meet with seven Russian trained ex Spetsnaz Egyptians. I expect you to do a thorough reconnaissance of the safe house my nephew is being held in. You are to rescue Nenwon and grab the president’s daughter. The rest die … am I clear on this?”

“Yes,” said Foday with both men nodding. “Once we have them, where to?”

“The mercs will take you back to Alexandria, Egypt and I will arrange from there.”

Nothing more was said as the two men grabbed their rag filled suit cases and slammed the doors.

“Do you have anything to declare?” asked the Israeli customs officer. “And what is the reason for your visit?”

“No nothing to declare. Visiting relatives,” replied Foday, in his broken English, trying not to appear nervous as he attempted to casually scan the surroundings.

“How long is your intended stay?” she asked.

“Three days.”

“Three days!”

“Yes, three days. Is there a problem?” he asked as the heavily armed guard stepped up behind the officer.

“Sir, can you come with me,” ordered the guard.

“What’s the problem? What have I done?” he spluttered desperately trying to control his nerves and speech.

The guard led him in to a small room. An older guard sat behind a single desk with a metal framed chair pulled out.

The seated guard instructed him to sit and proceeded to question his reason for wanting to enter Israel. Five minutes, and a multitude of questions, later.

“Why do you and your friend both have a suitcase full of rags?”

Shifting in his seat. “I do not know. We must have grabbed the wrong bags.”

The older man studied Foday, knowing full well his glare was unsettling the African. Sixty seconds passed when the seated man nodded to the guard.

“Enjoy your stay, sir.”

“That was close,” said Foday collapsing in to the rear seat of the BMW.

“Do you think they were on to us?” asked his fellow Sierra Leonean.

“No way.”

“I would not be so confident,” said Jacob. “We have a tail and every chance it’s Mossad.”

“Can’t you just loose them,” said Foday pivoting in his seat.

“Don’t look,” yelled Jacob. “I will try but you must be ready to leap out when I tell you.”

He slowly increased his speed along the main highway to Tel Aviv city centre. Turning off at LaGuardia Interchange he advised their follower had continued on.

Nave Sha’anan is a poor area of Tel Aviv heavily populated by African immigrants. The concrete and brick buildings resemble an area hit by an earthquake. Walls covered in graffiti. Windows and doors either blown out or covered in rusty corrugated iron. Makeshift walls constructed by everything from plastic tarps to bombed concrete barriers and anything else the locals could scavenge. Paint peeled and litter blew about in the breeze. Electrical wiring and washed clothing precariously hung from buildings.

Jacob pointed down the narrow street through the locked barricade. “Sixth door on the left. Knock twice. Walk straight in. Don’t hesitate or they will shoot. Leave the bags.”

Pigeons scattered as the two men walked through the open store front market. Vespers swerved avoiding shoppers. Nobody took any notice of two more black Africans wandering through the neighbourhood.

The paint peeling door was insignificant. Foday rapped the door twice, grabbed the handle and entered. The apartment was pitch black. Foday and his partner continually crashed into walls as they moved along the corridor. Arriving at the end Foday reached for the door handle as the door flung open. Blinding lights beamed on their faces. Hands roughly grabbed their arms and clothing and they were flung into the room. Rifles were stabbed in to the back of their necks as they lay face down on the filthy bare concrete floor.

“Speak,” ordered the husky voice.

Foday explained who they were and why they were there. Convinced, the Egyptians helped them to their feet. Foday was taken back at the sheer size of the ex Spetsnaz mercenaries. All seven men were over six foot six and two hundred fifty pounds. Unshaven with shoulder length, black, unkempt hair they looked formidable.

42.

One of the most highly protected societies on earth, Israel does not allow those they consider a threat or who have entered their country for any means other than friendly, to move about freely. Constantly under surveillance the cameras and operators watch every move.

“Sir we have movement. One African and one Egyptian leaving the apartment. Heading south along Rosh Pina,” said the police console operator into her headset.

“Good. Do we have eyes on the ground?” asked the field commander.

“Yes sir. Taxis ready on Levinsky. Two ‘Oscars’ at the park and the van tracking device has been planted.”

“Keep me informed.”

The Yamam officers watched as Foday and the Egyptian leader climbed into the battle worn white van. After numerous changes of direction and double backs the van arrived, late afternoon, in the leafy district of Har Shalom. It slowly drove down the narrow one way street, twice, with the Egyptian snapping photos on the high powered camera. They then returned to Nave Sha’anan.

“Sir they seem to watching a certain house in Yigal street,” informed the console operator.

“I want a team over there immediately. No interaction, just surveillance. Any information I want sent to the ‘unit’”. Name colloquially used to describe Mossad.

“We move out at 2300 hours. Two groups of three. You two will be a dead give away being black and Africans in that part of town. So you stay with Asam in the van.” Pointing to his 2IC. “We’ll come in from the south and you bring the van from the north. Give us sixty seconds. There will be flashbangs and they won’t be expecting us so speed is our advantage. Silencers and single shots,” said the mercenary leader checking they all understood.

The five hour wait, until 2300 hours, was a torturous affair. The training, control, skill and organisational abilities of the Special Forces operatives clashed with the random, uncontrolled, disrespectful, lawless attitude of the two jungle rebels. At times threatening to develop into a full frontal confrontation but for the interjection of the mercenary leader.

Tensions had simmered as both parties considered the threat of a possible clash with the Israeli secret service.

“We have movement,” came the voice of the console operator through the various earpieces. “Seven Alpha Romeo tangos and two Alpha Foxtrot tangos. Climbing into a white unmarked van. License plate Victor Charlie One One Zero. All carrying MP5’s and silencers.”

“Roger that control. We’ll take it from here,” said the Yamam field operative.

The strategically placed cameras worked perfectly as the officers watched the van go through a maze of criss crossing paths.

“We need to see who they are after, so wait until my command,” ordered the field commander of his three operatives.

The Israeli’s watched as the van parked at the end of the street. A side door slid open. The size of the Spetsnaz trained killers defied the speed and agility at which they moved down the street.

It was a two storey, single fronted house. Carpark underneath with a rickety wrought iron set of stairs, on the right, leading to a narrow landing and the front door. Two bedrooms, each with a window and curtains drawn, faced the street. The front door led into a kitchen/lounge. The third bedroom and bathroom faced the rear.

Years of urban warfare had taught the Egyptians to always expect the unexpected. With his five men climbing the stairs and scampering up the side wall, the leader dropped back.

The front and back doors smashed open in unison. Two flashbangs rolled across the tiled floor. The noise and smoke was deafening. Two mercenaries at the rear door were still kneeling as the rounds slashed through their skulls. Standing on the neighbouring balcony the officer spun his weapon looking for further targets. The mercenary leader’s single shot was clean and accurate. He then took out the second officer with his second shot.

Joe leapt for his pistol. The first shot entered his buttock and exploded in his midsection. The second shot blew off his left shoulder. The two front door entering Egyptians separated and charged for the two front bedrooms. Wearing state of the art gas masks and monocle infra red eye pieces they appeared as aliens standing in the doorways. Trent floundered to get from the bed. One Egyptian determined his target and the round entered at the bridge of Trent’s nose.

The second Egyptian was staring through the haze as the hands swished around his neck and the wire garrote cut through his windpipe. The Mossad guard was still hanging by his legs from the ceiling access panel when the first mercenary fired three rounds into his midsection.

Prue was screaming. Nenwon was shaking uncontrollably.

“If you want to live, come with me,” yelled the muffled disjointed English voice of the Egyptian, grabbing Prue’s arm.

Goboto’s survival instincts and inability to sleep in his new surroundings had enabled him to hear the impending attack long before the others. He was hiding in the bath as the flashbangs exploded.

Holding hands Prue and Nenwon slipped and fell down the stairs as their two new captors were shot.

The lead operative spun to the sound of the approaching van. The remaining mercenary emptied his magazine into the officer’s back. Leapt from his hiding spot. The van squealed to a halt. Two Egyptians and the rebel were forcing Prue and Nenwon into the van as Foday fired three shots into the backs of the three men.

Recognizing his uncle’s most trusted follower, Nenwon grabbed Prue under the arm and they dropped into the rear seats.

“Foday, it is so good to see you,” said Nenwon wrapping his arms around Prue.

Foday remained silent and accelerated out of the street. The van weaved and swerved through the suburbs of Tel Aviv. Twenty minutes had passed. Prue was shaking uncontrollably. Nenwon was desperately trying to calm her. His arms wrapped around her body and her head into his chest. Nenwon asked, “Where are we going?”

Foday still remained silent. Another thirty minutes elapsed. Prue had succumbed to the effects of shock and had crashed on Nenwon’s shoulder. The van was approaching the outskirts of a deserted section of Gaza. Foday turned off the road, down a dirt track and into a bombed out, low rise, apartment building.

Leaping from the driver’s seat, he rounded the vehicle and reefed the sliding door open.

“Out,” he yelled forcefully grabbing Prue’s arm and throwing her across the dirt and between the metre high scrubby weeds.

Without hesitation he raised his pistol held right hand, sighted along the barrel and shot the seated cowering Nenwon.

Yanking Prue from the ground he dragged her into the building to a heavily tinted, dirt encrusted Mercedes that had been pre organised by the Egyptians. He zip tied her hands and feet and shoved her on the back seat. Returned to the van. Doused it in petrol and lit a match.

43.

It had been a great morning for the US President. His ratings were at an all time high. His speech to the nation, the previous evening, had dominated the front page of all major US newspapers. He had succeeded in winning the hearts of both sides of politics. His most vocal advocate, the NRA, had agreed to stronger administration of the gun laws. The health system his party had championed was finally being accepted.

“I think this deserves a toast,” he said raising his scotch glass.

“Sir, you do realize it is only eleven a.m.,” said Bysmith.

“I am aware, thank you Charlotte. But the masses love me and I intend to enjoy the moment.”

Markham had become transfixed with the various television screens, throughout the Oval Office, all showing stories of his success.

“Mister President,” said Razen through Markham’s hands free desk phone.

“What is it?” he chimed.

“We have just received confirmation that the SEAL team were unsuccessful in their latest mission in Sierra Leone. They became embroiled in a firefight with the rebels and consequently had to retreat. They have returned to the carrier and are awaiting instructions,”

“General, are you telling me they missed Ross and Wine?” asked an incensed Markham looking across his desk to his two most important advisors, Bysmith and Mackinnon, who were in his office for their daily briefings.

“Yes sir.”

Scratching his head. Frowning. Fiddling with the photo in his top pocket. He returned his concentration to the phone silently sitting in its cradle.

“Whoever was leading this SEAL team is to be punished,” said Markham.

“On what grounds, sir?” asked Razen.

“Failing to complete a presidential order, I guess or something similar. I don’t care as long as they pay the price for failure,” replied Markham.

“Mister President. There is no way I can make that work. By all reports the teams handling of the situation was exemplary. We can not start punishing our servicemen just because they don’t complete a mission we assign them,” replied a bewildered Razen.

“You can and you will,” said Markham leaping to his feet and raising his voice. “I am the President of the United States of America and if I give a presidential order that order is expected to be fulfilled. This person, whoever the hell his name is, will be court martialed and you, General, will ensure it happens. Am I clear?”

“Mister President. I beg of you. The ramifications of this will be catastrophic. You are asking me to do something that could lead to the undermining of authority within our services.”

“General there is no discussion. I have issued my order. I expect details on my desk by tomorrow morning,” said Markham again hitting the disconnect button.

The room remained deathly quiet. Markham picked up and drank a glass of water. He walked over and looked out across the White House lawns. He watched the clouds gather.

“Where were we up to?” he asked returning to his seat as if nothing had just happened.

Mackinnon explained their discussion on trade negotiations with China and the possibility of sanctions on Cuba. He was mid sentence reading from his notes when Markham cut him off.

“We need to get rid of Wine and Ross and probably Dunstall. And we need to do it now,” he blurted out.

“Mister President. I understand your concerns and frustration but we need to continue on our current path and let others worry about people like Wine and Ross,” calmly and softly replied Bysmith.

Bysmith had always engaged in conversation about her working days with her second husband. As a clinical psychologist and expert on military Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, he had listened and observed thousands of clinical hours with returned servicemen and women. He would sit and let her vent her frustrations. He would listen to her complaints and ideas. Occasionally he would ask a question and even less occasionally he would give an opinion. He was aware that Markham had no military experience or likelihood of exposure to the effects of war zone PTSD but he did believe he showed all the symptoms.

His suggestion, to his wife, was try and calm him down whenever he went through an explosive situation. He explained the calming can sometimes disorientate the person’s ability to remain focused on the cause of the outbreak and therefore expose what is behind the disorder.

“That’s well and good Charlotte, but time is of the essence.

“Yes sir, mister President,” they both replied as they stood to leave.

“Leroy. A word,” said Markham coaxing him back into his chair.

The door closed behind Bysmith.

“What can you tell me about what’s going on down there?” asked Markham.

“It’s all fairly sketchy at the moment but it appears one of our team in Conakry apprehended a Sierra Leone mother and her baby as they disembarked a flight from Port Loko. She appeared to be in some form of shock from what the experts have determined as a sonic blast. Most likely an explosion. But she mentioned she was put on a flight with an older man on a stretcher, a young Sierra Leone boy, two men and two woman dressed in army jungle clothes, probably fatigues, who spoke an unusual language. It appears there might also have been two doctors and a nurse. She doesn’t recall clearly what happened after they landed. She and her baby were taken to a hospital and she thinks the rest stayed on the plane.”

“Why are you saying it’s unclear and what do you make of it all?”

“When she was apprehended our agent was in the company of two Guinea immigration officials and they took lead on the case. Hence quite difficult for us to ask the relevant questions we need answers to.” Pausing Mackinnon raised his eyebrows in thought.

“I’m not sure exactly what’s going on but female military operatives and the albeit vague descriptions given by the woman seem to point to the Israelis and that would make sense.”

“Israelis? Why would they be involved?” asked a stunned Markham.

“First guess. Ross. We know he has a close relationship with Harel and Mossad love him.”

Closing his eyes, rubbing his thumbs into his temples Markham tried to stop the rapidly advancing headache. “If those fucking SEALs had done their job we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

Mackinnon sat watching the leader of the free world go into a melt down. Markham grabbed a stapler and launched it across the room. Smashing a glass framed painting of the United States third president, Thomas Jefferson. Two Secret Service agents bolted through the door, pistols drawn.

“Out, out,” screamed Markham waving his hands, like an Italian traffic cop, while scattering his ink plotter and papers across the floor.

“Mister President,” said Mackinnon. “I have my people checking all flights in and out of Conakry and Tel Aviv. If they were on that flight, we will find them.”

Markham nodded in reply as he lowered his head and ushered Mackinnon out the door.

Bysmith sat at her desk with her left index finger poised over the phone about to push the speed dial number. Tapping the pen with her right hand she struggled with the quandary she had been placed in. Her utmost respect and devotion to the office of the US President was being challenged by her friendship to Markham and her desire for wealth. She knew he had crossed the line and needed to be stopped. Britain and France had both sent their respective ambassadors to try and halt the unnecessary and immoral bombings in West Africa. Having appeased the ambassadors, she knew the increased sorties, that the president had ordered, would come into play early the next morning and the situation would snowball once again. And from there on the finger would point at her.

Her finger hit the button. The phone rang.

“General, we have a problem,” she said.

“We do indeed, Madam Secretary. Martin is here with me and we both agree we need to stop it,” said Raven.
“I have an idea,” said Bysmith.

44.

“Good morning Kia. What do you have for me?” asked Harel not looking up from his desk.

