Cloudburst (42 page)

Eighteen

FRIENDS FALLEN

Flight 422

Hadad listened to only a few moments of their words before turning his attention and thoughts elsewhere.

“North of a town called Ojai,” Buzz said. “You ever hear of it?”

“Somewhere,” Hendrickson responded. “But I haven’t the foggiest idea where it is.”

Buzz shook his head with assurance. “Doesn’t matter. What does is that there’s a place north of there called the Smith Wilderness Area. It starts at the base of what’s known as Pine Mountain, right across the road. There’s actually a bunch of peaks there, but Pine’s the biggest of them. Anyway, most guys that try and hunt that area come away empty-handed with their tags just aching for a rack of antlers to be tied to. You know why?”

The captain was more of a fisherman than a hunter, but he’d taken a few white tails in his time. No muleys, though, like his first officer, the California native, was talking about They were practically mountain goats to most eastern hunters, a fact that added to the captain’s innate curiosity. “I’ll bite: why?”

Buzz feigned panting, mimicking someone out of breath. “They all get pooped out in there. Some just from sitting around and waiting. Some from stalking the muleys only from convenient spots. There’s only two roads that head back in, and the one with highway access is restricted by Fish and Game. Only about five folks a week get to drive on back. But even they come out with nothing.”

The performance indicators got a glance. Everything was as good as it could be, and there was no traffic anywhere near them, a knowledge made possible by the shadowing Air Force jet. “So people just burn themselves out chasing the beasts?”

“Exactly. These deer are conditioned, and a good bunch of them are prime, and I mean
prime
. They migrate back and forth between the Los Padres Forest to the west—there’s a protected condor sanctuary there—and the Smith Wilderness to the east. When the pressure’s on they move west, where they can’t be hunted. Fish and Game is pretty damn strict about the condor sanctuary rules. No firearms, strung bows, or anything. Then, after the season, they move back. People might get a glance every now and then during the season in Smith, but it’s usually just a doe or two browsing.”

“And your secret?” Hendrickson’s interest was coming alive.

A grin appeared. “You gonna sell my surefire method to
Field & Stream
? ‘Course not. Well, I head in the night before archery season opens in that zone, just pack my bow and enough gear for two or three days—real light traveling, if you know what I mean. Then, by sunrise on opening day, I’m sitting just a mile east of the sanctuary border in my choice of juniper patches, just waiting for the herd to browse on by. It never fails. I’ve bagged my limit there every year for twelve years running.”

The captain laughed with a soundless smile. “You do that bow stuff, though. That is not fair. The animals think all the Indians are dead, Buzz. You’re cheating them.”

Hadad shifted in the jump seat. Why did the Americans talk of such trivial things? They were in danger, about to die, yet their thoughts were of pleasure and the past.

It was not so in Hadad’s mind. He saw only the future, martyrdom. Like those before who had given their lives in the cause of Arab unity and preservation, he, too, would be in glory’s bright light before long.

For the first time in days a true smile came to his lips. Not one of power, but one of joy. The words of the pilots faded again to a mindless hum. Through the windshield ahead he could see stars flash briefly as the jet pierced the scattered clouds. He took it as a sign. Allah was smiling back, giving one final blessing to the mission.

Hadad sat straight up, a steady stream of joy filling his heart and soul. The purpose would be achieved.

Springer Seven-Three

“I’ve been where he’s talkin’ about, Colonel,” the com officer said.

The colonel slid the earphones off and checked his watch. “An hour and a half,” he said aloud, though no one heard the comment. The headset went back on. “Com, keep listening and have radio backup work it through with you. If they’re trying to slip us something in that talk, I want to know.”

“Yes, sir.”

The colonel didn’t think that was the case. It was more than that, something older than spies, or terrorism, or senseless killing.
Just two guys talking.
So his com officer had hunted the place the right-seater was describing. “Maybe you’ll get to hunt there with him sometime, Lieutenant.”

“I hope so. I ain’t got nothing there in the six or seven times I tried.”

Los Angeles

The doctor shifted the chart toward the overhead light, scrunching his nose as he looked past the half-size bifocals at the drawing of the human neck. “It isn’t good, but it could be a lot worse.”

