Danger Close (Shadow Warriors) (6 page)

Olsen colored fiercely. “You do the same thing or worse in battle, Colonel. You send men to die. Don’t tell me it bothers your conscience much or you wouldn’t be in a command position. Politics do eat up weaker people, I’ll agree. Just as you send troops into battle to die for a common goal, we unite people into groups and lobbies and get them to fight for our common goal.”

“There’s one difference between us, Olsen,” Mackey said in a rasping tone as they swung out of the glass doors, heading toward the bank of brass elevators in the sumptuous hotel. “The military has a code of ethics for its own kind. We see ourselves as honorable men and women in a noble struggle to defend our country. You can’t say the same of politics or politicians.”

Biting back a barrage of responses, Olsen punched the black button savagely. “Look, Colonel, I can tell you’re upset about using Captain Boland. If he’s as fine an officer as you say, I’m sorry he has to be sacrificed.”

Anger stirred deep down in Mackey. “Spare me your hollow words of sympathy, Olsen. I’ll do what I have to, but it doesn’t mean I’ll like it. And don’t worry—I’m angry at myself, not at you. God help me, I’m just as much to blame in this as anyone, but I’ll do it just to get Lane once and for all.”

“COLONEL MACKEY,” the sergeant said, poking his head around the door, “Alpha Company is landing now, sir.”

Mackey lifted his head from the paperwork spread in neat piles around him. “Excellent. As soon as Captain Boland gets his men settled in, tell him to get over here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mackey didn’t want to admit that his heart was thudding heavily in his chest. Boland was finally here. Alpha Company, the reconnaissance section of the regiment, had been operating up at Ban Pua on temporary assignment. Black ops Recon units would be dropped deep behind enemy lines in Laos and then they would painstakingly work their way back toward the Mekong River, gathering Laotian movements, weapons and supply information. Their whole role was to remain undetected by the enemy. Mackey frowned. Everyone knew they operated over the border, but the official line was that no SEATO troops would cross the Mekong. Usually, ten days later if all went well, the team would be picked up by chopper at a predesignated point. But God help the team that was discovered.

Getting up, Mackey left his office and walked outside the tent. In the distance, a saddle between hills was designated the landing zone. He watched stoically as the elite Recons, pride of the Marine Corps, off loaded from a CH-47 helicopter. Somewhere down in that throat-choking red dust was Jim Boland, the assistant company commander. Again, Mackey felt a frisson of apprehension through him and abruptly ignored it.

Inventive
was the word that best fit Jim. That was why, with only seven years in the Marine Corps, he had risen rapidly through the officer’s ranks and was ready to receive his major’s oak leaf. Recon was a perfect place for his kind of man, where ingenuity under constantly changing circumstances demanded someone who could successfully think outside the box. Jim Boland was a man who was always looking at ways to improve existing conditions. His brilliance was in the field, especially in tactics and strategy. If anyone could figure a way to reach Cathy Fremont, it would be Jim.

Mackey rolled the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, aware of the afternoon heat bearing down overhead.
How much will Jim’s temperature rise once he knows the nature of my request?
wondered Mackey. But an even bigger problem would be: Jim would not be aware of being used. Mackey would have to be very careful and not divulge all of the future plans. Would Jim’s curiosity be a lever for Mackey to coax him into the undercover assignment?

He’s a good man
, Mackey reflected.
He’s the son I wished I’d had
. Mackey missed Jim’s humor and positiveness in his otherwise deadly serious world. With a sigh, he turned, heading back to his office. He had three daughters and loved them fiercely. But to have had a son who could have carried on in his footsteps would have made him complete. Mackey had been drawn to Boland even when he was a shavetail lieutenant fresh out of OCS. He had been a battalion commander then and Jim was fresh, dedicated and eager. His eagerness won Mackey over. It was then that Mackey began shadowing his career, making sure Boland got breaks that would not otherwise be available to him. Mackey felt immense satisfaction in knowing he’d chosen a winner in Jim. There weren’t many winners in the world. In or out of the military complex.

