| |
Flight Level 420
15 February
“You’re shitting me!” Axe said as he sat on the edge of the pullout bed. Tuna and Kruger were on the couch across from him attempting to explain what they had recently learned about their host. “He’s with Odin?”
Kruger nodded. The tattoo on Lyons’s shoulder was a skull with three interlocked triangles called the “valknut” on its forehead and an inscription that read “Stamus Contra Malum” which was Latin for “We Stand Against Evil.” The valknut was the symbol of Odin, the Norse god of war and death. It was the symbol of a group Kruger had heard rumors of on the battlefields of Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Horn of Africa.
Although he had never met anyone from Odin, their reputation, like their namesake, was almost mythological across the Special Operations community. When he was with Delta, Kruger and his team had been dispatched to take down a high value target in a Taliban controlled village in Afghanistan. When they arrived, the HVT and nearly every fighter in the village were dead. On the outer wall of the small hut, a skull and valknut were painted in black and white. No one knew what it meant.
Rumors across the community spread like wildfire. Some thought they were a secret U.S. group like the secret multinational Task Force 88, while others thought they were British SAS or Private Military Contractors. No one at even the highest levels had worked with them, and even the spooks from the CIA didn’t know who they were.
“He is Odin,” Kruger corrected him. “Or at least one of them.”
“What does that mean?” Axe asked. “And holy shit dude, how did we end up on a plane with them?”
“Jenny has apparently been holding out on us,” Tuna interjected.
“Not the first time,” Axe said with a wry smile.
“Anyway,” Kruger said dismissively. “Apparently Odin is a real thing and Lyons is one of the four billionaires bankrolling it.”
“Who are the other three?” Axe asked.
“He won’t say,” Kruger replied. “But I don’t think they’re all Americans.”
“I’m not surprised,” Axe replied. “When I was with the teams, I saw a dude with a similar tattoo. I thought he was a Dutch Commando, but now that I think about it, I think he might’ve been Odin.”
“Lyons says they have less than fifty people working for them from all over the world. Former American Tier One operators, British SAS, Israeli Mista'arvim, Aussies, Spetsnaz, and even Philippine Special Forces Regiment,” Kruger explained.
“Wait a second,” Axe interrupted. “Did you say Spetsnaz? Russians?”
Kruger nodded. “He said they don’t work for anyone but themselves. Bankrolled by these four billionaires with their own intelligence network. The group is supposedly over a hundred years old – started after the sinking of Lusitania and grew from there.”
“I’m not a history major, but didn’t that start World War I?” Axe asked.
“Not bad for a squid,” Kruger replied. “Despite warnings from the British, the Lusitania sailed into contested waters and was sunk by a German U-Boat. Among the dead were the families of hotel proprietor Charles Witherbee and banker Alfred Stone, who were on their way back to Liverpool. The two got together and hired a group of veterans from the Spanish-American war and the Philippine-American war to seek vengeance.
“The group killed the Captain of the German U-boat and most of those directly involved. Witherbee and Stone then paid them to work with the Americans with guerilla style attacks in the Balkans, which eventually led to the loss of confidence in the Kaiser. The group disbanded shortly after and stayed that way until World War II,” said Kruger.
“Quite the history lesson,” Axe said.
“We’ve just been listening to it for the last hour. It’s fascinating,” Tuna replied. “Apparently they were called back during World War II to assist with more attacks in Germany and even Japan. Lyons is the great-grandson of Witherbee. They’ve been working outside the government in every major conflict for the last hundred years. Sometimes with. Sometimes not.”
“Against?” Axe asked suspiciously.
“I didn’t get that impression,” Kruger said. “But they claim to be apolitical. There’s no nation building or supporting puppet governments.”
“So, what’s the point? Why do it?” Axe asked.
“Think of it as a special blend of philanthropy, Mr. Axelrod,” Lyons interrupted as he approached. “We do what governments won’t or can’t.”
“There’s always a catch,” Axe shot back. “What do you get in return?”
“Justice,” Lyons said with a grin. “How many times have you watched the bad guys get away because your hands were tied due to theater rules of engagement? Or because you couldn’t cross into another country?”
“The rules of engagement exist for a reason,” Tuna answered. “Without them, we’re no better than the Taliban or Al Qaeda.”
“Oh, we have our own rules,” Lyons replied. “But ours do not involve political objectives or fear of retribution. When my great grandfather started Odin a hundred years ago, he gave his men three rules. First, never kill or harm an innocent or civilian. Second, do not steal or pillage from noncombatants. And finally, always cover and fight for the man next to you. In the hundred years Odin has been working behind the scenes, these rules have carried and worked for every man and woman that has worked for us.”