“Sir. Last night we lost five countrymen, Crystal’s father and Joe Plant, the CIA agent. The doctor and her assistant are missing. The young Sierra Leone boy is unharmed. Seven Egyptians and a Sierra Leone male national are all dead.”

“The safe house?” asked Harel now focused on Kia and her words.

“Yes sir.”

“How come we were not aware of this attack?” he asked as he stood glancing down at his screens.

“It was being covered by Yamam sir. They didn’t keep us in the loop, unaware it was one of our safe houses.”

Having spent their entire adult lives in a war zone and very accustomed to death, they dispensed with the emotion of loss and immediately started planning their next moves.

“What can we tell about the attack team?” he asked.

“Definitely Spetsnaz trained. Clean accurate shots. Flashbangs, MP5’s and silencers. Most likely mercenaries. All over in sixty seconds. We have the van and its plates and we are currently scrolling through the CCTV.”

“Excellent work Kia,” replied Harel now transfixed on the ever changing CCTV images that flashed across his screen as they were being searched.

“Sir, you looked concerned?”

“Why silencers if you unleash flashbangs? No logic,” he said, more to himself than Kia, while still staring at the screen.

A knock came at the door and they both turned to look. Nirit pushed the door ajar. “Sir, we have tracked the van to a deserted area of Gaza. The van has been burnt out. A male body was inside. Single head shot. We are still checking but appears to be the doctor’s assistant.”

“Thanks Nirit,” he replied as she gently pulled the door shut.

Kia stood in silence watching her boss as his brow raised and lowered. His mouth opened and closed. Sixty seconds had passed.

“Sir, you mentioned silencers?” she asked.

“Silencers? Yes … what do you make of that?”

“Not sure I understand the significance, sir.”

“Exactly. There is no reason. Why make your shot more difficult, in confined spaces with an added weight on the end of your weapon, when obviously the amount of noise you make is irrelevant.”

Raising his hands as a gesture of unknown they stood and left.

Kia, Hammerstein and the Mossad team worked all day chasing leads and possibilities. Late afternoon. The last rays of light were falling behind the mountains. A young, newly inducted recruit, to the Mossad team, had just finished a seven hour stint watching the screens when he noticed a woman drop her hat at a Syrian border crossing. The skinny, dark skinned, African male, holding her arm quickly grabbed the hat and slapped it on her red hair. Playing back the grainy tape several times the operator became convinced it was the doctor. Passing the information to his superior the Mossad machine kicked into gear. Within minutes’ analysts, body language experts, psychologists and highly experienced field agents were scrutinising the tape.

Thirty minutes had elapsed when all parties agreed it was their target. Ten minutes later Director Harel, Kia and Hammerstein were listening to a briefing report.

“Kia I want you to take a team into Syria. Find this Sierra Leonean and bring back the doctor,” ordered Harel. “I think it might be wisest to take an all female team.”

“Eliminate the target?” asked Kia.

“Definitely. We owe that to Wade.”

“Meshulam I want satellite coverage at all times while Kia and the team are over there. I want you to contact our deep cover people to act as backup if needed. I also want eyes in the sky and on the ground in Freetown. And we need to know at all times what that rebel leader is up to.”

“Yes sir,” replied Hammerstein racing for the door.

The room emptied and Harel motioned Kia to have a seat.

“You’re his best friend and understand him better than all the rest of us put together,” quietly said Harel looking directly into her eyes. “What do you think Wade would make of this?”

Kia knew the director was serious and wanting her best answer. She had never seen him not looking at his multiple screens whenever he was behind his desk. An expert in studying people and their traits Kia felt like he was reading her as a book.

“Sir no one thinks, analyses and deciphers things as quickly and easily as Wade appears to. So I don’t want to give the wrong answer,” she replied slightly nervous.

Slowly standing and walking around the table he sat on the front edge. Now less than half a metre from her he grasped his hands together.

“As you know my parents were killed in the Seven Day War. My only sibling, a brother, was murdered at the age of four. I devoted my life to our cause and I am very thankful for being able to have this opportunity.” He paused and stared as if he was looking through her. “I don’t have and never will have any family but Wade is the closest I have ever felt to a son.”

The room was quiet as Kia tried to find the right words and fathom the information she had just received.

“I don’t expect a right or wrong answer. I just don’t know what to say to him when he wakes up. He and Crystal’s lives have been shattered by something they didn’t even ask for,” said Harel.

Kia watched as his eyes glazed over and his knuckles started to turn white from the pressure of forcing them together.

Director Harel was not only the most respected but also the most feared man in all of Israel. He had been her former instructor. As a new recruit she had remembered everyday how he drummed into her, and all the other recruits, that the work they did was not only imperative for the survival of the nation of Israel but for the safety and continued existence of the Jewish people. They were not to just win but completely eliminate their enemies anyway possible. Harel had been the most feared of all the Kidon and his rise to director had been no surprise because the ruthlessness he went about his work was legendary.

“Sir,” quietly and calmly said Kia. “I think Wade would feel we are putting out bushfires instead of finding and eliminating the source.”

“That definitely sounds like Wade,” responded Harel eager for her to continue.

They discussed everything they knew in detail going over some points three or even four times. Kia helped the director prepare for his discussion with Wade and Crystal. She explained Wade’s passion for protecting the underdog. His ability to never give up. His belief in himself. His affinity to the spirit world. She told of what they talked about while on missions. Their debates on various ideologies and his photographic memory.

An hour had elapsed as she stood to walk to the door. “Thank you Kia. I appreciate our talk. I appreciate it very much.”

45.

Jaeger, Anatoly and an even larger, barrel chested, suit wearing, bald man carrying a bucket of water and a hessian bag; entered the room.

“What the hell,” said Jaeger putting his hand over his nose. “It stinks in here Dwight. Did you shit yourself?”

“Get him up,” ordered Jaeger to the larger man.

Cobart screamed as the larger man grabbed his hair and reefed him to his feet. Anatoly smashed his fist into Cobart’s kidneys and they dropped him back in his soiled chair. Gasping and doubled over in pain, Cobart started to shake violently.

“The prototype and this all stops,” said Jaeger with his hand still covering his mouth and nose.

Coughing, dry retching, tears falling from his bloodshot eyes; the larger man grabbed his hair again, snapping his head and body back in to the chair. With one hand over Cobart’s left wrist and the other under his left elbow, the man brought up his knee and snapped Cobart’s lower arm. The fracture was clean and the blood instantly started to swell. Cobart screamed. The man grabbed his other hand and zip tied his arms behind the chair.

Cobart continued screaming and shaking as they slipped the hessian bag over his head. With the larger man holding both his head and the bag in a vice like grip, Anatoly proceeded to slowly pour water through the bag and on to Cobart’s face.

Anatoly stopped the water. The larger man lifted Cobart’s head and released his hold on the bag. Cobart coughed, spluttered, tried to get the vomit and water from his mouth as he dropped his head forward.

“Prototype?” yelled Jaeger.

No reply only the continuous coughing and whimpering, Jaeger nodded for the men to repeat. After two further attempts they released the zip tie and removed the bag. With nobody holding his head and the bag gone Cobart tried to open his eyes as his face smashed on to the table. Blood gushing from his broken nose, Anatoly lifted his head and threw the remaining water in his face.

The three men stood in silence. Minutes passed. Cobart sat in the chair, arm limp, shaking uncontrollably. The sockets of his eyes swelled with blood from his broken nose. The blood that ran down his throat he coughed on to the table. His face was pale. He was in shock. The larger man held him to the back of the chair. The shaking increased spasmodically.

“Are you intending to cooperate?” asked Jaeger.

Cobart nodded. He coughed and spluttered his way through details of the Geneva bank, the account number, the bank contact and what was in the safe deposit box. Being a very wealthy man and having his own various safe deposit boxes, Jaeger knew Swiss banks were known to have protection protocols.

“Don’t fuck with me Dwight, what else is there?”

“Nothing. I swear … that … that’s it,” he stammered.

“I think we need to jolt your memory,” said Jaeger motioning to Anatoly.

Anatoly slid the open laptop across the table. Reached over and hit the play button. A video showed Cobart’s mother, sister, grandmother, and his father’s brother entering a limousine outside the Cobart’s luxury Greenwich mansion. The car swept around the large fountain that dominated centre stage of the huge three hundred metre driveway and immaculate lawns. At the gate his sister exited the car and entered the guards hut. The screen flickered and then an image of the hut as a fireball appeared.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” said Jaeger lowering the laptop screen.

“You bastard. You bastard. I’ll … I’ll kill you,” he spluttered through mouthfuls of vomit and blood.

“I don’t think so you stupid American,” said Anatoly in his strong Russian accent, slapping Cobart across the head.

“Now, what else was there?” asked Jaeger.

Cobart dropped his head and once again stammered through an explanation of the obscure questions that would be asked. How the person entering the vault must grab the box with their left hand and look directly at the box number until a light appeared.

Jaeger reached across the table, put his hand under Cobart’s chin and lifted his head. Eyeballing he said, “Now that wasn’t so hard; was it.”

The three men stood and walked to the door.

Jaeger smiled as Anatoly reached in his suit jacket and whipped out a silenced Glock 21. The 45 caliber round entered between Cobart’s eyes and disintegrated the rear of his head.

The CIA field agent slipped further down in the seat of his hire car. With his commander on fast dial he hit the button.

“We have movement. The big Russian grabbed a body bag. Went back inside. Two minutes later returned, with a body, and they loaded it in to the boot of Jaeger’s silver Merc. Jaeger and Anatoly are now heading your way. Should be on you in few minutes.”

“Got it. Can you get back to Jaeger’s house,” came the reply.

The CIA followed the German’s S Class, heavily tinted Mercedes Pullman. Approaching the private jet area of Munich International Airport, the vehicle swung around behind the large hangar housing Jaeger’s Bombardier Global 8000. The vehicle reversed in to the service area. Two men got out and walked to the plane. The customs official returned them their passports as the pilot activated the two large GE engines. Five minutes later traffic control had given clearance and the long range luxury private jet raced down the tarmac.

At the same time the Mercedes exited the hangar. Looped around the terminal and runways. Travelled down a single lane, potholed, country road through the small rural area of Hallbergmoos and on to a pig farm. The CIA agent watched through his long range binoculars. The big Russian shook his head as the farmer lead him to the large rear shed. Two minutes passed and the vehicle reversed out, the barn doors were closed, and locked, and the Mercedes raced to the Autobahn.

The agent waited until the farmer had re-entered his house. He circled behind the barn and crept into the pig sty. The smell was gross. The noise unbelievable and the sight of three large pigs, ripping Cobart’s naked body to shreds, was gruesome. Controlling the urge to gag, the agent took photos and raced out.

The jet touched down, mid afternoon, Geneva International Airport. Taxied to the private hangars and disappeared inside. A black limousine exited and bee lined for Pictet, one of Switzerland’s largest private banks. Waiting until five minutes before closing, Anatoly entered the rear managers entrance carrying a lead lined Samsonite brief case.

CIA agents watched from their observation posts. Fifteen minutes passed. Anatoly exited followed by the manager. They shook hands. He returned to the airport. The customs official was slipped the cash filled envelope and minutes later the Bombardier was gliding down the runway.

46.

Opening his eyes, his mouth was as dry as the bottom of a ‘cockys cage’ after a big night of drinking. His body felt like he had collided with a bus. His head pulsed agonisingly. The nurse standing beside him offered him a glass of iced water. He remembered why and where he was. Slowly drinking the water, and sucking some ice he looked around the room.

“Where’s Crystal?” Wade asked moving his legs to climb out of the bed.

“She’s here,” replied the nurse sliding the curtain that had separated their beds and pushing the button to advise Director Harel that Wade had woken.

Wade falteringly stood and watched his wife peacefully sleeping. The machines continued their relentless pulsating. He lent on her bed and proceeded to tell her stories of what they would do when they got home, how he wanted to help her with her yoga business and how he hoped they would try for another child very soon.

Holding her hands, he was verbalising like a horse racing commentator, hardly taking a breath as Harel entered the room.

Wade watched his friend, and past boss, walk to the opposite side of the bed. He saw Harel’s lined forehead. His hard non-moving eyes. Lips slightly parted ready to talk with nothing coming out. Hands clasped together across his jacket.

“Ben … what’s up?” asked Wade letting go of Crystal’s hand and keeping his eyes glued on his friend’s austere face.

“She is a beautiful lady, a wonderful partner and somebody who loves you very much,” he said pausing and dropping his gaze to Crystal. “I hope no person or event ever comes between you both.”

“Thank you … I’m sure I speak for Crystal, as well, when I say that.”

Looking back to Wade, “You have served our nation admirably and we are indebted to you forever. You have proven yourself a true friend of all those of the Hebrew faith. I promise, until the day I die, I will cherish your friendship and wisdom.”

Wade went to speak as Harel raised his hand. “Please Wade. Let me finish. If I don’t say this now I’m not sure I will ever get the courage or chance to say it again … As you are aware I have never had any family, since I lost my parents, and therefore I have devoted my life to our cause,” he said rubbing his hand under his chin and looking to the ceiling, trying to find the right words.

Wade was stunned. He had never known a more controlled person than Ben Harel and here he was stumped for words. Fidgeting on the spot. Not looking at him.

“Ben, what the hell?” asked Wade walking around the bed and putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Wade knew Harel did not like to be touched and expected an instant reaction. Non forthcoming his friend turned and looked at him with glazed eyes.

“You are like the son I never had but always wanted and now this,” he spurted out.

Taken back Wade waited as he got his senses in order.

“That’s a truly wonderful thing for you to say … I will treasure it forever … thank you. But don’t blame yourself for what happened, it was my decision and I wear the consequences.”

Both men, stood rigid, in a western standoff waiting for the other to continue. The drip, attached to Crystal’s arm, started to slowly beep. They looked across, in unison, as if they expected her to sit up and say hello.

Both men were now lulled out of their senseless state.

“How’s the Colonel?” asked Wade thinking he needed to defuse the situation.

“Not good. We don’t believe he will make it,” slowly replied Harel.

“Can I see him? Is he in this hospital?”

“Sure,” replied Harel, regaining his composure and heading for the door.

The two guards snapped to attention and the first opened the door. The room was huge. Set out as a typical windowless critical care unit. The bed was centred with machines on all four sides. Wires and tubes protruded like octopus tentacles. A large tub, for soaking burns victims, was against the left wall. Two nurses, precariously balanced between machines, were slowly peeling and replacing artificial skin over the Colonel’s neck, chest and arms. The smell was repugnant. A breathing tube projected from his throat. The machine gave slow gasping noises as it kept the oxygen flow in tune with his lungs. His face and head were completely covered in bandages.

The room was dimly lit except for the bright, direct focused fluorescent lights over the bed. The two nurses looked up and made ready to leave when Harel motioned for them to continue.

The breathing machine and a slow softly beeping life support monitor were the only sounds. Wade put his hand on the Colonel’s bandaged hand and instantly he felt his three senses collide. The smell, sound and touch were suffocating. Wade knew, without asking, his friend was dying. A kaleidoscope of memories flooded back.

He remembered the first time they had gone in to battle together. The Kosovo war had been extremely brutal and gruel. The British SAS were ordered to find a certain Serbian ringleader and bring him back for charges of mass murder against humanity. A mission that was set deep in unchartedterritory. A craggy, snow covered mountain range with limited road access. Their squad had been trudging through the metre deep snow for two days. Rain added to the worsening conditions. The small, heavily fortified, mountain top hideout appeared deserted. They conducted a thorough reconnaissance and were convinced everybody had either been murdered or fled from advancing troops. Not expecting a garrison of men to be hiding in roof spaces or dug down under the timber floor the ambush was quick and effective. The squad became pinned between two double storey houses trapped in a bullet ridden, rat infested barn. Rocket propelled grenades had severely damaged the rafters. Thus the roof sagged and rain gushed in.

