Shadow Catcher (17 page)

PART THREE

SHADOWS

CHAPTER 34

S
o much had changed in ten years.

Too much.

Sports cars could tell their drivers where to go. Cell phones could do almost anything. Even aircraft had become as smart as their pilots. Technology had killed simplicity.

Ten years ago, Nick would have arrived at a dark hangar with just his flight bag and a thermos full of black coffee. As he sipped the bitter black liquid from a plastic lid, he would get to know his steed, rekindle the fire between them before the dawn patrol. He would inspect the smooth curvature of her lines, the caged fury of her weapons, until he came to understand her, and she him. So the moment he lit the burners, she would become a part of him, an extension of his own body.

Not anymore.

Sleek painted aluminum and countersunk rivets had been replaced with molded composites and cured putties; pressure gauges and mechanically linked engines replaced with microprocessors and digital throttles. Aircraft had ceased to be the living chargers of twentieth-century knights and had become the cold, networked tool kits of twenty-first-century battle managers—emphasis on managers—and it took a small army to get them into the air.

When Nick arrived, the brightly lit hangar was already buzzing with activity. Scott and his crew fussed over computer carts, linked to the Wraith by bundles of cables. Technicians dutifully laid out an array of high-tech combat equipment on three tables under her wing. Drake, Walker, and Doc Heldner stood beneath the Wraith's bay, checking out Shadow Catcher and the docking system that held her in place.

Nick took a sip from his thermos lid and pinched his lips at the bitter taste. At least the coffee hadn't changed.

Without a word to the others, he walked over to the tables and began fitting and checking his gear, starting with an integrated tactical vest and harness.

Quinn appeared from beneath the Wraith and strode up to the table next to him. Nick eyed the pararescueman suspiciously. The kid wore a tactical combat uniform just like Nick's, Kevlar-impregnated fatigues covered in a seven-color camouflage called MultiCam. But Quinn was supposed to be grounded. “I'm sorry,” said Nick. “Are you under the impression that you're going somewhere?”

“He
is
going,” said Walker. Nick looked at the colonel in time to see him cast a concerned glance at Heldner. “After last night's attack, we've made a slight change to the plan. I've lifted Quinn's probation.”

“And when were you going to tell your team lead about it?” asked Nick.

“I'm telling you now,” replied Walker, his tone leaving no more room for argument.

Quinn had kept quiet, busying himself with his tactical harness, but he struggled, unable to adjust the fit.

Nick sighed. He roughly turned the young operative, adjusting the shoulder straps for him. “If I'd have known you were coming, I'd have called your mom to come in and dress you.” When he finished, he turned Quinn back around. “Did you see how I did that, or do I need to do the legs for you too?”

“Yeah, yeah, I've got it,” replied Quinn, pushing him away.

“Are we interrupting something?” McBride looked concerned as he stepped off the elevator with Amanda. The two of them carried a black reinforced crate the size of a large cooler over to Drake's table and set it down. “A courier brought this over from the CIA after you all left yesterday afternoon. It's addressed to Major Merigold.”

Drake tore open a small manila envelope taped to the top of the crate and pulled out the note inside. “Drake,” he read aloud. “Here are some artifacts to help you in your investigation. Let me know if I can do anything else for you, anything at all. Lo—” He suddenly stopped reading. “Ahem. Sincerely, Terri.”

“What does she mean by ‘anything at all'?” asked Amanda.

“These must be Novak's personal effects,” said Nick. “There could be something useful in here.”

Walker shook his head and motioned for two of the techs to move the box to the back of the hangar. “There's no time. We already have the information we need. McBride can go through it after you launch.”

Nick watched the techs set the box against the hangar wall and then noticed that Quinn had walked over to Scott, who began to trade the M9 Beretta holster on his harness for a different one. “What is this?” he asked, gesturing at the two of them.

“I'll be carrying my personal weapon,” said Quinn, “a forty-five-caliber Springfield XDm.” He held up a brawny black pistol with a contoured polymer grip and a laser/infrared spotlight combo fixed to the lower rail. “It requires a custom holster.”

Though Nick had never demanded that a subordinate call him “sir,” somehow it bugged him that the kid didn't use it now. “We carry M9s as our side arms,” he said in a commanding tone, shoving his own weapon into its holster. “I didn't approve a change.”

“I did,” interjected Walker. “Quinn is most comfortable with the XDm. If you want him to be quick and accurate, let him use it.”

Nick felt anger boiling up inside again. Walker had usurped his authority over this mission three times in the space of a few short minutes. He fumed as he returned to prepping his harness, hooking a custom knife sheath to each leg strap, each with five small stilettos canted forward at a thirty-degree angle.

“Speaking of nonstandard weapons,” said Quinn, “what do you call those?”

“Contingency options,” replied Nick.