“You’re avoiding the question, bub,” Kruger said, growing impatient with the sales pitch. “No one does anything for free. What do you get out of it? Nothing is free.”
“Governments pay us contracting fees,” Lyons said. “And we often have to defund terrorist organizations.”
“What happened to the no stealing rule?” Tuna asked.
“From noncombatants,” Lyons said with a sly smile. “Combatants are fair game, especially when they’re using the money to buy weapons to kill American servicemen. You of all people should be able to appreciate that.”
“Ok, I’m still confused at how you’re running this,” Axe said. “You’re the YouTube guy who had everyone quit on him. With all due respect, your rep sucks.”
Lyons laughed. “We thought my involvement had been compromised several years back. So, we came up with a counterintelligence campaign to control the narrative. Obviously, it worked.”
“What do you want from us?” Axe asked.
“I want to help,” Lyons offered. “Specifically, Odin wants to help.”
“How the hell did you even know about us?”
“Oh please,” Lyons replied dismissively. “Nothing the government does is a secret, not even off-the-books organizations. Besides, Jenny vouched for you and thought you might like to work with us.”
“I’m out of the business, bub,” Kruger snapped.
“I see that. Vacation, right?” Lyons replied with a chuckle. “But I’ll make you an offer anyway.”
Without waiting for a reply, Lyons continued, “Let us work with you on this op. We’ll give you every resource you need. You can even take the lead. If you’re not happy with the way things go, then we’ll all go our separate ways at the end.”
“And if we are?”
“Then you join Odin,” Lyons replied.
Kruger heard the incoming call alert on his laptop in the next cabin as Lyons waited for his reply. “Excuse me,” he said as he pushed forward to the laptop.
He clicked on the Skype icon and found an incoming call from Meeks. “What’s up, Coolio?”
“Boss,” Meeks said dejectedly. His voice was wavering and his eyes were bloodshot behind his hipster glasses. “It’s not good.”
“What’s wrong?” Kruger asked as Tuna and the others huddled around him.
“They’re all dead,” Meeks replied slowly. “All of them.”
“What? Coolio what are you talking about?”
“They detonated the nuke a few minutes ago,” Meeks replied softly. “Everyone within a five-mile radius was killed. The President. The AG. My boss. Decker. Spectre. All dead. All of them. Dead!”
“No, Coolio, that’s not right,” Kruger said, shocked by the news.
“Jesus fuck!” Axe blurted out behind Kruger as he turned around and walked off. “Goddammit!”
“The U.S.S. Jacksonville confirmed the detonation,” Meeks said, his voice still shaking. “SEAL Team Six and NEST teams had just started their mission.”
“No. No. No, Coolio,” Kruger said, shaking his head. “What about the beacon? Spectre’s watch.”
Meeks took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes before turning to another screen. “Still tracking northwest moving at two hundred and fifty knots,” he said, watching the screen. “Now it’s at thirty thousand feet.”
“Can you project out where it might be headed?” Kruger asked.
“Best guess is Russia if they continue their current course,” Meeks replied. “But that’s two thousand miles away.”
“Thanks, Coolio,” Kruger replied. “We’ll be in touch.”
“We can go get them,” Lyons offered as he stood behind Kruger. “I have a team meeting us in Hawaii.”
Kruger looked at Tuna and Axe. They both gave their nod of approval to Kruger.
Kruger stood and turned to Lyons. He took a moment to study the smaller man, staring him in the eyes.
“We’re in,” he said finally.
* * *
39,000 ft.
Pacific Ocean
15 Feb
0022 Local Time
Sullivan had just leveled off at their maximum range cruising altitude as he saw the mushroom cloud blooming in his canopy-mounted mirrors. He looked over his shoulder, wondering if the others had made it off the island as he watched the cloud part the overcast skies and expand behind them.
“Are you ok back there, Madam President?” Sullivan asked over the intercom. The President was wearing a maintenance headset so that they could talk to each other. They had only been able to find one helmet and mask and Sullivan was wearing it to prevent hypoxia at the high altitude they were flying. At the altitude they needed to fly to reach Hawaii, the cabin would only pressurize to twelve thousand feet. It wouldn’t kill the President, but as the pilot in command, Sullivan needed to be sharp. Even with the tailwind, they were going to be very close to running out of fuel by the time they reached the island chain.
“So many people died today,” President Clifton replied softly. “Good people. Brave people.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sullivan replied. “Sometimes war brings out the best and worst in people. The people in that hangar were heroes.”
“You were in the cockpit when this happened, weren’t you?” the President asked. “What happened?”
