Rogue Threat Read online

“Nothing unusual. Just a normal Irish girl born in Boston to over-achievers. Went to a small parochial school and then got the hell away from home.”

  “Ever been to Ireland?” he asked.

  She turned her eyes away again.

  “Something I said?”

  “No. No. Yes, I’ve been to Ireland. Spent some time there during my college days.”

  “Some kind of exchange program while you were at Harvard?”

  “Yes, exactly. University of Belfast,” she said.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Wanted to learn everything I could about the issues between Ireland and Britain. It was a fascinating period of my life.”

  “I’m sure. So what was it like?” he asked.

  “I wrote my dissertation on some of the darker factions of the Irish Republican Army. I allowed myself to be blindfolded and taken to places to meet leaders and terrorists. Usually they were hidden from sight, sort of like a confession booth.”

  “Why did they let you do that? I mean, talk to them?”

  “They wanted their point of view to be heard. The press was so biased against them that when they had an opportunity to be heard through a legitimate forum, they took it. Of course, all of that has changed now.” She paused. “After Nine-eleven, I mean.”

  “Weren’t you ever concerned that you might be in danger?”

  “All of us are in danger every day, Matt.”

  “True. But you have to admit that hanging out with IRA terrorists back then was on the far end of the scale.”

  “They are just like you and me, Matt. They have beliefs and hopes and dreams.”

  “You mean ‘were,’ right?”

  “Say that again?” Peyton asked.

  “You said, ‘They are just like you and me.’”

  “Right, I mean were,” she said, looking away. “Just like my parents were gunned down by British paratroopers in the streets of Belfast.”

  Matt shifted in the hay toward Peyton, caught off guard by the information. “I’m sorry.”

  “They were on vacation. Their bodies were shipped home, and I had to bury them. You’ve buried a brother, so you know what I’m talking about. My sister ran away right after that. She was sixteen. I get an occasional postcard or phone call, but she never stays in one place. And so I’ve got no family to speak of—only demons, I guess.”

  “We’ve all got demons, Peyton.”

  She paused before responding, unsure why she had shared her most personal information with him. “You asked what I learned. I learned that no one can conquer the human spirit. That no one can oppress the will of a people. I especially learned that no matter how strong or powerful a nation, it has weaknesses that can be attacked. And that’s how the IRA operated against Britain.”

  He had detected a slight accent, and having learned that she had lived in Ireland for a short while, he figured she had picked up a minor inflection in Belfast. He decided to change the subject and lighten the conversation.

  “So you’re a Ginger, then?”

  She paused a moment and smiled, large green eyes blinking at him in the square of moonlight casting through the barn window.

  “I’m surprised you know the word for an Irish redhead.”

  Matt considered her comment a moment and said, “I imagine you’re full of surprises as well.”

  For a moment, the gravity of the situation eluded him. The hijacked Air Force airplane, firefights with extremists, and an arduous escape through rugged terrain were all momentarily set aside by the fleeting, yet all-too-natural, allure of a beautiful woman. The anxiety and worry subsided like an ebbing tide, leaving exposed something he was unprepared to bare.

  “Well, get some rest,” he sighed, stitching up the moment. “We’ll need it.”

  Matt rested his head against the straw. His mind automatically drifted to a time when he and Zachary were growing up on the farm. Some people were close to their siblings, others weren’t. Matt had never understood why families would diverge and lose contact. Perhaps being raised in the Blue Ridge, where neighbors were nice but remote, he and Zach had focused on their family. So much land and space between families created a natural pull inward. Instead of walking across the street to join the stickball game, he roamed the 120 acres with his brother, exploring their own world. Losing Zach had devastated him, but now he felt as if he were pulling out of his nosedive. Hellerman had been right. Shed the self-pity and get back into the game.

  Garrett nestled his head further into the straw.

  Resting. Uncertain.

  Thinking.

  He looked through the open barn window at the children’s art moon and closed his eyes. Like Jesus appearing in a prayer, Zachary’s face hovered above him like an angel as he fell asleep.