Everybody was wet, tired, hungry and in desperate need of ammunition. The enemy had kept them pinned for forty six hours and had been relentlessly launching attacks. As highly trained Special Forces soldiers they had no problem repelling the attacks but Colonel Wine knew time was going to be their undoing.

The last thin rays of sunlight had vanished beyond the horizon and the two pronged assault team burst from the barn doors. The covering fire was intense. Men charged in three different directions confusing the enemy and giving themselves the opportunity to reach cover. Not as skilled the enemy tried to reach better shooting positions only to show their hiding spots. The SAS soldiers halved the enemy numbers in twenty seconds of gunfire. Now scattered along the rear side of the two houses, the first section ran for the cover of the forest. In position they took up cover fire as the second section readied. Wade and Wine were at the rear as the section ran for the trees. The 7.62mm rounds of the M60 GPMG slashed the ground, buildings and cars.

A ricochet round tore through Wine’s upper left leg. Diving for the ground Wade took Wine with him. The remainder of the section made the trees. The enemy gunner did not have a line of sight to the trees only through the two buildings directly to Wade. Belt driven rounds ripped and tore the surroundings to shreds.

A well kept M60 will fire approximately six hundred to a thousand rounds, depending on firing intensity, before the barrel gets hot and must be swapped over. Wade waited for the familiar click that told him the barrel had jammed. With the Colonel over his shoulder and his M16 carbine in his right hand he leapt to his feet and charged for the trees. The others were ready and laid down as much cover fire as they could. Wade heard the bolts lock as their weapons rapidly ran out of ammunition. Without hesitation he dropped to the ground. Rolled off the Colonel. Raised his rifle and double tapped the gunner and his 2IC. Leapt to his feet and charged to the gunner’s position. The 2IC had replaced the barrel. Wade pulled back the cocking lever, spun the weapon and opened fire on the remaining enemy. All dead and accounted for the squad medic bandaged Wine and they called in a helicopter for a casualty evacuation.

Wade’s actions had earned him lifelong respect and gratitude. The Colonel and Wade’s relationship had continued to grow and develop from that day.

Dunstall walked into the room and the three men stood in silence. They watched as the nurses meticulously went about their work. They listened to the machines and watched the Colonel’s chest rise and fall.

“He is a great man,” said Dunstall.

“And he doesn’t deserve to die like this,” responded Wade.

“I know. But what can we do?” asked Dunstall.

Once again they all stood in silence.

“He deserves dignity and we need to turn off that machine,” said Wade more to himself than the others.

Again there was silence.

“I never got the chance to tell him,” said Dunstall.

“You don’t need to,” said Wade. “He can hear you and you can both discuss it in the afterlife.”

Dunstall was unaware what Wade was referring to but Harel slightly smiled as he thought of Wade’s belief in the aboriginal Dreaming and the continuance of life after death.

Harel picked up the phone and called the doctor. The two nurses removed their gloves and left the room.

The short, balding, middle aged, white coat doctor entered the room. He nodded to Harel, walked to the machine, turned and checked all three were in agreeance and turned off all the switches and dials. He removed the oxygen line to Wine’s throat. Checked no pulse was evident. Pushed all the machines away from the bed and left.

The silence was deafening. The anti climatic death of his friend. Wade felt the knot in his stomach growing. He fought back the pain of thinking about the loss of all his friends and mates. He tried to focus on remembering the good times. The moments that made them happy. The gatherings in the bar after a successful mission. Smile’s on everybody’s face at feeling proud to be part of the team.

He swore to himself, for what seemed like the tenth time, that he would exact revenge on all those responsible.

“Wade I know you want to be with Crystal but there is something else I need to tell you,” said Harel motioning to his aide to bring somebody in.

Goboto was thrilled to see Wade and raced across the room.

“I not think you live. I sure vulture kill you,” he said grabbing Wade around the waist.

“No. I’m a survivor. It’s good to see you, Goboto. How are you enjoying Israel?”

Nodding affirmatively, he looked around at Harel, his aide, Dunstall, Hammerstein and Shimon. “They all dead,” he said lowering his head. “Why everybody need to die?”

“Who’s dead?” asked Wade scrunching his forehead and looking toward Harel.

Harel went on to explain the attack on the safe house. The murder of Plant and Crystal’s father. The execution of Nenwon at a deserted factory in Gaza and the suspected sighting of the doctor crossing into Syria.

Wade stood in a trance like state as the others all watched. His eyes as wide as plates. His arms straight as spears down the side of his body. Hands pointed. Teeth clenched.

“Wade … Wade … Wade,” yelled Harel standing up from behind his desk.

Relaxing Wade slowly looked across as Harel continued, “The last time I saw you like this you went on a bender killing spree … So what are you thinking?”

“You must promise me Crystal is protected. I will tell her about her father and then I’m leaving. I think you will find the doctor is the president’s daughter,” he monotonously replied.

“How do you know this?” asked Harel watching Wade pace to the door.

Without breaking stride, he turned, “Ben don’t let me down. If anything happens to her, I will not be responsible for the outcome.”

47.

Mackinnon sat at his desk very content with himself, taking sips of his two thousand dollar bottle of scotch. One of the four screens on his desk displayed images of gorgeous women frolicking in the sun on a beautiful tropical beach. Another had the latest most expensive luxury sports cars and private jets. Things were falling in to place. Markham was his own worst enemy and sure to bring about his own destruction. Drybin was childish and the blackmail material he had on him was more than enough to control him. Bysmith and Razen were proving slightly more difficult but Markham’s idiocy was helping resolve that problem. His agents were keeping tabs on Bysmith’s husband in case something desperate was required.

All he needed was to find this pesky daughter and get the documents signed.

His mobile chirped like a broken car horn. Without glancing he raised the phone to his ear. “What have you got for me?” he asked in to the secure line.

The CIA operative had been posing as a hospital intern and was detailing his daily report. Mackinnon listened intently as the agent explained about Wade and Crystal, the death of Wine and how a team had been dispatched from Mossad headquarters, noting that unfortunately they had lost contact.

“I want this report on my desk in two hours. Also it is not to be uploaded into the system and it is only for my eyes. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” came the reply as Mackinnon hit the end button.

The group of five gathered in the ready room. It was approaching 2300 hours. Mackinnon had ordered the meeting and Markham, not accustomed to not knowing why he was at a meeting, was storming around like a cage animal. All others had been ordered out.

“Leroy, this better be good,” said Markham, sarcastically.

“Mister President. Please sit down and I will explain.”

He detailed events in Tel Aviv but failed to mention anything about Geneva and the Mossad team.

“Good. With Wine gone we only need to get rid of Ross,” said Markham glaring at Razen. “I hope you have that SEAL commander ready to be court marshalled?”

“Mister President I think we need to discuss this.”

“We need to discuss nothing. He gets court marshalled for failing to follow a presidential order and if you don’t do it you will be court marshalled as well. Am I clear?” ordered Markham.

Razen was about to object as Markham pointed to the door. “Out.”

Razen gathered his paperwork, laptop and with the room, in total silence, walked to the door.

“Right, enough of this pussy footing around. What are we going to do?” asked Markham as if nothing had just happened.

“We could send in a SOG team and eliminate them all,” replied Mackinnon as quickly as the question had been asked.

“Excellent,” smiled Markham.

Bysmith sat back in her chair, raised her eyebrows waiting to see if the pair of them were joking. Neither responded only to stare at her bewildered expression.

“Are you seriously going to consider this Mister President? This is foreign soil. We can’t just waltz in and kill people, especially when some of them are ours, and in another country. Remembering, Israel is one of our allies … Do you understand the ramifications?” she asked.

“Charlotte, we are doing this and if you don’t like it I suggest you leave too.”

“Mister President. I beg of you.”

“Out,” he ordered. “My job is to make the difficult decisions and if my staff aren’t onboard then I don’t want them here.”

As the door closed behind Bysmith; Mackinnon continued, “A CIASOG team would probably be the best. Non military. Less accountability. Undercover experience and we have a strong presence in Israel.”

Drybin nodded as Markham looked across.

“Okay it’s agreed. Leroy make it happen and we keep this under wraps. Martin I can’t see the General following through with this SEAL commander so is there any way you can make it happen?”

“If he was last on the carrier, off West Africa, they would still be under AFRICOM jurisdiction. I could issue an order through AFRICOM?”

“Good. Do it.”

48.

“Captain Blackwood, CO Naval Command, Naples Italy. Who’ve I got?” he asked into the secure landline.

“Sir, this is the Pentagon. I have General Razen, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for you. Punching you through,” replied the operator.

Blackwood sat nervously forward in his chair as he wondered why the highest ranking officer in the US military was calling him directly.

“Captain. I don’t have much time. I need you to find out if a Commander Carr is stationed on your base and get back to me as a matter of urgency?” came the official order booming from the handset.

“Sir, I can already answer that. Commander Carr arrived two days ago and is now at Camp Justice, Diego Garcia. They are holed up in a makeshift facility at the far end of the airstrip. He and his team are preparing to leave either late tonight or early tomorrow morning depending on available flights.”

“Where are they heading?”

“He is still awaiting confirmation of orders but I believe Ramstein.”

“How would you come to know this Captain?”

“Sir, Commander Carr and I worked together on intelligence gathering during Desert Storm.”

The phone went quiet as Razen thought for a moment.

“Captain, are you alone?”

“Yes sir,” he stammered caught off guard at the question.

“I’m going to tell you something and it better not be repeated or your career will be over. Clear?”

“Yes sir,” he stammered again.

“I have been instructed, from the highest level, to arrange the court marshall of Commander Carr. I don’t agree with the court marshall and therefore I’m trying to get word to Commander Carr before I instigate proceedings.”

“Yes sir. What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to contact and convince Carr not to get on any flights and take leave, immediately. You raise the necessary paperwork and I will authorise it. He needs to get as far away from any US military facilities as he can. I will send you a number which I need you to pass on to him. He is only to use this number to call me and the only person who will ever call him, is me. Clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

The phone went dead.

“Wade, can we talk?” asked Harel, followed by Hammerstein, stepping into Crystal’s room.

Wade looked up. Eyes bloodshot. Three day growth. Lips chapped. Straightening his back from being hunched over Crystal’s bed. He nodded.

Both men stood on opposite sides of the bed.

“How is she?”

“Good. Getting better,” he softly mumbled.

“She looks healthier and the doctors are extremely confident she will make a full recovery.”

Wade nodded.

“I want to apologise for the other day. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault everybody’s getting killed.” Looking back at Crystal. “Ben you didn’t come in here to say this. I know you better than that. So spit it out. What do you want?”

Pulling his shoulders back, adjusting and looking at his cuffs, he placed the file, he had carried in, on the bedside table.

“Meshulam’s team were able to intercept a call between General Razen and Captain Blackwood, CO at the Naples US naval base. Razen has been instructed by Markham to court marshall Commander Carr.”

“Joe Carr?” said Wade lifting his head in surprise.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Apparently failing to follow a presidential order.”

“You have got to be kidding me. Joe Carr would be one of the most perfect soldiers you could ever meet. I don’t believe this.”

“Neither did we; so we dug deeper. It appears Carr received an order, from the top, to eliminate you and the Colonel in Sierra Leone,” he said pausing for a response. None forthcoming he proceeded, “On top of which, an order has just been issued from AFRICOM, for his arrest.”

“I was aware of the order to take us out. Do we know where he is?” said Wade, standing and pacing around the room. Harel watched on fully aware the soldier had returned. His demeanour had altered back to a confident fully assured man. His shoulders were straighter, chin out, head back, eyes wide open. Hands moving in controlled sequences.

“He is with his team at Camp Justice, Diego Garcia. We have satellite imagery of the building they’re in and appears they are getting ready to move,” replied Hammerstein officiously.

“Right. I need to get him out.”

“You can’t do it by yourself. I’ll organise a team,” said Harel.

“No. We need to keep this simple,” Wade replied walking and thinking. “Kia, Shimon, Gideon.”

“Sorry Kia is already on a mission.”

With his brain moving at the speed of light he analysedscenarios, “What about Nirit?”

“Okay,”replied Harel pausing. “But what about Crystal?”

Wade stopped in his tracks. Annoyed that he had gone into military mode and forgotten about why he was there. Looking down at his beautiful wife he scrunched his face, trapped between the desire to save his friend and the want to be with the love of his life.

“If you like, and I know you have a lot of time for Bazak, I could arrange for him to be here at all times,” said Harel.

Wade nodded. He put both hands on his wife’s cheeks and gently kissed her. “I need to do this. I’m sorry … I’m sorry I’m leaving you again,” he whispered touching his face against hers. He was sure he felt her reply subconsciously. She told him she loved him and understood why he had to go. The reassurance was what he needed. He stood and the three men left the room.

“Meshulam can you have them meet me in the training room at the ‘Unit’?” asked Wade leading the group through the hospital corridors, closely followed by Harel’s protection detail.

Thirty minutes later the three Israel’s entered the Krav Magna training facility. Wade explained the mission and advised they would be leaving in two hours. The first hour was full body contact weapons and fight training. They alternated partners; twisting, spinning, ducking, weaving as punches, kicks, grabs and knives slashed through the air.

Collapsing on the mats they all grabbed for the ice cold water bottles.

“Well done,” said Wade. He went on to explain how they would need to be at the top of their game when they entered a SEAL stronghold. How there would be only the military base guards protecting the facility and how surprise was their advantage against a trained SEAL team.

The four operatives showered, grabbed their gear, which was always ready for immediate departure, and climbed into the blacked out limousine.

The vehicle raced through Tel Aviv arriving at the furthest reaches of the international airport. It entered a large hangar and the electric doors slid shut. Four black clad figures, carrying large black duffel bags, climbed the steps of the completely black Gulfstream V long range private jet. The plane had been adapted to suit Mossad operatives and their respective requirements. An interrogation room, a weapons and ammunition store, a state of the art communications and intelligence facility. Sound proofed sleeping pods and a high altitude parachute escape hatch.

Seated in the luxurious club lounges they watched the large one hundred and twenty centimetre LCD pop up screen showing images that Hammerstein was sending. Wade continually interrupted explaining how the mission was to unfold. He advised it was a two prong assault from a HALO insert. The southern most end of the airstrip was adjacent to wetlands that stretched four miles down a peninsula. Bordered to the west by the Indian Ocean and the east by a bay. They needed to land at the most distant point from the base fence to avoid the security radar and trek across the swampy marsh land. Team One, Shimon and Gideon, would keep against the ocean and follow the main highway that circumnavigated the island, coming in on the western side of the building. They would have plenty of cover from the bushy seaside growth and the closest permanent guard post was one hundred and seventy metres further north. Hammerstein would advise on roving patrols. Once through the fence they were to set up a cover fire at the south western end of the building. Using a laser pointer Wade drew a circle, on the satellite photo, of where they needed to be. He then drew lines showing the route Team One would need to provide, as their escape.

Wade and Nirit, as Team Two, would cross the wetland, further east. The ground was less boggy but they needed to transit an extra two kilometres around buildings and enter from the north. Point of access through the base fence was very open and definitely not ideal. They would be able to come in behind the ammunitions store and use the lean-to walkway as a shield from the raised guard post forty metres adjacent the store. As the officer in charge Carr would be in the northern most room and would have his own door. His team would be spread throughout the building behind him and they would be separated by the toilets and showering facilities. Wade explained that Carr always slept with his KaBar knife in his left hand and when awoken he lunged forward and up.