“No, ma’am,” Sullivan replied. “I had stepped out and Waxburn locked me out. He dumped the cabin pressure and stayed at altitude to make everyone hypoxic. Agent Lacy and I tried to get in but the more you fight in hypoxic situations, the faster it hits you. I didn’t come to until we were on final and by then it was too late.”
“What happened to Waxburn? Why would he do this?”
“The terrorists entered through the emergency escape hatch in the cockpit and killed him. I saw his body on the floor before they took me away. Honestly, I don’t know why he did it,” Sullivan said. The President could see him shaking his head under his light gray helmet in the front cockpit. “He was acting strange after we left Taiwan. I should’ve done something about it, but I chalked it up to everything that was going on. It’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault,” the President argued. “You got me off that island. You’re a hero too.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Sullivan replied modestly. “I just wish we could’ve prevented it. So many families were affected today.”
“I will do my best to honor their loved ones and make sure they know that the nation thanks them,” Clifton replied. “You have my word on that.”
“Can I ask you something?” Clifton asked, changing the subject.
“Anything, ma’am,” Sullivan replied.
“Did you know the guy in the hangar? Martin, I think his name was?”
“No, ma’am.”
“He said that these weren’t Islamic terrorists, but Chinese operatives. Do you think that’s true?”
“Ahhh,” Sullivan stalled. “That’s above my pay grade, ma’am.”
“Colonel, you were held by the same people I was. What is your personal opinion?”
“That would be an overt act of war, ma’am,” Sullivan replied. “Killing the President of the United States is a big deal, but...”
“But what?”
“But on the other hand, Midway Island is completely isolated. I don’t see how they could pull that off without military support. Their airlift aircraft was definitely military grade hardware, but didn’t ISIL take over old Syrian and Iraqi Air Force aircraft in the Middle East?”
“I don’t want to talk about that mess,” the President deflected. “It has been a nightmare for some time now.”
“I understand, ma’am. But I will say this – what they did would be very hard to pull off without multiple aircraft or at least tanker support. And there are few countries that can project power through air refueling,” Sullivan offered.
“Why do you say that?”
“It goes back to what I was saying about Midway being isolated. Midway is a divert location because of its isolation. It’s a good midway point in the Pacific. It’s over a thousand miles from anything in all directions. To land and not refuel and then takeoff to fly somewhere another thousand miles away takes an aircraft with legs or the ability to air refuel.”
“How do you know they didn’t just refuel when they landed?”
“Well, I don’t, ma’am,” Sullivan ceded.
“Unknown aircraft squawking seven-seven-zero-zero at position north two-seven, west one-six-nine, this is JEDI on guard, authenticate Juliet India,” a female voice said over the radio. It was the controllers of the AWACS. Unable to establish communications after takeoff, Sullivan had set his transponder to 7700, indicating he was an emergency to anyone who picked him up on radar.
“Standby, ma’am,” Sullivan said over the intercom before keying his radio. “JEDI, this is Air Force One squawking seven-seven-zero-zero with the flash.” Sullivan reached up and pushed the IDENT button, giving the controllers a ping from his position on their radar scope.
“Ident observed, say again callsign?” the controller queried.
“Air Force One, ma’am,” Sullivan responded.
There was a pregnant pause on the radio. Sullivan could just picture the Air Battle Manager’s head exploding as she tried to figure out how Air Force One was suddenly airborne again. But he was using the appropriate protocol in using the callsign, even in the F-15. Any Air Force aircraft carrying the President automatically became Air Force One.
“Do you have a discrete frequency for us?” Sullivan said, breaking the radio silence.
“Unknown aircraft, change to my frequency three-three-seven point eight,” the controller responded.
Sullivan changed the radio frequency to 337.8 and paused a moment before keying the mic again, “JEDI, Air Force One with you on three-three-seven point eight.”
A male controller’s voice suddenly replied, “Sir, I know you think this is funny, but you’re flying in an active no-fly area using a reserved callsign. Standby for escort.”
Sullivan laughed. “It is still acceptable to use this callsign when carrying the President, is it not? Or would you prefer Angel?” Sullivan replied sharply. “Angel” was the tactical designation given to Air Force One when being referred to by military controllers for defensive purposes.
“Standby,” the male voice said abruptly.
Moments later, the male voice was replaced by the first female controller. “Air Force One, you are radar contact one-six-nine miles southeast of Midway Island,” she said.
“Air Force One copies, and we’ll take that escort now,” Sullivan replied. “And a tanker if you’ve got one. We’re min fuel for Hickam.”
“JEDI copies, escort is en route and we’ll work the tanker,” the controller replied.