WITHOUT BEING told, Mackey sensed Jim Boland was approaching his office. Funny, he mused, how he could differentiate between the steps of his men. Boland’s boot echo was filled with confidence and cadence. It wasn’t a plucky walk and not even distantly dramatic—just even, balanced and reflecting that incredible confidence he wielded. Mackey eased back in the chair, waiting for the knock on the door. When it came, he growled, “Come in.”

He was pleased, when Boland entered, to note that the officer had made an effort to clean up before seeing him. Ordinarily, everyone was covered with sweat, a red coating of dust clinging to their exposed flesh and their camouflage uniforms. As Boland came to attention and saluted, Mackey smiled to himself. He had obviously unpacked the last set of starched, pressed utilities from his duffel bag. Mackey was impressed that he taken such pains before seeing him.

“At ease, Jim,” he murmured, returning the salute. He stood and offered the Recon officer his hand across the desk.

The impassiveness melted from Boland’s recently shaved face and a generous smile crossed his mouth. He reached over, gripping the colonel’s thick hand. “Good to see you again, sir.”

Genuine warmth briefly flowed through Mackey. As he released Boland’s callused hand, he gestured him toward a folding chair. “Have a seat, son. I hear you’re going to be with us awhile. Coffee?”

Jim pulled the chair over. Out of habit, he glanced around. Walls of maps that would be used for strategy and tactics planning hung around them. “Yes, sir, to being here and to the coffee.”

Mackey grinned, poured the freshly made brew into two issue ceramic mugs and handed one to Jim. He’d never seen Boland, now twenty-eight, fitter. That was good. Because two years ago, he wasn’t sure his junior officer was going to make it at all. Mackey had been the Recon commander of his unit, working closely with the Thais on the Laotian problem. Boland had been in Thailand for six months before that and had left on Stateside R & R. On his return he told Mackey of his engagement to his longtime girlfriend, Susan Somerfield. Mackey never forgot the mixture of pride, excitement and happiness in Jim’s gray eyes when he had shared that personal bit of information with him.

Three months later, while Jim was behind the lines in Laos with a Thai Recon team, Mackey received word that Susan Somerfield had been critically injured in an auto accident near Grand Island, Nebraska. She had just finished a visit to Jim’s parents and was on the way home when her vehicle had been stuck head-on. The drunk driver had walked away with a few scratches, while Susan had received brutal head injuries. She was in a coma in the hospital and Mackey had no way of contacting Jim or his team until they came out of the bush seven days later. Boland was a trained paramedic, but when Mackey had given him the news, he saw the man die in front of him. Twenty days later, after his emergency leave was finished, Jim returned to Thailand, a broken shell of man.

Mackey had never seen Jim devastated before that. If his junior officer had problems, he always kept them to himself. Susan had died quietly as Jim held her hand in that hospital room on the fourteenth day of his emergency leave. Typical of Boland, he had been strong for everyone else, especially Susan’s family. Two nights after his return, Mackey plied him with enough liquor to fell a water buffalo and, finally, Boland broke down. Mackey had held the twenty-six-year-old officer in his arms while he cried. He would never forget those tortured sounds of grief from the very depths of Boland’s soul. And then, as suddenly as it had happened, it was over. Boland got a hold on himself and neither man had ever mentioned the incident after that night.

The result was evident, however; there was an unspoken warmth and respect between the men that bordered on a familial relationship rather than a military one. Mackey frowned. He had the task of tapping into that trust and, if necessary, using it to maneuver Jim into an assignment that would go against all his morals, values and principles.

This was to get Lane, Mackey reminded himself quickly. And more than anything else, he wanted Lane exposed and tried for what she really was. Sometimes, he told himself, even the best of men had to be sacrificed for a just cause. And this was one of those times.

“You’re looking more like your old self,” Mackey congratulated. For a year after Susan’s death, Boland had looked like a gaunt skeleton. He’d lost weight, and there was a curious flatness to his normally hard, intelligent eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good hunting up north?” Mackey saw Boland’s short black hair shone with blue highlights from the bare bulbs strung overhead. He had obviously taken a quick dip in the small river that wended its way through the massive camp to wash off the dirt.