  PART 2:

  Brothers in Arms

  CHAPTER 17

  Saturday Morning, 0100 Hours,

  MC-130, Approaching Moncrief Lake

  Major Winslow Boudreaux bounced in the back of the MC-130 Combat Talon as it flew just 100 feet above the ground. The pilots had taken off from Pope Air Force Base in south-central North Carolina, kept a due-east heading until they were fifty miles off the coast, then turned north, keeping at 200 feet above sea level. To the pilots, the ocean was a solid mass, indistinct from the dark horizon. They passed Boston and Halifax, then banked west through Cabot Straight into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The north shore was the thirty-minute mark. Their instructions were to stay off the civilian radar screens. Half an hour from the objective, they had some climbing to do before they reached the drop altitude at 20,000 feet.

  Boudreaux felt the airplane rise suddenly, shooting skyward like a rocket. If they were lucky, they wouldn’t stall. Two men had fully briefed him on the mission. They had used maps and photographs. For the past two weeks he had rehearsed this mission and believed he knew every detail. But there were blank spots that sometimes didn’t make sense with what they had told him.

  He was on a classified mission for his country, which was fine. He was a member of an elite organization, and he could never reveal his identity to anyone, even if captured. Especially if captured. Fair enough.

  He was recently wounded in combat and had gone through extensive physical therapy to become fully mission-capable again. Sure, he remembered most of the therapy and had some instincts, some memory of that kind of information, but other things bothered him.

  They told him his name was Winslow Boudreaux, that he was from a small town in Louisiana and had been in the army for nearly twelve years. They had shown him pictures of his childhood. They were trying to get him to remember something, anything, from his childhood or even from his recent past. Nothing seemed to work. None of it rang true.

  Something about the doctor had bothered him. The man was nice enough but seemed troubled. In his white smock, the doctor often would sit in a wooden chair next to Boudreaux’s Spartan bedroom and go through the pictures with him. It was more educational than exploratory, it seemed. Endless days of reviewing the same thing, over and over. Boudreaux felt as if the information was being pushed onto him from the outside, as opposed to his delivering any conscious memory from inside his mind.

  And so he knew his name was Winslow Boudreaux and that he had a mission to kill someone named Ballantine. He would go do that and then think about these other things.

  He watched Colonel Rampert get close to him to inspect his equipment. A spark of memory erupted in his mind like a flashbulb in a dark room, and quickly faded. The man was leaning forward, his tightly buzzed haircut like bristle, his weathered face darkened with streaks of green and black camouflage.

  They each squatted to absorb the rapid ascent of the airplane. They had even practiced this part of it in the rehearsal. He remembered that much, but the rest of his memory was like a sieve with large holes. Only the big chunks were captured: his name, his mission, his enemy.

  And so Boudreaux was able be forward-thinking, connecting smaller details and using his instincts for g
uidance. It felt as if the instincts had never left him. He was a soldier, a killer, and a patriot. That much rang true.

  He looked at his reflection in the porthole window. Dark hair, longer than it should be, he thought. He didn’t know why that thought had come to him. It just seemed that it should be shorter. Strong face with high cheekbones, dark green eyes, almost neon.

  Rampert walked him through the mission one more time. “I’ve checked your parachute for the third time. It’s okay. Watch your altimeter and remember to open at eight hundred feet. You should be above the horizon with canopy for only a few seconds. If you’re spotted, move to hide site number one, come up on satellite communications, and wait. We have Pave Low helicopters ready to extract you in less than thirty minutes. You’ve got enough ammunition to hold anybody off for that long. But remember, you’ve got to be near an open area. We’ve got a beacon on you so we’ll know where you are all the time.”

  “Yes, sir.” Boudreaux nodded.