“These SEAL’s are my friends and I wish them no harm. So if you can’t promise me that you will not be able to restrain yourself, should something happen, then I need you to tell me now. I will think nothing less of you, should this be the case, but I’m afraid you can’t come with me,” said Wade studying their faces. All three nodded in unison acknowledging their acceptance of Wade’s request. “Thank you,” he replied knowing full well that the only reason for their restraint would be his request not their desire.

“Okay. Gear up. Cam on. We fly in twenty,” said Wade as the bags were zipped open. Weapons checked and locked on to bodies. Parachutes donned. Camouflage cream applied by partners. Altimeters and night vision goggles, NVG’s, checked and readied. Cover hoods, gloves, helmets and straps all needed to counteract the intensity of frictional burn as they free falled and reached terminal velocity. Loose items taped to stop noise. Reflective items covered. Everybody checked and rechecked each other.

“Sir, the four minute warning light has been activated,” advised the flight steward to Wade.

The team moved to the rear room, locked and sealed the vacuum proof door, donned their respective oxygen gear and depressurised. Thumbs up all round. The escape hatch slid open and twenty seconds later four black clad figures rocketed through the air, earthbound.

49.

0200 hours, early morning. The quarter moon had finished its transverse of the night sky and was disappearing over the western horizon. The sky was rapidly getting darker, as they crossed ten thousand feet, but the naval base was lit up like Las Vegas.

With their arms locked into their bodies, feet together, head first; they plummeted toward the ground like bullets. Keeping formation all four would continually glance across to their wrist checking on the altitude. As if a choreographed ballet routine, they suddenly threw their arms out, lifted their heads, arched their backs, spread their legs and changed from a vertical dive to a flat first fall. At this slower speed they watched their altimeters. Once again, as if in a choreographed routine, they reached around and reefed the rip cord. The parachutes did their job and they slowly floated to earth.

The four gathered up their chutes. Removed all the jumping gear and buried it under dead branches. Wade confirmed their location, checked the respective routes, dialled into Hammerstein and when satisfied, was all correct, passed around the dull, green lit miniature screen. Each studied, read, memorised and raised their thumb. A word not spoken, they used hand signals and moved out.

Adept at night work and this type of terrain; Wade and Nirit raced through the head high, water soaked terrain. The vine wrapped trees provided the perfect screen for moving bodies. Leaping from fallen tree trunks to the harder mud to exposed tree roots they darted and weaved like hunting leopards. The three metre, double razor wired topped, black wire fence loomed ahead. Thrusting his fist in the air they dived for the ground. Wade signalled a lone sentry, forty metres ahead and fifteen metres along the fence.

The young naval seaman was on his first overseas assignment and couldn’t believe he had been stuck on a night watch at the furthest reaches of the base looking over a swamp. He looked down at his watch and thought ‘only two hours gone; four to go’. Totally disinterested he lent his rifle against the fence and sat down with his head in his arms. The sting in his neck felt like a large mosquito bite. He lifted his hand to swat but the knock out concoction was immediate and he crashed to the ground. Wade removed the small dart and signalledNirit.

Using the body as cover they cut through the wire. Leaning the drugged seaman across the hole; they crept, on all fours, to the rear of the ammunition hut. Wade tapped the throat mike twice, indicating they were in position. Immediately a return double tap; Team One in position. Five seconds later another tap and two seconds a further tap. Escape route ready.

In perfect sync, scanning opposite arcs of fire, Wade and Nirit crossed in front of the store. Shielded by the walkway they moved ‘crab like’ to a large above ground fuel tank. Squatted and peering out from behind the large support struts that suspended the eighty thousand litre high pressure Avgas, Wade noticed in his peripheral vision the emergency release valve. Slowly he opened the valve until only the slightest sound of escaping gas could be heard.

Turning his attention back to the dome shaped World War Two hut, that housed the SEALs, he started to rise as Nirit clamped her hand on his shoulder. He turned and she pointed at the lone figure hiding in the far corner. The young SEAL, dressed all in black, had the SCAR tucked under his right shoulder. Right hand over the trigger grip and left around the front stock. Eyes scanning one hundred and eighty degrees in the opposite direction.

Wade knew there must be another to cover the remaining arc. He signalled for Nirit to cover as he quietly climbed the tank. With his head turned to the side he slowly raised his head above the tanks curved horizon. Ensuring he was not spotted, by the base guard in the tower, he slid along the top, using the various valves and hose outlets as cover. Quiet as a mouse he would move and wait, listen and repeat. Approaching the end of the twelve metre structure he was listening when he heard the faint sound of metal on fabric. He waited and sixty seconds later the sound came again. The second guard was using the far end of the tank as his cover.

With his feet tucked under the feed pipe, that ran the full length of the tank, and his rifle over his back, he lowered himself head first. Supporting all his weight with his feet; he hand walked around the curved surface. Something caught the guards notice and he stood straighter. The action only helped bring him closer. Wade snapped his left hand over the SEALs mouth and thrust his right finger into a pressure point on the side of his neck. The moment of surprise was all Wade needed. The three seconds had passed as the unconscious state overcame the SEALs body. Using the guard’s slinged rifle he lowered the body and slid down the tank.

Three quick taps, of the throat mike, and Nirit knew all clear. Wade crept to the end of the hut, opposite side to the second guard. Nirit checked Wade was ready and threw a small pebble to the front of the hut. The natural instinct for a guard is to turn in the direction of the noise but Special Forces operatives, world wide, are trained to look where the sound might have originated. Nirit had anticipated this. The SEAL stuck his head out from the cover of the corner of the hut and was looking the opposite direction as the dart lodged in the back of his neck.

Wade and Nirit were either side of the door within ten seconds. Nirit slowly eased the door. Wade, silent as a snake, crossed the four metres separating the bed and the door.

Carr felt the cold sharp metal on his throat. He went to move as his left wrist became pinned down. Snapping his eyes open he tried to focus in the darkness.

“Don’t move Joe,” came the whisper from behind the camouflaged face. “It’s me, Wade. I’ve come to get you out of here.” As he lowered the knife, released his grip and stepped back.

Carr now fully awake, his senses heightened and his night vision starting to focus, sprung off the bed and noticed Nirit beside the door. Standing fully dressed he replaced the knife in its scabbard.

“What’s going on Wade and who’s this?”

“Not important. I’ll explain later. You just have to believe me that we need to get out of here ASAP,” he replied heading for the door. “Grab your weapon we’re not coming back.”

Like a well oiled machine they filed out the door, across the stores loading area, behind a deserted fire drill practice facility, where rotting canvas hoses still hung precariously from rusting gantries. They followed, what would once have been a white, rolled stone, path that had now become overgrown with weeds and rubbish.

Stopping short of the last building Wade whispered into his throat mike, “Tango Alpha, what’ve we got?”

“Tango Bravo, all clear,” came Shimon’s reply.

“Roger that. Coming on your three.”

Wade, Nirit, Carr raced passed the two virtually invisible Israeli’s as the two men dropped in behind them.

They followed the escape route back across the wetlands. Wade led the small contingent, at breakneck speed, darting on to the highway and back in to the thick low rise jungle growth, randomly. They covered the nine kilometres in forty five minutes.

“What’s this all about?” asked Carr between gasps of air.

The quintet were squatted in a small huddle, weapons and vision focused out. Waves crashed on the rocks thirty metres ahead. The jungle was an orchestra of noises. Animals squealing, insects chirping, bats screeching.

“I had to get you out. Apparently POTUS has issued an order for you to be court marshalled for failing to take out the Colonel and me.”

“Seriously?” questioned a stunned Carr between breaths.

Wade nodded the affirmative. Checking his watch and GPS. “Get rid of your gear. Our package should be here in four minutes and we have thirty to make the pickup. The sub won’t wait.”

The group removed their webbing, weapons, boots and clothes. Four men in black boxers and a woman in her skin coloured underwear, with rifles slung over their shoulders, burying their clothes at 0300 hours on the edge of a jungle was not what the three drunken airmen had expected as they wandered off the highway to take a leak.

“What the fuck?” said the larger of the three as Nirit’s rifle stopped inches short of his nose.

The second, and obviously the braver, or more stupid, of the three, stepped around his mate. “Hey honey. Looking for a good time,” he said ogling Nirit’s body.

The words had only just finished coming from his mouth as the three were smashed to the ground, face first. Gideon was cutting vines to tie their hands and feet. Nirit cut up her fatigues and they were blindfolded and gagged. No one spoke as Wade signalled for the three to be disorientated and left near the road. They were spun around. Dropped to the ground. Lifted. Spun again. Dragged and tied to a tree looking toward the road.

The black hard covered box had made a perfect landing on the beach. The parachute was slowly flapping in the gentle, on shore, sea breeze. They removed the wetsuits, diving gear, Draeger rebreather oxygen tanks and the five one-man Diver Propulsion Vehicles.

With the box buried, they backed in to the waves. Suddenly the early morning quietness was shattered by the screaming naval base emergency alarm. Even brighter lights now raced across the sky.

“Leaking Avgas. They’ll find it. Nothing to worry about,” said Wade. “Let’s go.”

Each team member donned their flippers and they sunk effortlessly underwater.

50.

“Meshulam, what have you got for me?” asked Kia into her throat mike that was covered by her dull navy blue hijab.

The full length, nondescript, flowing gowns and hijab were the perfect cover for the four female Mossad agents. Walking in pairs, and always keeping each other in line of sight, they hastily made their way down either side of the bombed out street.

Hammerstein and his team had been able to track Foday as he weaved his way through Syria from Quneitra Crossing, the designated area through the purple ceasefire line, to Damascus. Drones and ‘in country’ agents had provided the majority of the required intel. Leaving the confines of the city Foday went a further ten kilometres north east to Duma, a rebel held, severely destroyed, small city.

“Last we saw they were entering a building opposite the Taha Mosque. I’m sending the coordinates now. They had followed an Iranian national who we know has ties to the Iranian regime and more particularly to their Supreme Leader.”

“Iran. Why would they be involved in all this?”

“I can only guess but if what Wade said is correct it makes sense. He told us, after you left, that the doctor is the US President’s illegitimate daughter. If she is, and we have no reason to doubt him, then the Iranian’s will want to use her to negotiate with the administration. Most likely blackmail. The US were expected to downgrade trade restrictions last month and withdrew at the last moment, stating the Iranian’s had not given UN nuclear inspectors visitation rights.”

“Okay, that changes nothing. Any ideas what we can expect at this building?” she asked.

“Sorry. No intel, no description of the interior except for a walled courtyard and numbers unknown. The Drone has not detected anybody leaving since their arrival.”

“Thanks. Out,” said Kia motioning to her team who had all heard the discussion.

The morning sun crested the buildings, painting the village in stifling heat. People were mindlessly going about their morning chores. Unwashed children wearing rags for clothes played hide and seek in burned-out vehicles and bombed buildings. Broken concrete, timber and glass littered the streets. Buildings leaned and sagged like cardboard boxes left in the rain. Dried blood painted the walls like uninvited graffiti.

The two pairs came together and sat on broken slabs of concrete opposite six men, who were digging with their scratched and bruised hands, searching for survivors from the previous night’s bombings.

Avoiding the throat mike and the possibility of detection; Kia explained their plan. Levana and Keren to check the rear. If nothing detected Keren to remain as sentry. Sarah and Kia would enter the front and progress through the building. In the likelihood of a retreat all four would engage with smoke grenades. Kia casually looked around as they all gave a slight nod of understanding. Using the flowing gowns as cover they screwed the silencers to the end of their weapons.

Turning to Sarah. “As we enter, leave the spare hijab and gown inside the front entrance so we can grab it, if needed, when leaving,” said Kia.

The team found the building which appeared to be a deserted single storey apartment complex. A quick check revealed no rear access so Levana joined the inside team. The large, thick, splintered, timber front door creaked on its hinges. The hallway was dark, musty and dust wafted throughout. Doors on both sides were open and cobwebs cover the entrances. Stones worn from years of footsteps rocked under each boot. Rounding the corner, at the end of the hallway, light appeared in a blown out courtyard.

Far side, with their backs to them, was the Iranian national and his two rifle wielding bodyguards. Foday was side-on trying to get close to the Iranian but the guards kept him at bay and Prue sat on the ground, head in her hands, leaning against the wall.

“You agreed one million US with Riol. You pay or I go,” yelled Foday.

“Shut up, you idiot,” said the Iranian in his broken English. “You will be going no where. We will pay what we decide is suitable, understand?”

“One million. Not negotiable,” screamed Foday lunging at the Iranian. The guard was quicker and the butt of his rifle slammed into the side of Foday’s head knocking him to the ground.

Kia nodded. The three women stepped in to the half light. Silenced double tap rounds found their respective marks. Prue screamed but calmed as she saw Kia race across the courtyard.

“Come on we need to get out of here,” said Kia helping her to her feet.

“What about him?” said Prue.

“He’ll wake in due course,” she replied trying to get Prue to move.

“He murdered Nenwon,” she stated as tears ran down her face.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. But he doesn’t deserve to live,” she said shaking violently.

“I thought you were a doctor and had some code of ethics about killing people.”

“I am and I do but he is an animal and hardly worth considering worthy of my morals,” she said spluttering between words.

“Go with these women. I’ll take care of it,” said Kia jostling her across the stone courtyard.

Four minutes later the four Israeli’s in their gowns and hijabs and Prue in her full face Burka were hurriedly moving down the street. The heavily pitted Toyota was a welcome sight. They climbed aboard as the area reverberated to the sound of an explosion.

“Was that what I think it was?” asked Prue.

Kia nodded.

“Thanks,” she replied dropping her head in broken pride and embarrassment.

51.

“Sir we have a development,” came the voice of the Germany stationed CIA chief field agent through Mackinnon’s hands free desk top phone.

Grabbing the handset he said, “Development. What development?”

“I have photos I’m sending through. You will find it is Senator Cobart’s son. He was shot and fed to pigs on a farm outside Munich airport.”

“Senator Cobart, as in recently deceased and previously head of the Senate Repatriation Committee?” questioned Mackinnon.

“One of the same, sir.”

“What was his son doing in Germany and how did we come to find out about this?”

The agent explained how the CIA had been keeping tabs on Spanov and when his wife unexpectedly arrived in Washington, she was followed. She spent a night with Cobart junior and the next morning disappeared back to Saudi Arabia. Four days later Cobart hurriedly organises a trip to Munich and meets with Claude Jaeger. Whilst in Germany, another of the Cobart family is murdered but Dwight doesn’t return.

“I don’t understand where this is all heading?” asked Mackinnon.

“Jaeger, and his two goons, who we now know loaded the body in his car and proceeded to the airport. One goon dumped the body at the pig farm and returned to Jaeger’s mansion, outside Ingolstadt. Jaeger and the other goon flew to Geneva. Went to a private bank, at closing time. Collected from what we can only believe, as a safe deposit box and then returned.”

Silence permeated through the line until the agent asked, “What would you like us to do, sir?”

“I want thorough surveillance on Jaeger and Spanov’s wife. I want to know anytime they move.”

“Yes sir,” came the reply as Mackinnon hit the end button.

52.

“Okay people talk to me. What have we got for the day?” asked Harel of his senior advisors.

Hammerstein explained the intercepted message and the exchange between Mackinnon and one of his agents.

“Sir, I can report that Kia and her team have located and extracted the doctor and are currently on route back to Tel Aviv. ETA six hours,” reported the second field chief.

“Excellent.”