Boland nodded. “Excellent, sir. Although,” he added with a quick smile, “I don’t know how the Republic of Korea Recons are going to get along with the Aussies. Our platoon more or less provided padding to keep them from rubbing against each other. The ROKs don’t respect the way the Aussies are gathering their field information. I don’t know what’s going to happen now that we’ve left.”

“ROKs are the best,” Mackey said, returning his smile. “And knowing them like I do, they’ll set the Australians straight. One way or another.”

Although they continued small talk for another ten minutes, Mackey began feeling Boland out. The weight Jim had lost was replaced, lending fullness to his square face. And those keen, hawklike gray eyes with large black pupils missed nothing—as usual.

“I’ve got a special favor to ask of you, Jim,” he began tentatively, pulling out Fremont’s file and placing it in front of the officer. The file tottered at the edge of the desk. Automatically, Boland reached out to retrieve it before it fell and laid it across his thighs.

“Yes, sir?”

“This is a delicate operation. It requires a very special person to carry it off successfully.” Mackey’s smile eased the hard planes of his face. “It requires someone who’s inventive, has the ability to improvise on the spot and adapt to change.”

Jim glanced down at the thick file. “Am I to understand that someone is me?”

“It can be. You’re good in situations that demand correct judgment the first time, every time. You operate off your instincts and you’d be living by them in this situation.”

Running his hand over the smooth-grained file folder, Jim nodded. “Just what exactly is this assignment, sir?”

Mackey smiled to himself, watching his younger officer growing more alert by the second as he expounded on the criteria for the operation. He was pressing every button Boland possessed and he knew it. A feeling, a little like triumph, soared through Mackey, but he tempered it. Boland hadn’t said he’d do it yet.

“You understand people. This operation carries a heavy emphasis on that.”

Jim catalogued Mackey’s assessment of his skills. He was mildly uncomfortable, although he took pride in applying his considerable talents to the men under his command. He enjoyed discovering how each man ticked. And he was good at assessing their particular strengths, weaknesses and flaws, and placing them in a job that would require their very best efforts.

“Whatever it is, Colonel, I’d be interested in hearing the details. This sounds like it might be right down our alley.”

Typical of Boland to say “our.” He never saw himself as standing apart from his men. The captain saw himself as merely a cog in a greater wheel, which was why he was not a good political animal. He lived to interact with his people, not to use them as stepping stones toward future goals. He was a true team-oriented person. The best.

Lighting the cigar before he continued, Mackey said, “This involves you primarily, Jim.”

His dark, straight brows fell. “Oh?” Jim knew better than to start guessing. Mackey would tell him more, so he remained silent.

“Yes. Open the folder, Jim. Take a look at the photo on the left.”

Jim opened the folder. A color photo of a woman in jungle utilities stared back at him. He saw the name: Cpl. Cathy Fremont, WLF, on the bottom. He lifted his square chin, meeting Mackey’s unreadable gaze through the haze of smoke.

“This is a woman. I don’t understand, sir.”

“She’s our target, Jim.”

More confusion registered in Boland’s gray eyes as he shifted his gaze from the photo back to Mackey. “Sir?”

“Tell me,” he ordered softly, “what you pick up from that photo?” He deliberately forced Boland to focus on what he did best, which was assessment.

Jim looked back down. “Well,” he began, making a huge effort to concentrate, “the fact that she’s attractive is obvious.” He liked her wide green eyes. They reminded him of the pond that sat out in back of his parent’s farmhouse in Nebraska. It was a cool, quiet pond of jade-green color. As a child and, later, as an adult, he had always gone back to that calming body of water whenever he was down or distressed about something. The last time he went there was after Susan’s funeral. He had walked all around the serene pond, trying to ease the clawlike grief that he held so deep within him. And, miraculously, that soothing water had somehow restabilized him and given him the necessary strength to go on—without her.

Jim gave himself an internal shake. What the hell was this photo doing to him? It was her eyes. They had a luminous quality and were, yes, fathomless. He saw and read much in them. “I’d say she’s a woman who thinks a lot. Not much gets past her.”

“Good,” Mackey praised quietly, “you’re right. Go on, Jim.”