  “You won’t be detected, though. You’ll get in under the cover of darkness and find your way to Ballantine’s camp. If you’re compromised there, just kill him as quickly as you can, then fight your way out. The Pave Lows will be able to respond to any trouble you get into. If you’re not compromised, move to your link-up site. There, you’ll find an old, green john boat with a nine-horsepower motor. There will be two fishing poles and another Satcom radio inside. The radio will be in the live well, so don’t put any water in it. Call in at each checkpoint so we know your progress. If you can, try to find the operations center first. You’ve got the three template locations. It has got to be one of those.”

  Rampert talked slowly, his eyes locked onto Boudreaux’s. The vice president had asked him to guarantee success. He couldn’t do that. He never guaranteed anything. Particularly now. He had personally saved this man’s life a year ago, and now he was certainly sending him to his death. Rampert remembered being there.

  They were hidden in the creek bed watching the enemy file out of their base camp, ready to smash the weak Marine defenses. The weather had prevented any kind of air power, and it looked like the Marines were going to fight without reinforcements. Rampert remembered the enemy artillery opening on friendly positions with the distinct report of the cannon, the nerve-racking whistling, and the deadly explosions.

  Out of the wood line from across the field came a deep bellow, reminding him of the rebel yell he had read about. U.S. infantrymen rushed the enemy fighting positions and artillery pieces, firing anti-tank missiles and destroying most. The enemy soldiers turned on the Americans, and their lines merged in a fight more akin to a Civil War battle than the high-tech warfare of late.

  Rampert watched an officer and his radio operator come charging from the woods and join the fray. He recognized the man. They had been scouting him as a candidate for the Joint Special Forces Command. He knew the soldier’s record; this man was a warrior.

  The radio operator was shot in the chest, spinning him backward. The man grabbed his M4 carbine and fired it until it went empty. He pulled his pistol from his holster, shooting it until he was out of ammunition. Pulling his bayonet from its scabbard, he fought hand-to-hand.

  The rain was moving to the north in a typical thunderstorm pattern. Rampert was vectoring friendly aircraft into the fight using his high-frequency radio. One minute away. But one minute and the fight might be over. He gave the radio to his assistant team chief, grabbed his M4 carbine, and began to suppress the enemy near the officer. He moved slowly from the creek bed under the cover of a row of bamboo shoots. He changed magazines.

  Artillery and mortar shells began to rain upon them. The explosions were deafening, and he thought he could feel his ears bleeding. Wasn’t the first time.

  He saw the officer take a bullet in the lower abdomen. Then an enemy combatant rammed a bayonet through the officer’s shoulder. Rampert shot the enemy soldier from twenty feet. He raced to the officer and slung him into a fireman’s carry at the same time that he saw another company of infantry emerge from the creek bed two hundred meters to his south. The diversion gave Rampert enough time to move the wounded officer over a small rise where several American soldiers lay dead or wounded.

  He removed the man’s uniform and dog tags and then called the team medic to his location. They performed life-saving measures and guided in a Pave Low medevac for the man. Rampert sent the medic with the wounded officer, while he and the rest of his team stayed and fought with the others. A mortar shell landed on one of his best friends, who had been with the team for over ten years, cutting the veteran operator into so many pieces it took them an hour to collect the barely identifiable remains.

  Rampert held the dog tags of the decimated operator and the severely wounded conventional-force officer in his hand. Looking down, he said, “Goodbye, Winslow,” dropped the shredded shirt and identification tags on his dead friend, and boarded the helicopter.

  As he looked at Boudreaux, these unpleasant memories came rushing back to him. What have I done? he wondered.

  Boudreaux felt the plane level at the drop altitude.

  “Ten minutes,” Tedaues shouted to Rampert. Tedaues had climbed down from the cockpit and walked toward them. He and Rampert were both wearing B-11 square parachutes used for high-altitude, low-opening (HALO) jumps. Neither Tedaues nor Rampert were jumping, but they wore their parachutes in case they either needed to jump or fell from the airplane while performing jumpmaster duties for Boudreaux. Boudreaux had the same suit but was outfitted with a reserve that would automatically deploy if his altimeter read 600 feet above ground level and his main had not deployed. Rampert decided setting the altimeter was the moral thing to do in case Boudreaux mentally froze on his descent. But 600 feet was not very high.