Quinn gave him a smirk. “When I was younger, the slow kid at the end of my block had throwing knives.”

Scott finished fixing Quinn's holster. He looked from Quinn to Nick and back again. “You should stop talking now,” he whispered, and then quickly backed away.

Quinn continued, undaunted. “He also played with dragon games and throwing stars.”

Nick scowled down at the table. He'd had all that he could take from this insubordinate greenhorn. His left hand flashed out from the knife holster. The stiletto made a soft
thock
as it stuck deep into Quinn's vest, buried to the hilt in one of the removable pockets. The camouflage fabric began to darken with moisture.

“Enough! Both of you!” said Walker.

“Honestly, Major Baron,” said Scott, marching over and pulling the knife out of the stunned pararescueman's vest. He removed the interchangeable pocket and dumped out two punctured water pouches and a perforated bag of ration bars.

“The kid was clearly begging for a demonstration,” said Nick with a wicked smile. He retrieved the knife, wiped it down with a cloth, and resheathed it.

“I think now is as good a time as any, Patricia,” said Walker with a nod to the doctor.

Heldner took Nick's arm and tried to gently lead him toward an office at the other end of the hangar.

Halfway there, Nick pulled his arm away and checked his watch. “Time is short, Doc. What's going on?”

The doctor took a short breath and then looked him in the eye. “After the incident with Wulóng, your fitness to lead this mission has been called into question,” she said in a low voice. “Colonel Walker has asked me to make a spot assessment. If I decide that you're unfit, he's going to cancel the rescue.”

CHAPTER 35

N
ick felt his control slipping away. How could the colonel question his fitness to lead a Triple Seven op? He'd been leading this team for a decade. “What is this all about?” he asked.

Heldner pulled him into the office, closed the door, and motioned for him to sit down on a small couch. Then she turned a rolling chair backward and sat down, straddling the seat. She leaned her forearms on the backrest. “How are you sleeping lately?”

“I don't understand.”

“It's a simple question,” said Heldner with a shrug. “Both Colonel Walker and Drake have expressed concerns to me that you haven't slept solidly in weeks.”

“I'm dealing with it.”

“Really?” The doctor raised her eyebrows. “Because it looks to me like you're coming unhinged. In the last couple of days, you argued publicly with your superior, ran an investigation that countermanded his orders, and just now you threw a knife at the newest member of our team.”

Nick laughed. “That was classic. Did you see Quinn's face when I . . .” His voice trailed off under Heldner's crushing glare. She was not amused.

She leaned forward and glowered at him. “Then there are the bruises on your wife's arm. I noticed them last night. They are too old to have come from Wulóng's attack.”

Nick's eyes widened at the accusation. “Whoa, is that what this is about? That happened during a nightmare. I thought I was fighting off an attacker.”

Heldner straightened up and put her hands on her knees. “Finally, we get to it. Nightmares, inability to sleep, uncontrolled anger.” She pointed her finger at his chest. “You need to acknowledge that you are suffering from PTSD.”

The doctor's words made Nick's blood run cold. He knew the consequences of such a diagnosis. Walker would have to pull him from field operations completely, relegate him to a desk job, bury him in the bowels of the Pentagon.

“I do not have PTSD,” he countered, his tone desperate.

The doctor held out her hands. “Don't worry, Nick. I'm not planning on making this an official diagnosis.” She lowered her voice. “And I
will
tell Dick that you're good to go. I believe in this mission as much as you do. But you need to understand what's happening to you, so you can turn this thing around.”

Her statement did little to reassure him. “Everybody has nightmares,” he argued.

“Yes, but yours have a consistent cause. Fear. Real fear that occurs during your missions.”

“I don't experience fear in the field anymore.”

Heldner shook her head. “Not true. You've just become so accustomed to it that you hardly notice it. Your fight-or-flight responses have become automatic. You push the fear aside and move on without a conscious thought.”

“Then what's the problem?”

The doctor put on a pair of spectacles and motioned him to lean forward. “Something has changed,” she said, taking Nick's chin in her hand. She tilted his head one way and then the other, as if examining a patient with a cold. “Something happened that has heightened your fears.” She emphatically patted his cheek and pushed him back. “And I think you already know what it is.”

Nick let out a long breath. “Danny.”

Heldner nodded.

“So now I'm subconsciously afraid of dying?”

The doctor shrugged. “Maybe, but I don't think that's quite it. We lost Danny months ago, but you've only been showing symptoms for a few weeks. There has to have been a more recent trigger that compounded the trauma, something else that you're afraid of.” She removed her spectacles and slid them into the pocket of her lab coat. “Whatever the source, the fear is too intense for your subconscious to let it go after your normal process. You're not truly dealing with it in the moment, leaving it to fester below the surface. That's what's causing your nightmares.”

Nick started to stand up. “My brain is taking care of it in my sleep. Problem solved.”