Art fumed at the imprecision of the comment. “And what the hell does that mean?”

Maria Toronassi snapped her head toward Art. His hand reached out and pulled her to him. “Sorry,” he said, to her and the doctor.

The apology was accepted with a smile. “I mean good things by that.”

“My fault, Doc. I’m all cranked up over this.”

The hand on her shoulder tightened, and… “Art, are you okay?”

She was asking
him…
Art knew what she meant and let his hand close into a tight fist on her shoulder, where it rested. The rest he just held in.
A while longer, Arthur. Just a while.
“I’m okay.”

“Here, let me show you.” The doctor, a neurosurgeon, pulled a pen from his lab coat pocket. “The bullet entered here, just about a centimeter from the trachea. It progressed back through muscle and nerve fiber—no significant damage there—then impacted with this: the third cervical vertebra. Now in a lot of cases that would mean the end, but your man was very lucky. He must participate in some kind of sport to develop his neck muscles to the extent they are.”

“Wrestling,” Maria said. “He coaches at our son’s high school, but I think he gets into the demonstration part of it a little too much sometimes.” She wiped a single tear with the back of her hand, catching it high on the cheek.

“Well, it probably saved his life. That muscle fiber took most of the shock, which slowed the bullet down appreciably. When it struck the vertebra it bounced off, and came back about an inch. Right here.” His pen circled a spot on the chart. “We’re going to go after it in a little while. Our only concern, though, is a big one. There is a bone fragment that chipped off the vertebra and entered the spinal canal. It’s right in with bundles of nerves. The spinal cord at this level is extremely delicate, and fairly inaccessible to us, so we’ll have to just leave the fragment there and hope that it stays put.”

“Is he going to be paralyzed?”

“No, Mrs. Toronassi. There has been no damage to the spinal cord that we can see, but with that bone fragment in there a chance will exist for some time that damage could be done.”

“Which means?”

“Your husband will have to curtail his activities somewhat. The more sedate he is, the better his chances are for a normal life. No wrestling, no more gunplay in dark alleys…”

Art swallowed hard, though not noticeably. “Just the kind of stuff a street agent does, right, Doc?”

The doctor thought it easier to pronounce death to people at times, rather than limitations. “That will have to be looked at. But let’s remember something: He is alive. He is breathing, his brain is fine, and in a week or so he’ll probably walk out of this hospital on his own, God willing.”

Maria nodded, thanked the doctor, then buried her head against Art’s chest, her hands pulled up between her face and his shirtfront.

“Hey, hey. Come on, little lady. He’s going to be okay.” Art waited for the sobs to stop, then for the sniffling. “Here.” He pulled two folded pieces of tissue from a pocket.

“It’s like, I don’t know.” Her tear-streaked face pulled back slightly and looked up to the ceiling. “You always hear about this stuff when your husband’s a cop, but it’s just TV. It’s never really real. He goes away in the morning, and he comes home later, just like a regular job.” Her eyes began to fill again. “But people don’t shoot at other people in a regular job.”

Art guided her head down again, this time sideways to rest against his chest. He was a full twelve inches taller than her and could see clearly into the rest of the lobby. It was filled with agents and cops from everywhere. He caught Frankie’s glance and motioned for her to come over.

“Maria, this is Frankie. She works with Ed and me.”

The women looked alike, though Frankie was an even ten years younger than Maria. “Mrs. Toronassi, why don’t you come with me. We’ll get something to drink, and just talk. Okay?”

They walked off down the hall and disappeared to the right, a roomful of caring eyes looking at their backs.

Art turned away, looking the opposite direction. The flood of emotions was too much. He had ruined a marriage, his own life, and now…

His hand tensed up involuntarily. He looked down at it as it came up closer to his chest. Tears were in his eyes as he tried to open the hand, but couldn’t.
Ed, I’m sorry. This didn’t have to happen.

A voice came from behind, but it sounded strange. Very loud, yet far away. He knew it. It was Jerry, but it was strange. The words were stretched out into almost unintelligible lengths, none making complete sense. One side of his body became very warm. Not hot, and not painful, but warm. A kind of moist warmth.