  The three men were standing at the back of the aircraft as the ramp began to lower. Boudreaux watched the platform separate itself from the top of the aircraft, making him feel like Jonah in the stomach of the whale. Pitch-black night greeted them as the ramp leveled even with the floor of the aircraft.

  “You’ll break through a thin layer of clouds at about two thousand feet. After that, you should be able to pick out the drop zone. When you’re under canopy, take about five seconds with your night-vision goggles and search for an infrared marker. There should be one at the southeast portion of the drop zone. From there, you’ll find the boat.”

  “I’m ready. I know what you’re telling me; you don’t have to keep repeating it, sir.” Raising his voice above the din of the aircraft, Boudreaux sounded like he was shouting. Rampert and Tedaues looked at each other, a sign of acknowledgment. It was time.

  “Good luck,” Rampert said.

  Boudreaux thrust his arms outward, practicing his flair as he walked onto the ramp. Hindering his movement was a dark green rucksack rigged behind his buttocks. Once his parachute deployed, he would use a twenty-foot nylon line to lower the rucksack beneath him prior to landing. In it he had packed a tactical satellite radio, one hundred and fifty rounds of 5.56mm ammunition for his M4 carbine, six MRE combat rations, two gallons of water in his Camelbak, an assortment of smoke grenades, star clusters and other pyrotechnics, a Berretta 9mm pistol with four magazines of ammunition, and a set of fishing clothes hand-picked by Rampert out of the North Face catalog. He wore an outer tactical vest where the other half of his M4 ammunition was stored in five 30-round magazines.

  “One minute!” Rampert shouted. They were jumping on time and azimuth, not really needing to see any reference points. Boudreaux was leaning over the ramp watching the earth pass beneath them. Small dots of light, a few glimmers of moonlight skidding off oxbow lakes. Then he saw a lone car driving from north to south on a road. That road was the one-minute mark. Rampert’s call was right. They were on schedule and on target.

  “Thirty seconds!”

  Boudreaux stood and practiced his flair a final time, stretching his chest muscles, splaying his hands to either side. He looked over his shoulder at Rampert and Tedaues. He f
lashed them a thumbs-up. Rampert moved toward the ramp, holding both hands forward, fingers spread. Five seconds passed and he dropped his left hand, then counted down with his right. Four, three, two, one.

  The green light flashed. Rampert howled, “Go!”

  Boudreaux jumped, spreading his body into flair position, catching the wind and riding it into the night. He slipped into the silence not unlike the coma he had emerged from several months earlier. One second ago, he was bouncing in the noisy, manmade machine; the next, he was floating effortlessly in quiet solitude through the thin air, rushing toward the ground.

  Seconds passed into perhaps a minute. The wind beat against his chest, the air rushing around his helmet, forcing his head back. He fought to maintain balance against the turbulence. He turned his left wrist inward and glanced at his altimeter: 6,000 feet.

  Formations on the ground grew larger. Single lights were now small groups of lights. He could distinguish buildings. He slipped on his night-vision goggles to search for the flashing infrared light that marked his optimal touchdown point, turning the world green. Once-indistinguishable lights were suddenly bright flares. He pivoted his head from left to right. He noticed an area that appeared to be a clearing, but there was no flashing light.

  He spun his body 180 degrees and saw another larger clearing. In the back of his mind, he was counting the seconds. Too many had passed. He was plummeting now, probably 2,000 feet, only a few seconds away from having to deploy his main canopy.

  One final scan. A blip. Two blips. Could be a flashlight, even a firefly at this height, but he would aim for it. He had to go somewhere.

  He lowered the night-vision goggles and stuffed them inside his outer tactical vest. He had to stow his night-vision goggles to prevent damaging them during the opening shock of the parachute. The metal rip cord grip felt cool to his grasp. He looked at the altimeter one final time: 700 feet. Too low.

  He yanked hard and listened as the main parachute deployed and snatched him, slowing his descent to a manageable rate.