He blossomed beneath Mackey’s gruff praise, focusing all his attention to the photograph. “Looks about twenty-one—”

“Twenty-six. Life’s been kind to her.”

Jim studied her mouth. It was a full, expressive mouth with the corners drawn inward, as if she were experiencing some sort of inner pain or trauma. His gaze flicked back to her eyes. “This is purely conjecture, sir, but I won’t agree that life’s necessarily been good to her.”

“Oh?”

“No, sir. Her mouth, the way it’s set. She’s holding something back…or, in.”

Mackey chuckled, pleased. “No wonder. She was up in front of three hundred media people fielding their questions. To say she was under fire by the enemy is an understatement.”

Jim nodded, pursing his lips. “She’s in charge, though. Just judging by that chin that juts out a bit, I’d say she’s capable of handling a good deal on her own.” He wanted to ask why Mackey was interested in an enlisted woman from the WLF. Curiosity was nearly eating a hole through his own discipline and control.

“Yes, she’s very good at what she does. Anything else you pick up?”

The woman’s hair was a ginger color shot through with threads of gold and copper as it framed her face, softly curved just above her shoulders. Pretty hair. And then he laughed at himself. That was purely an emotional response to her and not an analytical judgment call. “Self-confident appearing. On the surface,” he amended. Rubbing his jaw, he added softly, “Got a feeling that still waters run deep with this one. You can see it in her eyes.”

“Is she tough?”

Jim shrugged. He knew she was with the WLF and that they were supposed to be pretty good soldiers. “I think she’s got the mental toughness but…”

“What?”

He looked over at Mackey. “Hell, it’s nothing I can place a finger on, sir. I just feel there’s a carefully hidden vulnerability to this woman.”

Mackey grinned fully. “You hit the nail on the head, Jim. Congratulations.”

He sat back. “What do I win for being right?”

“How about her?”

He blinked once, assimilating Mackey’s question. “Her? In what context?” And then he thought Mackey was pulling a joke on him. “Look, I know I’ve been out in the bush two months and I’m due for some R & R to Bangkok. But you don’t have to set me up on a date. I’m pretty good at finding a woman when I want one.”

“This isn’t a joke, Jim. But let’s continue along that line of thought. Take another look at her. Think you two might get along if you were in Bangkok together?”

Uncomfortable at the turn the conversation was taking, Jim’s smile dissolved. Mackey was planning something that involved him and this woman. He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I could tell you more if I could read the rest of this file on her.”

“You’ll get to. Right now, I want your initial gut response to her.” He jabbed his finger toward the file for emphasis. “Any chemistry there?”

“Probably,” he hedged.
You liar, Boland. Hell, you’d see those big green eyes and lose yourself in them
. There was a mysterious quality to her, he realized. She was showing only a minor portion of her real self. Well, didn’t everyone? No. Many people were simple inside and out. And looking at the photo, he could see that Cathy Fremont was anything but simple. If his instincts were running true, and they usually did, she was so damned complex she probably didn’t even know all the facets herself. That discovery excited Boland. He was at his best with complex individuals because he, himself, was complex. He prided himself on being able to develop trust and then gain access to these types of people. It was the ultimate challenge to him, a natural high.

“Probably? Is that all the more positive you can be?”

A crooked grin spread across Boland’s mouth. “Yeah, I’d like to get to know her, Colonel.”

“That’s better,” he rumbled.

“This is sounding more and more like a Chinese puzzle…sir.”

Mackey matched his grin. “If I recall, you’re the one who likes puzzles. The more intricate, the better. Read the first four pages on our girl. There’s a lot of other information on her, but the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator test conclusions are the most important. It will give you a thumbnail sketch of her.”

He turned the page, frowning. Mackey had called her “our girl.” Both references bothered him. She was a woman, not a girl.

“All the women in the WLF went through extensive psychological testing,” Mackey added, as if reading Jim’s mind. “Note what the psychologist had to say about Fremont—she’s an INFJ, whatever the hell that means. More importantly, Fremont’s “type” is found in only one percent of the
entire
population. That makes her an extremely rare individual in our collective society. She’s also the only one of this type in the WLF.”