“Sir, we have received confirmation, from the IDF, that Ross and his team are aboard ‘Tannin’ and have successfully extracted Commander Carr. They are expected to be airlifted in an open sea exchange late this afternoon, local time,” said his chief aide and 2IC.

“Very good. Where are they expected to be taken?”

“Mister Ross has asked for the team to be taken to Male airport. He has arranged for Mister Dunstall to have his private jet pick them up.”

“Do we know where they are headed?”

“No sir.”

“Can you arrange for Wade to call me when he is in the air?”

His chief aide nodded the affirmative. “One further thing sir. Bazak has asked if we could relocate Mister Ross’s wife to a safe house. He advised it is very difficult for he and his team to control things in such an open facility as a hospital. I have checked with the doctor. He feels she would be fine for a move.”

“Alright. But it is imperative that this be handled with no mistakes. This woman, as far as I am concerned, is currently the most important person in Israel. Am I clear on that?” he answered sternly.

“Yes sir,” replied everybody scurrying from his office.

53.

The unmarked Augusta Westland helicopter approached visual for Male airport air traffic control.

“We have you in our sights Alpha Bravo One One Four. All clear. Approach Two One Zero degrees at Five Zero Zero. Confirm. Over.”

“Copy that,” replied the pilot as he repeated the coordinates.

“Dunstall has arranged for our immediate departure,” said Wade. “Keep your heads down, faces covered, walk straight in to the hangar and on to the plane. Don’t worry about your gear. That will be taken care of.”

The Israeli air force pilot made a perfect pin drop landing. The rotors still at full speed the team leapt from the rails. Brisk walked through the single door opening and up the steps. An agent, standing off to the rear of the hangar, nodded to Wade as he handed the fake passports with the large denomination local currency hidden on the last page, to the customs official. Without checking the passports, the official grabbed the notes, stamped each page, handed over the small booklets and exited the rear door. Ensuring he never saw the faces of the new arrivals. The ominous midnight black Gulfstream G650 purred as its Rolls-Royce jet engine kicked into life. Crew slid the large hangar doors open and the black beast rolled out. Timed perfectly, with no air traffic, the all clear was immediately provided. Thundering down the runway it shot, like a fighter jet, towards the sun.

The steward was serving beautifully presented meals. The three Israeli’s were showering and changing out of their jungle fatigues. Carr and Wade dialled Harel.

“All went well I assume Wade?” asked Harel through the handsfree encrypted satellite phone.

“Fine thanks.”

Harel explained all the latest developments.

“Dwight Cobart, you said?” questioned Wade.

“That’s correct.”

“Any details on this guy who kidnapped the doctor?” he questioned again.

“No, only that he is a Sierra Leone national. Why?”

The only sound was the air conditioning gently blowing through the ducts and the muffled sound of the steward in the galley. Wade scratched his head, leant further back in the luxurious couch, sipped his iced water. Carr watched on in fascination at how his friend handled people no matter how important they were.

“Wade; you there?” asked Harel taken back at the silence.

“I’m here,” he softly replied as if in a trance.

“So what are your plans now?”

Still more silence and then Wade sat up. “We’re going to Germany. More precisely Ingolstadt. Time to pay this Jaeger a visit.”

“What do you need from us,” asked Harel.

Thinking quickly Wade replied, “We need wheels on our arrival, preferably an unmarked blacked out van. Night operating gear, including clothes and weapons. Surveillance equipment and one of your operatives to give us a run down on what’s happened so far. I’d also suggest a direct link back to the ‘unit’. Give me five and I’ll send through a list,” said Wade reaching across and disconnecting the call.

Carr sat forward scratching his four day growth. “Was that Ben Harel as in head of Mossad?”

“Yeah. Why?” said Wade chomping into his meal and watching the other three return clean, showered and dressed in jeans, tee shirts and jackets.

“And all what you just said is going to be ready by the time we get there?” he asked.

“Sure. Why not,” answered Wade between mouthfuls of seafood pasta.

“It would take the SEAL hierarchy at least a day to organise all that and then there is still a big chance they would stuff something up. Whereas you’re telling me this will be ready in four hours. Amazing,” said Carr bewildered.

Ignoring his friend’s comment, he spoke to the three Israeli’s. “You guys, all dressed and ready, excellent,” said Wade. “Grab something to eat. Change of plan. Our next stop is Germany.”

In true Wade fashion he had already devised how they would handle events from the moment they landed. The team ate, rehydrated and discussed their roles throughout the remainder of the flight.

2100 hours and the jet made a perfect landing at the small, quite Ingolstadt airfield. Only one other flight had landed in the last forty five minutes. Most workers and ground crew had left for the day. Bitter cold wind howled from the north. The pilots and stewards, now dressed as successful business men and women, turned up their coat collars and shoved their hands in their pockets. They scuttled down the stairs and across to the single female customs officer, who was very keen to get things finalised and head home. Wade and his team, acting as guests, followed.

Formalities were short and brief. Passports and visas stamped and the officer raced for her car. She disappeared down the tarmac. As if on queue a black van turned the corner.

“Thanks guys,” said Wade shaking hands with the pilots. They turned and raced back to the comfort of the jet. “Give us four hours and we should be ready to roll,” he called out over his shoulder.

The van was cramped for the five operatives to change clothes. Carr was gob smacked with Nirit’s beauty and depended on his professionalism and years of training to stay focused on getting ready. Stripping naked they donned full length thermal knit underwear, no-noise fleecy black, body hugging, waterproof burglar suits, balaclavas, high performance gloves and rubber soled boots.

The twenty five minute, north east drive timed perfectly for the team to dress, weapon check, debrief and a final plan discussion. The forest had grown denser. The autobahn, now long gone, was replaced with a single laneway. Cresting a small hill, the road changed from bitumen to dirt and the trees brushed either side of the van.

“This will do,” instructed Wade swinging the two rear doors open. The GPS showed they were six kilometres by road and two kilometres ‘as the crow flies’.

The team gathered beside the driver’s window. “Time check … 2125… now,” ordered Wade. Each member adjusted their watch accordingly. “You two need to come through the main entrance gate 2230. Clear?”

The two Mossad agents, seated in the front, nodded the affirmative. “What if we meet any resistance?” asked the driver.

“By that stage it won’t matter. Okay, silencers and no friendlies.”

Checking the eyes of his team, from the dim van interior light, he nodded and they raced for the trees.

Jaeger’s mansion, an old converted monastery, sat perfectly on the Danube River. Fortified on three sides and shielded by dense forest; the twenty metre cliff drop to the river, on the fourth side provided the perfect protection from wannabe intruders. Satellite imagery had located and deduced the roving guard’s routines. High altitude drones gave a continual picture of surroundings and infra red identified the location of occupants.

Years of undergrowth and the onset of winter had leaves, twigs and branches covering the forest floor like a mystical thick quilt. Wind stirred the branches at the tree tops. The cold cut like a knife. Snow clouds rolled across the hills. Darting through the forest Wade followed a path indistinguishable to the untrained eye. Each team member was three metres behind the other when Wade dived for the ground. Like the tail of a snake they all followed suit.

“Beams at knee height and chest height,” he whispered into his throat microphone signalling them to close up. “I’m pretty sure there are bear traps. So we follow each other’s footprints,” he ordered.

“Rat tail, rat tail, come in. Justice over,” came the words through Wade’s earpiece.

“Rat tail copy, over,” whispered Wade bending to slide under the lower infra red light beam.

“You have three unknowns at your ten, one hundred metres. A further two another one sixty behind them. These two are well hidden and appear to be brandishing personnel rocket launcher and grenade launcher,” said the ‘unit’ drone operator.

“Copy that Justice. Out.”

With the group gathered Wade explained the new plan. Gideon and Shimon would take out the first three, Nirit and Carr the two hidden. Wade would continue, clearing a path to the house.

Dressed in camouflage clothes with leaves and branches from their hats, the three CIA agents must have received a very basic introductory course on field camouflage. Their weapons not covered and the face cream reflecting in the partly visible moon; they stood out like a beacon. Gideon and Shimon crawled a further forty metres and took up sniper position behind a large fallen stump spanning a small, non flowing, watercourse.

Nirit and Carr circled through the trees aware the second group were more skilled. Like cats crossing rice paper they moved from solid branch to solid branch always concentrating on not breaking a twig or standing on something loose or moveable. The second group had utilised a swale drain and had perfect one hundred and eighty degree clear sight but had not expected anybody to come from behind.

The noise of insects and crickets, in the swale, helped blanket any sounds. On all fours they moved through the moist, boggy ground.

The CIA operative spun as the faces of his two companions blew all over him. Bringing up his weapon the 5.62mm silenced round lodged directly above his nose. Shimon and Nirit had timed the assault perfectly. The three CIA bodies crashed to the ground. The closer of the two hidden gunmen raised his head. Carr’s razor sharp garrotte sliced through his throat like a hot knife through butter. The second turned to feel Nirit’s knife lunge through his throat and up into his head.

“Wade copy,” said Carr.

“Go ahead.”

“The first three were a CIA hit squad. But the second two, who were watching the CIA guys, we’re not sure. Could be private but the gear suggests otherwise. Either way definitely at the pointy end of the spectrum.”

“Justice. What’s the situation ahead,” he asked.

“One stationed on the cliff. Two man roving patrol currently on the west side and stationary. Has been for five minutes. Infra red shows three together in one room, possibly sleeping, southwest corner, top floor. Ground floor another three. Appear seated around a fire. Four moving around, south end in the kitchen. We detected a dog moving around inside, four minutes ago, but not seen since.”

Wade listened to the drone operators report as the team took up a defensive position four hundred metres from their objective and a clear view of the rear of the mansion.

“Rat tail. We have movement. A shot was fired from the house and the cliff guard has fallen into the river … wait … three more shots. The roving guards have just been taken out.”

The shots echoed up the river.

A forty bed mansion, owned by a billionaire and run by a staff of nine, ten kilometres from its closest neighbour would not have so few lights on. Wade pondered what was happening. Eager to keep advancing and keep the element of surprise; he stood as the earpiece sprung to life again.

“Rat tail. Rat tail. Infra red shows both groups of three have just been shot and the four moving appear to have vanished.”

“Copy that,” replied Wade dropping back on his haunches.

As if in a movie, the house suddenly became enveloped in darkness. All lights gone the few available stars provided limited visibility. All team members reached for their night vision goggles, except Wade. Having mastered the art of using a monocled NVG he preferred the option of one eye watching with natural light.

The team advanced Indian file from the safety of the forest across the two hundred metre perfectly manicured lawns. The large trunked Spruce trees, spaced seven to ten metres, provided only minimal coverage. Weapons aimed. Heads pivoting like sideshow clowns. Half crouched they made it to the rear door.

The plan was evolving as they moved. Dependent on sign language Shimon and Gideon raced for the front door. Both groups entered simultaneously. The rear solid door opened into a small cubicle that served as a wet clothing area. Two jackets, hanging above gumboots, dripped on the floor. Another solid door and into the kitchen. Wade’s NVG caught sight of the dead dog shoved under the stainless steel bench. Blood covered the floor. Two chefs, throat slit, were shoved into the two large ovens. Following the boot impression blood trail Nirit crossed the kitchen and slowly pulled the double hung door toward her. Carr dropped to his knee and Wade slipped through. The twelve seat dining table had three settings of a finished meal still evident.

The three operatives fanned out and closed in on the three high backed chairs that sat facing the raging open fire. With the barrel of his rifle against the closest chair Wade leapt to the front facing the chair. The three slumped heads were indistinguishable. The bullets had entered from the rear and the faces blown to oblivion. With her head cam Nirit shot photos back to Mossad headquarters of the bodies and fingerprints.

Exiting the lounge Gideon signalled all clear on the ground floor. Shimon waited at the base of the stairs. The narrow, single flight, staircase hard against the wall was out of character with the large mansion. The small landing opened like a hotel floor leading to multiple bedrooms. The team searched from north to south. The second last room a further three dead guards. Shot while sleeping.

“Rat tail. We have confirmation that the three seated were Jaeger and his two bodyguards,” came the highly accented Israeli voice.

Gathered beside the dining table, the five team members knelt.

“Any thoughts?” asked Wade.

“How the hell did they get out of here?” asked Carr.

“We need to search again,” ordered Wade. Moving through the ground floor they opened doors, lifted rugs, moved furniture searching for a possible escape passage. Gathered in the kitchen Wade studied the surroundings.

“Of course. Come on,” he said motioning to the rear exit.

Stopping in the wet clothes cubicle. Nirit with her torch following Wade’s every move. He reefed the jackets from the hooks, then kicked the gumboots. Searching the ceiling, walls and floor he found what he was looking for.

“What is it?” asked Carr.

“See the blood stops here and seems to vanish in that gap between the floorboards,” he said pointing at the floor. “I think we’ve found their escape route.”

“Great but how do we get in there?” asked Carr shuffling through the crowded room.

Gideon grabbed the tap faucet that projected from the wall over the floor mounted tub.

“Step back. I think you will find this is our access,” he said turning the tap and pulling out from the wall. Slowly the tub lifted one inch above the floor. Gideon pushed and it slid across revealing stairs leading down. The small black cavernous opening reeked of mould and mildew. Water could be heard slowly dripping. Cracking a glow stick Gideon stepped on to the ladder and descended.

Careful that they were not walking into a trap, Wade waited until Gideon signalled all clear and was in position to provide covering fire enabling the rest to enter. The wet slimy timber stairs creaked and groaned under their weight. The three hundred year old circular tunnel had been constructed from clay fired bricks. A small stream had eroded a path down the middle. Cobwebs, that had recently been broken, moved and swayed as the bodies past. Rats could be heard scurrying. The bent over team members struggled to keep their weapons at their shoulders.

The size of the tunnel got smaller and smaller. Afraid they were walking into a trap Wade decided to kill the glow stick and use NVG’s. The green eerie light, of the goggles, played havoc with the foul humid air and the ever decreasing ceiling height.

Monks had built the tunnels so they could bring those, seeking solitude, into their monastery unnoticed. They had also made it an escape route in the case of an invasion. To confuse would be attackers they had built multiple intersections that, after one or two corners, would come to a dead end. To add to the confusion, the tunnel was continual twisting and turning. Those not accustomed to the route would feel as if they were going in circles. Gideon, a master tracker, had found the hidden markers and led the way.

The descending tunnel had got so low they needed to release their left hand from the rifle stock to use as a lever from the ground. A trickle of water had grown to a small stream, not dissimilar to a city sewer. Shuffling along with their knees near their faces, Gideon turned the corner and never saw the early warning pit. He splashed face first in to the water. The guard who was charged with watching their rear hadn’t expected anybody and spun unleashing 7.62mm rounds from his AK47 on fully automatic. Thirty rounds clanged and ricocheted along the ancient bricks. Gideon’s unconscious head popped out of the water as a round entered his left eye killing him instantly. The four remaining operatives dove for the stream, spreading their arms and legs to resist the flowing water.

His rifle now slung across his back Wade heard the magazine click empty. He leapt to his feet. Sprung across the pit, that was sucking the dead body of Gideon under and using his Parkour skills pushed off the wall. The larger, more open, slightly lit, stone walled area was perfect for Wade as he slammed his boot in to the head of the African. The huge black man crashed against the wall. Shaking his head, to focus, he opened his eyes only to see an elbow smash in to his nose. Blood gushing across his face, the African lunged. Wade never saw the flick knife as it sprung from under the African’s sleeve and slashed across his chest. The hot burning sensation ripped through his body. He staggered. His eyes half closed and he felt everything go into slow motion. He felt his heart pumping at a ridiculously fast rate. Blood covered everything. He looked down to what seemed like a pool of red. He tried to lift his arms but they wouldn’t move. Suddenly his world went black.