Art tried to turn to greet the voice, but his body became a corkscrew of sorts, spiraling down to the floor, where everything became very dark, and very quiet. Next, it was as black as a dream with no dreamer.

Thunder One

“Half an hour!” Blackjack announced.

Sean noted the time. They would do final checks first, then land. In Cuba. If someone had told him that, he’d have taken any odds against it. Strange was always able to outdo itself, though. Sean had learned that from experience.

The Delta captain leaned forward and scanned the hold from side to side, checking his squad. They were all quiet, spending the last few moments with themselves. Buxton was checking his backup SIG meticulously one final time. The sergeants were all eyes closed, except for Makowski—he had his pocket-size Bible open and was focused on one page. The only Delta member not in some kind of quiet reflective state was Antonelli, which was par for the course. One ear was covered by the headphones of his personal cassette player, his head moving from side to side as he paged through a newer edition
Superman
from his collection of comics.

Blackjack was semi-hidden in the shadows of the lead Humvee. His eyes were open, Sean could see, and staring ahead at nothing. It was his way.

Sean turned to Anderson, sitting one seat to his left. His upper body was contorting, bringing his neck down into his shoulders. Then his head would rotate halfway to the left, then back to center, then to the right. Graber watched the process repeated twice.

“Limbering exercises?”

Joe was in his own kind of trance, but snapped out instantly at the question, shaking his shoulders and arms loose. “You got it.” He still didn’t face the captain. “I can get into some tight spots sometimes, literally.”

“So you’ve got to wriggle in wherever, right?” Sean asked.

Joe nodded. “Wherever it is, whatever it takes.” He paused and got up, then sat one seat closer to the captain. “Listen, I don’t want you to take this wrong, but have you ever done this before? I don’t mean exactly what you’re going to do in a while, but anything similar?”

“Sure. A couple of times. One time I went in with the forces of another country on a ‘lend-lease’ kind of arrangement. The major did, too.”

“Can you say where?”

“Sure. It was in the papers and even in a few books since it happened. Thailand. There were a bunch of ‘separatist who-knows’. Communist guerrillas they later figured out. Three guys and one girl took over a 707 at the airport in Bangkok. The Thais asked us for assistance with the entry since we’d trained their commandos. Basically we just tossed the flash-bangs and brought up the rear. We nailed them all cold.” Sean’s words ended for a moment. “But we didn’t get there fast enough, at least not for the three folks the bad guys killed before we got in.”

Joe noted sincere regret in the captain’s voice, not the voice box utterings of an automaton he might have expected. “But you did your job?”

“Sure, that’s what the powers that be can claim. But to us any life lost is a loss. We can’t work on the assumption that there will be an acceptable number of casualties, simply because no one can give you a good, moral answer as to what that is. Is one percent okay? What about ten percent, or twenty percent? At what point does ‘success’ become failure? No, Mr. Anderson, we don’t go in thinking that we can lose one or two people. That just doesn’t work.”

“I see.” Joe understood a little better the troops’ motivation for doing what they did, and it wasn’t even close to his preconceived notion. Gung ho might be a description of their determination, but not of their motivation.

“This may be the first real shot we’ve ever had at doing our job,” Sean said. “It would be nice to earn our pay for once.”

Joe, you can be such a thick skull
. The civilian felt somehow humbled. His mission was to defeat a machine. Theirs was to defeat men to save men. “What about Iran? Were you there?”

“Yes,” Sean answered, the memory coming back. It was manageable now. “I was a sergeant back then, a gun-toting rescuer of innocents.” The captain released a wistful sigh. “We all thought it was going to happen, that we were going to go in and snatch those folks out all safe and secure. When everything got fucked up, we cried. Every goddamn one of us whimpered like a baby. Except the major. He dealt with it his way. The rest of us, though, we were hurting. It’s not an easy thing to watch men die because of screwy-ass operational details, none of which we even knew about until after the fact. Hell, we set down at the desert rendezvous and the next thing we knew was we were going to be short choppers. The rest…”