“Wrong.” Heldner reached up and shoved him back down onto the couch. “Nightmares are not satisfying to your unconscious mind. They have no real conclusion. They also keep you from getting real sleep”—she poked him in the arm—“and you need real sleep if you're going to function as a healthy, happy human being, one who doesn't throw knives at his co-workers.” She reached into her lab coat and handed Nick a pill bottle. “Take one of these during the flight over. It will force your brain to circumvent the bad dreams so you can get some real sleep. But that's just a Band-Aid placed over an ax wound. To really heal, you have to determine the source of the nightmares.”

Nick frowned. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

“The next time the mission gets intense, don't shove the fear aside. Allow it in, accept it.”

“And then what?”

Heldner's expression darkened. Nick detected more than the usual motherly concern in her eyes. “And then you'll know what truly terrifies you.”

* * *

When the doctor and Nick returned to the group, she gave Walker a discreet thumbs-up.

“Okay, Pat,” said Walker. “Then it's time to do your pre-mission magic.”

Heldner nodded and hefted a large steel case onto one of the tables.

“Why do we need the doc?” asked Quinn. “Are we getting a physical?”

Heldner winked. “Come over here and find out.”

Nick smiled despite his mood. Doc Heldner had quickly returned to her usual sarcastic manner. She loved to make her boys uncomfortable.

A tech set up two folding chairs next to the table. Nick sat down in one and looked over at the hesitant pararescueman. “Hurry up, kid,” he said. “We've wasted enough time. We've got to get this show on the road before the sun comes up.”

Heldner popped open her case and removed a syringe with a very thick needle. She held it up to Nick. “Turn your head, Baron. But if you cough, I'll make you regret it.”

Nick winced as Heldner inserted the needle into the pocket of skin behind his ear. He pictured the small electronics capsule sliding into place. A cold gel followed, surrounding the capsule beneath the skin. He knew that it made no visible lump at all, but it felt like the doctor had just implanted a frozen tennis ball at the top of his jaw. He looked up at her and raised an eyebrow.

She waved a small black box over the injection site and checked its digital readout. She nodded to Nick. “It's stable.”

“Wait, what's stable?” asked Quinn, looking squeamish.

“Among other things, it's a comm device,” said Nick. He looked off in the distance and said, “Connect: code two six seven one.”

The implant responded with a feminine voice that only Nick could hear. “Stand by . . . Connection complete.”

Nick waved to Scott. “Comm check. How do you hear?”

“Loud and clear,” replied Scott, speaking into a small microphone. “How about me?”

“Same,” replied Nick. “SATCOM is up. Cease transmission.”

“Ending transmission,” the digital voice replied.

Heldner removed another black box from the case and opened it up. A second capsule lay in a small copper receptor. The digital screen next to the receptor read
READY
. “The biggest weakness of these capsules is power,” she said to Quinn. “Keeping a constant open connection would drain the battery, so you'll have to request that it connect to the satellite when you want to talk to us. That requires a pin code.” She held the box in front of his face. “It keys to your voice and your code. Say any four numbers that you will find easy to remember, but don't give me your debit card pin. I am not an honest woman.”

Nick left Quinn to set up his comm implant and learn about its grim secondary function while he tended to a few last-minute details. At the base of the Wraith's ladder, he found Drake arguing with Amanda and Joe Tarpin.

“What's going on here?” asked Nick.

Drake put his hands on his hips and nodded toward the two of them. “We have two interlopers who want to go for a ride. One has been attempting to coerce me with her feminine wiles. The other . . .” He looked at Joe with a queasy expression. “Well . . . the other is Joe.”

“You're both out of your minds,” said Nick.

“You owe me,” said Joe. “And don't forget, I speak Chinese. The Wraith can intercept ground comms, and I can translate for you.”

Amanda stepped between Joe and Drake. “I'm a member of this squadron now. Don't you think it's a good idea for me to get a little operational experience?”

Drake opened his mouth to respond, but she put a finger to his lips. “Consider your answer very carefully,” she said in a dark and sultry tone.

“It's not his call,” said Nick. “And I have no intention of letting you come along, either of you.” Tarpin began to protest again, but Nick held up his hand. “I need you both here, helping Will McBride investigate Wulóng and dig into Novak's past. Once we take off, we'll have more than ten hours before we deploy Shadow Catcher into Chinese airspace. That's ten hours for you to get me information that I can use on the ground.”

Walker and Quinn joined them at the base of the ladder. Quinn looked ashen, but he was suited up and ready to go. “What's all this?” asked the colonel, looking sideways at Amanda and Tarpin.

“Nothing,” said Nick. “They're just seeing us off.”

“Good,” said Walker, turning his wrist to look at his watch, “because it is now zero three hundred. Gentlemen, it's go time.”