The gentle hum and the soft flow of air was not what he was expecting as he opened his eyes. The bed was soft and the sheets were like feathers.

Nirit’s face was four inches from Wade’s as she said, “Thank god you are alright.” She kissed him on the right cheek and then on the left. Then again on the right and then again and again.

“Thanks but I think you can stop now,” he said smiling and realising they were on the jet. “What happened.”

Nirit explained how Carr had shot the man who had attacked him and the fight they had with another three Africans. Their photos had been uploaded to the ‘unit’ and they were identified as Sierra Leone nationals. She also explained about an unusual weapon they found which appeared to be a prototype. How the steward, on the flight, was a qualified medic and had patched him enough to get to Israel.

Wade tried to keep his eyes open but started to drift. He saw the wide open desert of his homeland, northern Australia. Rivers slowly meandering along forming watering holes and a beautiful oasis amongst the harsh red bull dust. Animals freely roaming and the wide blue cloudless sky stretching from horizon to horizon. He sat crossed legged, shirtless, covered in the traditional body paint; listening to an elder talk of The Dreaming and the creation of all things.

He smiled as he listened to the wonders of his people. The happiness it gave him to feel part of a culture, a belief, an age-old history.

Suddenly his joy was shattered as he saw the black clouds rolling across the sky. The sun disappeared. Day become night. The air cold. He remembered the last time he saw this was when his mother and sister were killed.

Desperately he fought to open his eyes and escape the darkness; to no avail.

54.

Drinking his coffee, under the umbrella that protected him from the harsh morning sun, the undercover CIA agent glanced over the folded newspaper. The never ending stream of cars and buses down the narrow one way street had aided in hiding his presence as he had frequented the different shops over the last three mornings. Dressed in jeans, up turned collared shirt, a large rimmed hat and sunglasses; the shoulder length jet black hair hid the ear piece.

Students on their scooters and push bikes entered and exited the large paint peeling green graffiti covered gates. School of textile and design was the sign hanging above the entrance.

Luckily, for the agent, money bought information and the hospital orderly was desperate for money. He explained how a plan had been made for the movement of an American woman from the hospital to rooms above the school and that it was coordinated by, what he believed to be, Mossad agents.

Having spent the day with its rear end jammed hard in against the hospital maintenance workshop, suddenly, under the guise of an emergency callout, the ambulance raced from the hospital’s rear acute care carpark.

Bazak, disguised as the driver’s assistant, sat in the rear. Crystal hidden in a false bottomed acute care capsule had been sedated. A second female agent, also dressed as an ambulance officer, appeared to be fussing over her medical equipment but was instead watching a drone image of the streets as they raced through.

Agents had been posted along the route, atop buildings overlooking the school and within the school grounds. Shoppers and late night partygoers covered the streets. 2045 hours, fifteen minutes before closing time and curfew, was the perfect time to blend in with the crowds. Sirens blaring the vehicle shot into the courtyard. The gates were slammed shut. The building plunged in to darkness. Bazak, and the female agent, both wearing NVG’s reefed the capsule from the rear door and sprinted the ten metres to his waiting team. NVG’s thrown inside, the door was slammed shut and the lights returned. Complete exercise had taken forty five seconds, as they pretended to remove a gurney from the ambulance side door.

Weapons, food, medical supplies were all ferried in by agents posing as students. Additional staff came and went disguised as teachers or lecturers.

The coffee shop agent’s earpiece beeped. “What have you got for us?” asked the CIA comms controller from his mobile van, eight blocks away.

Coughing, and bringing his hand to his face, he spoke into the microphone enabled wrist watch. “No movement since sun up. Three snipers still on the roof and no way of telling how many inside. There are students and teachers coming and going all day and in to the night. Best guess first floor south corner but not confirmed.”

“Copy that. Stay put another twenty minutes. When you see a royal blue television broadcast van you need to get out immediately, go west.”

The agent tapped his watch twice, to indicate the affirmative, and returned to his paper.

On queue the van drove past the coffee shop and pulled in to a truck loading zone, fifty metres further on. A beautiful, young and immaculately dressed female television reporter casually stepped from the passenger’s seat clasping a microphone. The driver climbed out and starting raising the broadcast mast. A technician climbed from the rear, carrying a small toolbox, followed by a cameraman loading his camera on his shoulder. The cameraman and reporter walked to the front of the school, stood to the left of the gate and started recording. The mast at full height the driver reentered the van. The technician walked to a small green box beside the electricity pole. Unscrewed the cover. Moved wires and attached a small anode to the side of the box. Checked the nearly indistinguishable light was green, replaced the cover and also returned to the vehicle.

Ten minutes later the reporter stopped talking. The cameraman lowered his camera and opened the film cover. Slid the cartridge out. A small canister, the size of a matchbox, fell through the grate and into the sewer drain. Pretending to curse himself they returned to the van and drove off.

The Israeli secret service intelligence officer had been watching the whole affair from a street pole mounted CCTV. Thinking nothing was out of order she switched her attention to another screen.

Bazak felt his eyes start to close. They were as heavy as lead. Fifteen minutes from midnight and he had been awake for thirty hours. The others had convinced him to get some sleep and he crashed on the bed of the second last room.

The safe house had been kitted out superbly. The largest room, served as a lounge and conference room, was closest to the front gates. A ten seat table sat in the middle of the room and six large lounge chairs sat facing a huge LCD television. Two swinging doors, that replicated a western movie bar scene, opened to a huge commercial size kitchen. A hall with four bedrooms off to one side led away in the opposite direction. All windows were bullet proof and the walls, ceiling and floor soundproofed. If compromised the entire facility could self function with water, food, air-conditioning and electricity for two weeks. The furthest bedroom served as the comms room. It was stationed and monitored by agents 24/7. Transmission blocking devices activated continuously. Hidden cameras and microphones covered all the internal and up to thirty metres externally.

The five man CIA SOG team had entered Israel early the night before on a Greek container ship, as ship hands, cooks and a logistics controller. Two of the team had entered the school during business hours, disguised as students and had hidden in the school cafeteria. A further two arrived in an electricity service truck and parked in the exact location of the television van. Dressed in overalls and city department insignia, CCTV watched as they exited the van, crossed the road and checked electricity meter boxes. Returning to the same pole, and green box, as the television technician they unscrewed the cover, checked their watches, waited until the green light changed to red and pushed the button.

The building plunged into darkness. Backup generators tried to engage but coughed, spluttered and died. Undetectable fumes rose up through the sewer system, flooding the kitchen and bathrooms. Deadly gas spewed from the canister dropped by the cameraman. Two consecutive explosions, planted by the hidden SOG members, ripped through the lower floor classrooms dislodging the floor structure. A fifth agent appeared shouldering a portable rocket launcher. The explosion destroyed the gates. The building leant to the side and the stairs started to crumble under their own weight.

The three outside agents raced across the debris, through the smouldering courtyard and joined their team mates at the bottom of the stairs. One squatted behind the stair as sentry and the remaining, wearing gas masks and NVG’s divided in two groups and scampered across broken timbers, bricks, glass and on to the first floor. Slamming his foot in to the smashed, half hinged front door, the lead agent signalled them back as the grenade rocked through the building.

Aware the Israeli police would be on the scene in less than five minutes they raced through the half collapsing lounge. The first two turned into the hall as the Tavor 5.56mm semi automatic gunfire ripped through their bodies. Their two companions, five metres behind, returned fire; the Mossad agent, unable to see his opponents, was cut in half.

“Two down,” came the voice through the CIA throat mike. “Charlie. Can you come up from the north end? … Charlie… Charlie … come in Charlie,” yelled the agent as more rounds ripped down the hallway.

The explosion had rocked Bazak out of his short sleep. With the building in total darkness he donned his NVG. Two further explosions had his ears thundering and his head felt like a balloon about to explode as he struggled to keep his balance. He had seen the SOG members enter the hall. The green light of the NVG gave a slightly distorted view but years of training and he found his targets. Aware there were more he kept firing. His third kill was through the head which threw the agent backwards. The fourth agent, not expecting his mate to crash on to him, lost his balance. The round left the rocket launcher flew down the hall smashing into the ceiling behind Bazak. The explosion ripped his body to shreds and collapsed the remainder of the building, killing everybody left inside.

55.

Wade coughed, the bandage across his chest was restricting his breathing. The doctor had advised that he should take at least a week’s rest to help the stitches heal. Wade told him he had an hour and then he was leaving his surgery and the doctor needed to do whatever he had to so Wade could keep working. Doubling up on stitches and applying tight restrictive bandages was the only option.

It was early. The sun tried to break through the clouds. Staff were racing about readying for the morning briefings. Wade, followed by Nirit, entered Harel’s office. The director was behind his desk, leaning back, drinking his coffee and listening. Kia and Hammerstein stood to his left. Harel’s senior aide had just finished explaining about major breaches to their northern defences.

“Wade. How do you feel?” asked Harel standing and walking around his desk.

“Okay … I guess,” he replied ignoring Harel’s eyes and handshake and collapsing into the chair.

“You don’t look so great. Are you sure you should be doing this?” he asked again.

“Ben. I’m fine, alright,” he said with a harsh tone. “What did you want to tell me?” he asked only lifting his eyes.

“Wade … I have something I need to tell you and I could only tell it to your face.” He paused.

Slumped over he fought hard to take a breath. The bandages felt like a rubber band tightening every breath.

“Ben what is so important that you are having trouble saying? Wade asked holding his breath.

Kia approached and put her hand gently on his shoulder. “I know Director Harel was intending to tell you this but I think I should,” she said waiting for his response.

Looking up into her eyes he saw the strain. He had worked with Kia in some of the most difficult situations imaginable and they had had to deal with extreme decisions that meant life or death. But something about her expression was different. “What’s happened?”

As one of the most highly trained and toughest (physically and mentally) female killers on earth she stared at the man she considered her brother. Her eyes watered. She stood like a rock. She took a breath. “Crystal’s dead,” she said as if the words were poison.

Wade had known since the black clouds of his dream that something had happened but that didn’t prepare him for the shock. He kept his eyes locked on Kia. He didn’t blink or move. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate he could not make anything focus. The room was deathly quiet.

He felt like the blood had been sucked out of him. His face was as cold as ice. He didn’t know if he was angry or for the first time in his life; scared. Whether to lash out or breakdown. It was as if all his emotions had drowned with those two words. Moving his lips, he asked, “How. When?”

Everybody remained stationary. Kia replied. “Yesterday at the design school safe house. An anti personnel rocket launcher. Everybody was killed including Bazak and Goboto. We believe a CIA SOG team hit squad.”

Wade stood and clenched his fists. He had spent a lifetime avoiding the pain of death and now it was starting to take its toll. He closed his eyes and looked to his spirits for guidance. He concentrated and concentrated willing his mother to appear. He watched in his mind his life flash before him. The hundreds of faces that had died from his hands appeared like a collage on a movie reel.

‘Wade I’m here’ his mother said as he watched her slowly reach for his hand. ‘you must return her to the earth and then we will all wait for your time. Do not seek revenge but only what is right. Remember the snake will not hunt the fox that destroyed its egg but will only defend its self and provide for its young. You must be strong like the snake.’ Her vision faded as the image of his beautiful wife appeared. She smiled and floated about as if in a trance. The pain had not diminished but it felt nice to see her.

Slowly standing Wade kissed Kia on both cheeks. “You are a true friend. Thank you.”

Turning he walked past Nirit. Opened the door and walked out.

“What do we do now? Where will he go?” asked Harel.

“I don’t know. But I do believe we need to keep an eye on him,” said Kia. “Nirit can you follow him?”

56.

His second homeland felt like a prison with the walls closing in on him. Wade shuffled through the three sets of automatic, bullet proof, glass doors. The spring morning appeared to get darker. Clouds got denser but he never noticed. He walked passed the crowds gathering for their morning coffee, the shop keepers spreading their daily display of goods and kept heading west until he reached the Mediterranean coastline. Turning north, he passed gardens, bombed out buildings, graffiti riddled landmarks, construction sites, shops, beautifully presented white sandy beaches and seaside landscapes.

He was oblivious to the remarkable array of different surroundings that Tel Aviv presented. He never saw or felt Nirit following him. His jacket would rise up over his belt and passerby’s would stare at the exposed Sig P226 pistol tucked in his rear waistband.

Looking all the while like some foreign terrorist with disheveled hair, a ten day growth, dirty boots, military style pants, white tee shirt and a faded, size too small, leather jacket. He crossed an abandoned, bombed out concrete carpark. Rounded a derelict rubbish filled bus shelter and approached a six foot barbed wire topped fence bordering the opposite side. Realising, he was blocked in, he turned to be confronted by two young street hoodlums looking for trouble or somebody to rob.

The closer and larger of the two yelled, “Money now or I cut you.” Pulling a knife from behind his back.

Without hesitating Wade covered the three metres separating them, in two strides. Whipped his gun from his waistband with his right hand. Smashed his left fist in to the side of the head of the bewildered attacker and aimed at the second. His fury was unthinkable. His eyes cold and deadly. His arm and pistol rock steady. He wanted so desperately to kill someone.

“Wade. No,” screamed Nirit jumping between he and the attacker. “Don’t. They’re not worth it.”

Watching Wade’s eyes, she waited until she could sense a reaction. He blinked and fractionally lowered the pistol. Turning she yelled to the stunned second guy, “Get your friend and get out of here; now.” She grabbed him by the jacket and threw him across the concrete. He crashed on to his unconscious accomplice. Frantically the attacker helped his mate to his feet and all the while not taking his eyes off Wade.

Wade sunk to the ground. The pain was unbearable. No matter how hard he tried the thoughts of the Dreaming and the elders would not appear in his mind. He felt alone.

“Wade … Wade,” said Nirit. “Wade please. I want you to come with me. I want to show you something.”

Without speaking he stood and let Nirit lead him. They walked back to the headquarters. Down to the agent’s carpark and found Nirit’s car. The little two door sedan was squashy but clean and reliable. They drove, silently, for three hours entering the Nimrod Fortress National Park. Halfway up the mountain, to the fortress, Nirit drove off into a small unseen clearing and parked.

“Come on,” she said to the still silent Wade.

One hundred metres, further around the mountain, they came to a clump of olive trees that appeared to be sprouting out of the rocks. Climbing through the trees a tunnel appeared. Ducking they entered. The surroundings were bathed in green luminous light. The stone walls looked like they had been washed with smooth wax covered rust. Ancient symbols and carvings adorned the walls. They increased in size, intricacy and number as the tunnel grew larger the deeper they went.

Wade couldn’t understand the ancient writings or symbols but they reminded him of the Australian aboriginal caves. He felt a sense of returning, a sense of comfort.

They crossed over a three thousand year old stone arched foot bridge. An emerald green, crystal clear, still as glass, two metre deep pool of water appeared. Three dinner plate size holes, that disappeared in to the ceiling, provided the beams of light. Magnificent stone block and brick arches, rose ten metres and seemed to float on the water. Forty metres ahead Wade saw a white as snow sandy beach, bathed in sunlight. An oasis of trees, grasses, ferns and palms spread out behind.

“What is this place?” he quietly asked.

Grabbing his hand, she led him to the beach and through the trees. Three exquisitely presented caves, like bedrooms cut into the side of a mountain, presented themselves. The stone arch entries were adorned with wild flowers. Beds of straw were covered with Persian rugs. Colourful wall hangings hung throughout. Ornaments and ancient stone jugs were scattered. The entire area was warmed by an underground hot spring. A waterfall could be heard in the distance.

“Please sit,” said Nirit.

Looking at the hieroglyphic’s Wade sunk on to the rugs. The comfort and warmth were intoxicating.

“I spent the first year of my life, in Israel, living here,” she said.

Unsure how to respond and what this all meant Wade just looked waiting for her to continue.

“My parents brought my older brother and I from Tunisia when I was six years old. We were refugees escaping a dictator who was hell-bent on punishing my father for speaking out against the regime. We meet a Muslim family, when we landed in Egypt, and they told us of this place and how it had served as a refuge for travellers for hundreds of years. My father, unsure of how we would be accepted by the Israeli people, decided we would hide here until he was certain it was safe. He and my brother would go down the mountain each night looking for opportunities, for work, for food.”

“Your parents and brother, where are they now?”

“Dead,” she whispered lowering her head.

Slowly looking around the cave he eventually spoke. “How?”

“Shot by a Syrian gang looking for money.”

Again Wade did not speak for awhile. “Why not you?”

“I was here with another family who had arrived days before. My parents and brother had decided we were leaving for Tel Aviv the next morning and had gone to make arrangements. They never returned and I found them at sunrise, shot and lying at the base of the mountain.”

“So I guess that’s how you came to be with the ‘unit’?”

Nirit nodded the affirmative.

They spent hours talking, discussing beliefs, sitting and lying in silence. The sunlight was fading and Nirit had the area bathed in candle light. Wade was fighting the urge to sleep.

“Thanks for bringing me here. It’s very nice and I’m sorry it brings back sad memories but I have things I need to do.”

“Thank you and I can only imagine what loosing Crystal must be like but I want to give you something.”

She left the room and returned ten minutes later with a small earthenware dish. The fine, bright orange powder looked like sherbet. “Place some of this on your tongue and try not to swallow it.”

“What is it?”

“Please trust me. It will help. It is an old concoction handed down through generations of my people.”

Pouring the powder on his tongue she told him to lie back, with his eyes closed, and try not to think of anything. The numbness spread across his tongue, through his mouth. His face started to tingle. His cheeks were heavy. His eyes would not open. He felt drugged and could not resist it. His world went quiet.

“Hi. How do you feel?” asked Nirit as Wade struggled to get his eyes focused. Slowly sitting up he realised he was on the sandy beach and naked. Sunlight was beaming on his face.

“What happened?” he asked looking at Nirit crossed legged and wearing only her underwear.

“I gave you a potion that stops the mind from thinking about things. It gives you a chance to rationalise. It helps you sort and analyserelevant information.”

“Why am I naked and on this beach? And why are you like that?”

“I know you have a strong belief in your aboriginal Dreaming and I feel the same about my heritage and its beliefs. My ancestors believed that to relax the mind one must first be rid of bad thoughts. These thoughts are trapped in our skin, muscles and major organs. So as you started to relax you sweat. Your body was saturated in sweat and I couldn’t keep it cool. Therefore, I undressed you and carried you into the water. Hence here you are.”

Aware he had just lost the love of his life and their child, he desperately tried to resist the urge to look at Nirit. A stunning half naked woman sitting beside him was difficult and Nirit realised. Leaning over her long golden blonde hair fell down her shoulders and her breasts fought to escape the bra. She kissed him on the cheek.

“Wade I want to help. Please let me.”

Wade sat back and stared at the gently flowing waterfall, willing the pain to subside but he knew no amount of belief could help. Only time would heal.

“Thanks but you already are,” he whispered.

57.

As they re-entered the outskirts of Tel Aviv Wade felt his demons return. Nirit instantly noticed the change in his demeanor.

“What do you want to do?” she asked watching him opening and closing his hands and staring at the dashboard. Driving a few more streets she stated, “I believe the funeral is today. Would you like to go straight there or to the ‘Unit’?”

“Unit thanks,” he said softly.

The remainder of the drive was in silence, except when Nirit spoke on her mobile phone. They entered the carpark, rode the lift to Harel’s office, knocked and entered. Nirit explained to Harel and Kia what had happened.

“We have information that Meshulam has been able to uncover. Would you like it now or after the funeral?” asked Harel.

“Now thanks,” said Wade.

Harel called Hammerstein to his office and all five sat in the lounge chairs as he explained events. When completed everybody waited for Wade’s response.

“What do you want to do now?” asked Harel.

“I attend a service for my wife and daughter. You arrange for her body to be returned to Australia. Kia, Nirit and I leave for the US straight after,” he ordered standing and heading for the door with Kia and Nirit following.

The funeral service was beautifully presented. Flowers covered the chapel. Attendees cried, sniffed and choked back emotion as the priest and speakers gave their eulogies. Mossad headquarters was closed with the entire staff at the church. Something that was normally only bestowed upon the death of a director or a senior politician that was associated with the intelligence community. Friends and colleagues offered condolences and words of encouragement. Wade hadn’t heard a word since he had entered the church.

Kia knew Wade would want time alone with Crystal. She knew that from his perspective she was not dead, only in the physical form. She had gone to another place waiting for him. Kia and Carr eventually got everybody out of the church.

Wade stood over the casket.

“I will miss you, my darling. Both of you … but I know we will be together some day soon … I am truly sorry for bringing you here … I will miss your beautiful smiling face, your gorgeous green eyes and the happiness your brought in to my life … I love you … I love you so much,” he said bending down and kissing her cheeks. He watched as his hands shook and his face felt numb. His legs were like jelly as he grabbed at the sides of the coffin.

“Why … why did you take her from me?” he screamed as the words reverberated through the church.

Harel watched through the small gap in the door. Wade stood, turned, face scrunched up, eyes bloodshot, teeth clenched and as he passed he said, “I promise they will pay … I will not stop until I have avenged her death.”

He strode hastily from the church not looking back.

Kia and Nirit were seated in the unmarked Landcruiser. Dunstall and Carr stood at the driver’s door.

“Wade can we help?” asked Carr.

“Thanks Joe but not this time.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“The states and I’m leaving now.”

“Would you like to use my plane?” asked Dunstall. “It’s the least I can do. It’s fuelled, ready, the pilots are on standby and I have arranged everything Ben said you would need.”

“Okay thanks,” he said climbing into the car.

“Did you understand everything Meshulam told us this morning?” asked Kia lying back in the luxurious leather lounge chair.

“Yeah,” replied Wade looking out over the European Alps as they cruised by at forty five thousand feet.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“What are you talking about. Of course I heard him.”

“I know you’re angry and I know you want revenge but you and I have always planned our missions to the nth degree and that’s not happening this time because you haven’t even heard or taken in the whole story. You have a photographic memory. You only ever need to hear something once and you will remember it forever … tell me, who are the members of the so called ‘Group of Five’?”

Kia watched as he screwed up his face trying to remember names.

“Markham, Bysmith, Razen.”Pause.

“What about the other two?”

“Alright, alright. I guess I don’t know or didn’t hear,” he said turning away to avoid her stares.

Kia explained all they knew as the long range luxury private jet raced across the sky.

“We arrive in Washington approximately 1600 hours local time. Our people have located and are watching all five. We know Markham and Bysmith will be attending a formal fundraising dinner tonight. The others will most likely be home or at their office. Thoughts?” she said.

“Mackinnon is obviously some sort of lady’s man. Nirit can you look after him. Kia, you happy with Drybin, even though he has a grudge against women?” Both women nodded in acknowledgement and agreeance. “I’ll worry about Razen.”

“Also we need to be at this function by 2200 hours,” he added.

“We have people in both Markham and Bysmith’s protection details and cars will be ready on our arrival. Nirit you will need to wear something seductive. Mine will need to be unflattering and Wade you need military attire,” said Kia.

They ate, hydrated, check weapons, read reports and dressed.

58.

Washington airport was covered in a film of snow and a biting wind whistled across the runway. The jet taxied into the hangar and the two large sliding doors were quickly closed. Three unmarked, black Suburban’s, idling, with the heaters blazing, looked distinctly CIA.

Wade dressed in formal US Army ceremony attire, as a full bird colonel, exited first. Hair cut short, smooth shaved, perfect pressed clothes, shiny boots. Nirit in a short, tight fitting, low cut gold dress followed. Kia, was last, carrying an open laptop, wearing jeans, boots and leather jacket.

The three Mossad drivers gathered as Kia explained. “Mackinnon has just left his office for a bar called the Round Robin on Pennsylvania Avenue. A table has been arranged for him at the back. He is expecting a hooker. She has been stopped on route and Mackinnon’s driver tonight is one of us. Nirit you need to get moving,” she ordered watching Nirit shuffle, as quickly as she could, in her extremely tight dress.

“Drybin has organised a game of cards for 1900 hours at his home. He has catering coming in at 1800 hours. The catering staff have already been paid off and we have arranged to turn away his three playing partners.”

Looking across at Wade. “Unfortunately we are struggling to get any information on Razen. We believe he has booked a driver for 1730 hours but have no idea of his destination. His routine suggests he will go home but I cannot confirm. Sorry,” said Kia.

“Don’t worry, I think I’ll meet him at his office.”

“Wade, his office is the Pentagon. You don’t expect to just walk in … Do you?”

Wade half smiled and headed for the car followed by his driver. “Meet you at the function centre 2145,” he yelled over his shoulder.

The late afternoon traffic was typically slow and gridlocked with the snow adding a further dimension of problems.

The soldiers on duty, at the main entrance gate to the Pentagon, had heard all the excuses possible from somebody attempting to enter without a pass. When Wade arrived with his US Army Special Forces ‘Green Beret’ insignia on his shoulder and various bravery awards and commendations, they all stood to attention, saluted and stepped aside. The guards felt his demeanour was definitely Special Forces and no one intended to question him.

Having been to the Pentagon, with Colonel Wine, a few times prior he was comfortable with the general direction he needed to head. Walking the corridors of the world’s largest office building Wade focused on his job at hand. Most staff ignored him, were talking on mobile phones or were in groups. Those that acknowledged his rank and spoke, or saluted, he nodded without speaking. Fifteen minutes later he arrived at the entrance to the office of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The two marines, on guard duty, snapped to attention.

“Sir,” they both said perfectly in sync as one leant round and opened the door.

Wade entered and was meet by two female Lieutenants sitting behind desks typing and a Captain on the phone.

“Can we help you, sir?” asked the older of the two women.

“To see Razen,” ordered Wade abruptly in his best southern drawl.

“He is expecting you, sir?” she asked taken back at his tone.

“No, but he’ll see me.”

“Yes sir. Your name sir?”

“Ross.”

Punching the numbers on her phone she waited. “Sir, I have a Colonel Ross to see you,” she said looking up to see Wade opening the door.

“Sir, you cannot go …” Wade heard her say as he slammed and locked the door.

General Razen sprang to his feet.

“Colonel I don’t know what the hell you’re doing but you can’t just come barging in here. Do you not realize who I am?” he shouted rounding his desk.

Standing two feet away he raised his hand to prod Wade in the chest. Faster than the eye could see Wade’s right hand flew up grabbed Razen’s hand and snapped it backwards. Bones in his fingers and wrist shattered. He went to scream as Wade slapped his left hand over his mouth and smashed the back of his head on to the desk. Reaching across the desk Wade grabbed a four sided letter opener and slammed it through the General’s other hand.

Razen at five inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter was unable to move from Wade’s hold. Blood pumped from his hand and the colour drained from his face.

“The name’s Wade Ross. You wanted me dead, well bad luck, you failed. Now it’s my turn. You make one sound and I’ll snap your neck. Got it?”

Gasping for breath and struggling to stay conscious he nodded.

“Good … now call those three out the front and tell them we’ll be busy for a few hours and they might as well leave. One false move and they die as well as you.”

Wade removed the letter opener and threw Razen into his chair, lifted the receiver and held it to his mouth.

“Yes sir,” came the voice of the same woman.

“Lieutenant I’ll be busy with the Colonel for quite a few hours,” he stammered trying to get his breathing under control. “You might as well call it a day.”

“Yes sir. Sir are you alright? Your breath sounds different.”

“I’m fine. Forgot my tablets.”

Wade disconnected the call.

Erratically breathing he said, “Ross you’re an idiot. You’ll never get away with this,” as he looked down at his shaking hands. Blood still flowing from the puncture wound.

Wade dropped back into the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

“One question, before I leave … what’s this all about?”

Trying to laugh Razen started coughing. Froth trickled from the sides of his mouth. Snot ran from his nose.

“You’d never understand.”

“Try me because at this moment in time it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

Razen’s eyes opened wide as plates. His body was shaking uncontrollably.

“I need help,” he gasped.

“There is nothing life threatening about you at the moment so I’d suggest, start talking.”

Razen struggled to control his shaking. Shock was moving through his body. “POTUS has a plan to rip off the Argentinians and make us all rich.”

“Argentinians! Why them?”

“That’s were the oil is,” he spluttered.

“Oil?”

Razen nodded and his forehead crashed on the side of his desk. Moving around the table Wade picked up the violently shaking body. Slapped his face.

“Don’t you dare go out on me,” he said still slapping him.

Opening his eyes Razen tried to look up as he vomited. Coughing and vomiting he said, “Fuck you Ross.” And crashed to the floor unconscious.

With nothing further to learn and no time left he reached under the General’s head and snapped his neck. Retrieved his pass and headed for the bypass door, through the ensuite. Washed his hands and face, removed the blood from his clothes, as well as he could, and walked briskly through the rapidly filling corridors.

59.

The Round Robin was like any other politician’s bar in Washington. No one trusted any one. No one told the truth and everyone talked over each other. The noise was deafening as Nirit pushed the door open.

The décor was decidedly dark. Rich red velvet chairs and dark polished timber tables. All lighting was subdued and the main illumination came from the bar area. The clientele predominately ‘suits’ and everybody lost in their own importance. Waitresses dressed as French maidens rushed about serving drinks. Nirit slowly walked through the door and towards the bar.

“Can I help you ma’am?” asked the barman.

“Someone ordered me for a private function,” she said smiling and cooing.

“Round behind the stairs and down the hall,” he replied, taking his eyes back to the sink and wondering why the stuck up bureaucrats always get the great looking woman.

Men ogled her body. Women looked on in contempt at how dare she walk into their establishment looking so fantastic. Young interns took dares at stepping in front of her in the hope of impressing. Ignoring it all she pushed through the throng to the back.

The two large, chest puffed, dressed in black, bodyguards were a dead give away of Mackinnon’s location.

“Sorry miss, private function,” said the huge, bald black man.

“I think you might find they’re waiting for me,” she said staring him down.

Not accustomed at being spoken to in such a manner, by someone who looked like a high class hooker, he said abruptly, “Wait here.”

The black man opened the door, went inside and closed the door.

“Hey babe, when ya finished, wanna spend some time with a real man,” said the remaining Hispanic door guard with the ridiculous lopsided Marine buzz cut.

Stepping up to his face Nirit leant in and replied, “Sounds interesting but I don’t see any real men around here.”

“Fuck ya bitch,” he said leaning forward to grab her.

Nirit’s open hand flew up and smashed into his nose, knocking him back into the wall and he slid down. Nirit stepped back. Blood gushed from his nose. His hands were covered in red. He coughed and spluttered. The black man returned.

“What the hell are you doing, man?” he asked his mate as he held the door open for Nirit. “You can go in Mister Mackinnon is waiting for you.”

Nirit nodded and stepped around the fallen guard who was coughing and spluttering.

Mackinnon was seated alone on a large six seater curved velvet couch. His jacket and tie were gone. A bottle of Dom Perignon was opened and two glasses were poured. He was talking on his cell phone.

“Got to call you back,” he said disconnecting the call and dropping the phone.

“Hello sweetie. My god aren’t you a looka. How come I haven’t seen you before?” he asked.

Without responding Nirit slid in beside him, against his shoulder.

“I like that. Straight into it …champagne?” he said holding up a glass.

Nirit nodded in agreeance as they commenced small talk. She casually rubbed her breasts up against him. It wasn’t long before he was getting extremely excited and trying to get his hands under her dress.

“Please can we go somewhere a bit more private?” she asked.

“Sure babe. I have just the place,” he said standing and grabbing his jacket and coat.

Nirit slid out, and with sleight of hand, slipped his cell phone into her purse; pretending to fix her makeup.

Back through the door and only the black man was on guard duty.

“Where’s Enrique?” quizzed Mackinnon.

“Slight accident, sir. He’ll be back in a moment.”

“Okay but we leave now,” he ordered. “Take my friend out the back way and tell Simon to pick me up out front.”

“Yes sir. Follow me please ma’am?”

The guard led her through a goods storage area, along a corridor and down a flight of stairs to a rear semi obscured basement. Simon was beside the rear door, holding it open, and recognised Nirit immediately. Showing no tell tale signs Nirit climbed in, deliberately letting her dress climb up. She saw the black man watching. Stopping Simon from closing the door she leant out.

“Excuse me,” she said to the guard. “Could you please give this to the gentleman inside,” she said feigning to remove something from her purse as she moved further inside the vehicle.

The black man ducked to see inside. Simon’s knife went through his neck as his other hand clamped over the guard’s mouth and he reefed him out. They hid the body behind a dumpster and headed for the front.

Mackinnon was searching through his pockets as the heavily tinted stretch limousine came round the corner. Before it had come to a halt he opened the door and leapt in. Lowering the window, he yelled to the doorman to find his phone and get it sent to his office.

“Simon. My apartment,” he ordered raising the blackened glass separating he and the driver.

“Just you and I now hey,” he said reaching across and clamping his hand on her breast.

Nirit’s left elbow flew out and smashed into his throat. Her right hand came round and squeezed his now crushed windpipe. Mackinnon had already lost consciousness as his last breath subsided. Returning the dividing window down.

“Do you have my clothes,” she asked.

“Sure,” he replied reaching under the front seat and handing across the folded package. Nirit was already half undressed as the package landed on her lap. “You need to get rid of this car and body and then get out of the country. Your identity has been compromised.”

“All in hand. I’ll drop you behind the function centre on the opposite side of the park. There is an old storage room, to the left of the kitchen entrance, marked ‘flammable goods’. This key will let you in.”

Nirit continued dressing in the Metropolitan Police Department service issued uniform, with the rank of Sergeant. Donned the thick coat and stuffed the weapons inside.

“Thanks Simon. See you back home,” she said climbing out the rear door.

60.

Kia wasn’t expecting the sheer size of the two storey, white sandstone mansion sitting one hundred metres back from the pair of eight foot gates that heralded the entrance to the three acre property. A seven foot marble lion, spouted water into the fountain that was centre stage of the circular, white, stone paved driveway.

“Can I help you miss?” asked the security guard from behind the gates.

“We’re here with the catering.”

“No problem. Was expecting you,” he said opening the gates. “Follow me.”

The large, white van followed the short, hunched, middle aged man, with his hands jammed into his coat pockets; up the drive and around behind the triple garage.

Standing at the entrance to the kitchen, snow flakes coated the man’s fur lined hood; like sugar coated a donut. Without removing his hands from his pockets and ducking his head to avoid the cold wind. “Kitchens through there,” he gestured with his head.

“Thanks,” said Kia holding the man’s attention. Her driver had snuck around and whipped his arms around the small man’s neck applying a sleeper hold. Dragging him inside they removed his jacket, taped his mouth, hands, feet and sat him upright in the dry food storage pantry.

“Do you want me to start unloading the catering,” asked the driver.

“No. Take his jacket and get back to the gate. I should be down in ten,” Kia replied.

The house appeared to be in total darkness. Kia entered the kitchen. Waited for her night vision to adjust and exited into the dining room. Still in darkness she went into the main entrance, along the hall, checking each room as she went. The limited inside lighting was all provided by the external lights shining through the few curtains that were open. Having searched the entire ground floor, she ascended the stairs. Once again every room was empty, no lights were on and not a sound could be heard.

Arriving back at the foot of the stairs she was looking out over the pool when she caught a glimpse of light coming from what seemed to be a pool pavilion. Making her way around the pool and tennis court enclosure she snuck up behind the purpose built ‘man cave’.

The room was very masculine with a bar off to one side and a roaring fire opposite the door. Animal heads stuffed and mounted on the walls. Guns of varying eras were hanging on brackets. Bottles of scotch and red wine occupied all the available table area around the room’s perimeter. Centre stage was a table and four chairs. Each place had a scotch glass, ash tray and pack of unopened cards. Drybin was scrolling through pornography, on his laptop, seated on the couch adjacent to the door.

Suddenly aware somebody was behind her she dived to her left, spinning in the air, and fired two silenced shots. The first pinged off the tennis court fence. The second penetrated his thigh. Screaming the bodyguard fell. Kia covered the twenty metres separating them as she pumped another round in his chest.

Racing back to the window she had expected Drybin to have heard the noise. She then realised the room was sound proofed.

Aware he might have some form of activation switch, on his laptop, Kia twisted the door handle and pushed open the door.

“What the fuck … who are you?” he yelled.

Kia’s first shot, from her silenced pistol, went through the heart of the laptop and shattered on Drybin’s legs. Her second shot was between his eyes and the third was the light globe.

61.

The single globe cast an eerie light throughout the small dank room. Wade and Nirit had been discussing outcomes as Kia entered.

“How did it go. Did you find out anything?” asked Wade.

“All good. Drybin’s finished but no I didn’t find out anything,” she replied explaining events.

Nirit then gave a quick summation of her mission.

Wade was about to speak when he decided to dial up Mossad headquarters. The secure link was established. Harel and Hammerstein answered. Wade explained the take downs.

The phone was quiet as Harel thought about his response.

“I don’t see how this all fits,” asked Wade.

“All the major geologists of the world know that the future for oil is shale oil and the majority of the world’s shale oil is in Argentina. Markham and his ‘group of five’ have been stealing from the US coffers and buying up the land in Argentina. To hide his transactions, he put all the ownership of the land into a company his illegitimate daughter is the sole director of. Unknowing to her. Unfortunately, early last year, he found out his daughter is not really his but the daughter of the previous US Vice President Daniel Cooper. Since then he has been trying to locate her so he can organise her death. If she dies by accident, on US soil, directorship goes to Markham, as executor of her estate and next of kin.”

“Where is she now?” asked Wade.

“She’s here with us but we have not told her anything about this yet.”

“Good. Hold on for another hour.”

“We have also pieced that Hank Jasper, head of his protection detail, is his hit man organiser.”

“Well that sheds some light,” said Wade. “Doesn’t change anything for me, just makes it clearer.”

“Wade, Kia there is something else I need to tell you.” Pausing. “It wasn’t General Forest who was behind the attack at ‘The Warehouse’. It was Markham. He has been pulling the strings all along. Meshulam was able to access Markham’s personal files and we found out yesterday.”

Wade and Kia looked at each other stunned. “Thanks Ben, but we have a mission to complete,” he said killing the connection.

“Does this change anything for us?” asked Kia.

‘The Warehouse’ a name given to a CIA deep black facility that had been established by the former head of the CIA, General Forest. Hidden in the warehouse area of Washington DC it stood in plain site unbeknown to all that a completely illegal operation, that dealt in the worst of black ops work was functioning under their noses. The facility had all the latest equipment the CIA and intelligence communities of the US had available. It operated with no command structure other than the word of the general. With an unlimited access to funds the agents could operate outside the normal constraints. Forest had devised a scheme and had stolen millions or possibly billions of dollars that were still unclaimed. Wine and his team had taken down Forest but the funds were never found. The operation and preceding events had caused the death of Wade’s best friend and fellow team member. The latest news was disturbing but altered nothing.

“No. That piece of shit still has to die.”

The three operatives discussed how and when they would execute their plan.

2145 hours they cracked the door, checked all clear and entered the rear passageway. Kia as the Lieutenant, Nirit as the Sergeant and Wade as a patrolman they walked briskly aware the CCTV was activated. A door at the far end lead into the lower foyer. The room was full of Presidential Secret Service, undercover FBI and local police. Kia and Nirit bee lined for the opposite door, that led into the main function room. Two policeman, on door duty, acknowledge their bosses and opened the door.

The nine hundred seat function room was full of four thousand dollar, per seat, paying guests. Security was limited within in the room. Kia noticed three plain clothed FBI agents and two police at each of the two exit doors. Bysmith was on stage giving a talk and she assumed Markham was in the wings with his protection detail. Kia walked to the rear left door and Nirit to the rear right door.

The crowd stood and applauded as Bysmith left the stage and took her seat.

“Ladies and gentleman. Let me now introduce the President of the United States of America,” said the Master of Ceremonies. The crowd stood, cheered and clapped.

The crowd continued to clap as the announcer looked to the sides wondering what was happening. The crowd kept clapping. The announcer walked off. Kia knew something was up and signalled to Nirit to exit.

62.

Wade followed Kia and Nirit peeling off midway across the lower foyer. Keeping his head down he casually walked behind a group of policeman, discussing a baseball game. Rounded two Secret Servicemen who were scrolling through their cell phones, checking out Facebook. Arriving at the furthest door the Secret Servicemen looked up. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

“I have been instructed by Chief Issen to deliver a message to your boss, Hank Jasper.”

Eyeing Wade suspiciously the agent thought better than to aggravate Jasper. “Sure. He’s behind the second curtain, near the rope ladder.”

Wade opened the door and entered. The rear of the stage was swarming with television people, journalists and all the President’s support staff. The first curtain was drawn back exposing dozens of television cameras and reporters all quietly jabbering into their respective camera lens. The second curtain was closed and the third open with more television crew.

Gently pulling the curtain he stepped in. Two black suited, ear piece wearing agents stood beside the President who was seated in a makeup chair. A makeup artist was applying the last of her work. Another two agents were standing looking out over the stage. Wade deducted one was Jasper by his demeanour and stance.

About to stand and walk on the stage, his aide suddenly appeared at the President’s side. “Mister President. A call that I feel is very important,” he said handing over the cell phone.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Jess Holland, Director MacKinnon’s executive assistant. Apparently he has been founded murdered in his car,” replied his aide.

“What! My god … Hello President Markham.”

Wade watched on as the President listened to the story and disconnected the call without another word.

“I need to speak with Drybin and Razen, urgently,” he said to his aide.

“Mister President you are wanted on stage,” said the Master of Ceremonies.

“I’m not going anywhere until I speak with Drybin or Razen,” he ordered.

Clapping could still be heard as everybody backstage watched the aide holding the cell phone.

“Sir, all four numbers have rung out,” the aide replied.

“Hank, I need to get back to the office immediately,” he yelled to his head of security.

“But Mister President there are nine hundred people who have paid a lot of money to hear you speak,” said the concerned Master of Ceremonies.

“I don’t care. This is of national importance,” he screamed leaping from the chair as Bysmith walked from the stage. “Charlotte we need to get back to the White House … now.”

“Alright detail, ready,” said Jasper into his microphone. “Foxlight moving in thirty. On your toes.”

Wade knew he had only once chance. The moment the President entered the foyer his advantage was gone. He ducked behind the curtain and scampered up the rope ladder. Fixed top and bottom the ladder twisted and swayed. Jasper was bellowing orders. Feet scurried and shuffled. Wade lifted one hand and the opposite foot trying desperately to keep a rhythm. The swinging increased. He looked down as the protection detail formed into their cocoon. Orders continued to blare. Reaching the steel support, he reefed the KaBar knife from under his trouser leg and sliced the ropes supporting the lighting gantry that hung across the rear of the stage. Two ropes cut, the detail was ready. Three ropes and they were circling the President, talking into their mikes.

“On my command,” yelled Jasper. “Go. Go.”

The circle started to move. The rope ripped through and the four tonne steel structure crashed to the floor. Diving to protect the President, the circle of men rolled like a rugby tackle. The gantry had smashed into the door blocking any further agents from entering.

“I need cover. Foxlight is open. I repeat Foxlight is open,” screamed Jasper frantically trying to decipher what was happening.

Kia, having heard the entire event through Wade’s hidden microphone, gently pushed her right thumb onto the button remotely activating the small C4 explosive that had been rigged in the main switchboard.

On queue the building plunged into darkness. The only available light was the small green exit lights shining over the exit doors.

“No one moves,” ordered Jasper. “Ring on Foxlight … now,” he screamed.

Wade had leapt from the rope ladder and landed silently, like a prowling jungle cat. His monocled NVG had everything glowing green. The first agent never saw a thing as the knife silently entered his throat and Wade lowered him to the floor. The second was the same six seconds later. The third gasped as his neck was snapped.

“What was that?” screamed Markham.

Footsteps and voices could be heard trying to find their way onto the stage. Men crashed into walls, chairs and each other. Jasper spun blindly hoping he could see something. “Get the lights on. I need backup,” he yelled again. “Detail hold your position … detail … copy.”

“Jasper, what’s happening,” yelled Markham.

“Don’t panic Mister President we’ll get.” Was the last words Jasper spoke. A gurgling sound followed; then a crash on the floor.

Bysmith was lying in the fetal position, two metres from Markham. Wade didn’t hesitate as the knife slit her throat. She tried to make a sound but only a slight gasp prevailed.

Bodies heaved against the rear door desperately trying to dislodge the gantry. Orders were being barked. Chaos reigned supreme as the noise increased. Police could be heard battling against the tidal wave of stampeding guests desperately trying to escape the only two exit doors. Chairs were being toppled. Screams were getting louder and louder.

“What’s going on. Who’s there,” screamed a panic stricken Markham.

“Your worst nightmare,” said Wade. “You should have killed me when you had the chance. You pathetic bag of shit.”

“Who is this?” he screamed again.

“The names Ross. Wade Ross and your times up,” as Wade plunged the knife through his throat. “That’s for my wife,” he whispered.

Ensuring he was dead; Wade wiped his knife on the President’s shirt, dropped the USB stick indicting him of his crimes and raced for the stage area. Leaping into the orchestra pit he ran along the rear passageway.

“What’s happening,” screamed the policeman, fumbling along, as Wade stepped aside to avoid running into him.

“Keep going. I’ll get help,” mumbled Wade trying to muffle his ascent.

The passageway opened into a large gathering room that was used by the orchestra personnel to prepare their gear. Red lights from emergency vehicles flashed across the glass doors like firefly’s.

He burst out onto the emergency evacuation area. Having removed his blood soaked shirt and monocle as he ran; the ambulance staff, standing at the entrance, threw a blanket over his shoulder. A first aider tried to help him but he brushed aside her help and bee lined across the park. Dropping the blanket, he leapt into the SUV and they sped from the scene. Helicopters, police cars and FBI were swarming like ants.

“I’m assuming all went well?” asked Kia.

“Yeah.”

The car was silent as they drove back to the airport. Arriving at Dunstall’s jet they leapt from the car and raced for the stairs. Kia and Nirit were already inside when Kia noticed. Returning to the door she saw Wade, now wearing Nirit’s coat, walking towards the hangar doors.

“What are you doing?” she yelled running down the stairs, followed by Nirit.

“I’m going home. Back to my real home. Back to black fella country,” he said in his aboriginal slang, knowing now he was probably the most hunted man in the free world.

END