Brad Taylor - Enemy of Mine

Bouncing across the desert, Jennifer did nothing but steer and navigate, never once asking me about anything that had happened. That and her demeanor told me something was different. She had an aura melting off of her that permeated the entire vehicle. Maybe something only I could sense, but it was there, filling the cab with its stench. I said nothing, waiting for her to open up.

Eventually, she said, “What do you think about Lucas? You going to let that go?”

“What do you mean? I don’t really have a choice. He’s an asshole, but I’m not going to chase his butt all over the world.”

She looked at me for a long pause, reading my face. When she returned to the road, she said, “What about Ethan’s family? Isn’t that enough?”

Where was this going?

“Yeah, that’s definitely enough, but I don’t have the team or the intel to chase him. He’ll turn up.”

“What if I told you I had the intel? That inside his room I found where he’s going? Would that be enough?”

“What kind of game are you playing? Why are you asking?”

She looked at me again, and I saw a door slam closed. “Nothing. Just asking. It doesn’t matter to me either.”

We reached the pickup grid without speaking again. I knew something was wrong, but was genuinely unsure of what to say or how to act. I let it ride.

Decoy and Brett unloaded the two prisoners while I laid out the kit, consisting of nothing more than a specially constructed rope and a helium balloon. Jennifer attached the battery wires for what looked like an ordinary pocket calculator to the antenna lead of the radio, giving us the ability to hear the aircraft’s encrypted transmissions through the stereo in the Pathfinder. It was a simple decryption device that translated the radio calls of the aircraft, transmitted using a standard FM frequency on the radio dial. The hitch was we couldn’t speak back verbally. That didn’t mean we couldn’t communicate.

Both of the terrorists had been sedated with a special drug that was not unlike controlled substances used on every college campus in America. It gave a sense of euphoria while inhibiting conscious thought. They were coherent, but just barely, looking around with glazed eyes like they were trying to understand what was happening. They had enough coordination to put on the special jumpsuits for the ride, completely oblivious as to why they were doing it.

Ten minutes out, Jennifer fired up the Pathfinder and dialed the radio to the correct frequency. I stood by with an infrared pointer, barely able to make out the terrorists thirty feet away in the dark, sitting back-to-back in orange jumpsuits.

We heard nothing but static for four minutes, then a clear break.

“Prometheus, Prometheus, this is Stork. You got a baby for me to deliver?”

I fired up the IR pointer and began doing slow loops in the sky.

“Roger, Prometheus, got your rope. Stand by. Be on target in ten minutes.”

That was the call to release the balloon. I attached two infrared ChemLights to the rope, separated by a hundred feet, then turned on the helium. Within seconds, the rope began to rise in the air.

Ordinarily, the plane would be able to see the line in daylight, driving right into it and capturing the rope with a special little “V” attachment in the nose. Since nothing was easy enough for the Taskforce, we did the capture at night, blacked out, which called for the pilot to literally find the two IR ChemLights while wearing night observation goggles and steer his nose toward them, keeping one high and one low, hoping to snag the line.

There was one other difference the Taskforce had to heighten the adventure. The old MC-130s used to have a cable running from the nose to the outside edge of the wings to protect the propellers if the pilot missed the rope, in effect preventing it from snarling in an engine. Since that setup would look decidedly strange on a “commercial” airplane, we didn’t use it. Scary shit I would never do. Taskforce pilots were borderline insane.

We waited, getting no indication the plane was approaching, since all lights had been dashed and it was now diving from a commercial altitude to eight hundred feet. I kept my eye on the two passengers, making sure they didn’t do anything stupid like try to jump up and run. We didn’t flex-cuff them for the same reason we didn’t give them a drug that would make them unconscious; if something went wrong, we wanted them to be at least somewhat capable of helping to save their lives.

Out of nowhere, I heard the four engines of the L100, a stretch, commercial version of the venerable C-130 cargo plane. It raced overhead, and I watched the terrorists, knowing what was coming.

Two seconds later, they were ripped from the ground and flying out of sight. It looked violent as hell, but I knew from experience it had less of a shock than a simple parachute opening.

I waited for the radio call, not wanting to go racing through the desert for a crashed airplane towing terrorists. The stereo crackled, and I relaxed from what came out.

“Prometheus, this is Stork. Baby’s in the crib, and we’re moving to delivery.”

We high-fived for a moment, then packed up. Shortly, I was back in the tomb with Jennifer, only she was now in the passenger seat. We went for ten minutes, the silence getting so dense it was like cotton in the cab, surrounding us both and starting to smother. Eventually, she broke it.

“Do you think letting Lucas go is right?”

What is the damn fascination with him? She couldn’t stand the way I acted in Bosnia when I captured him, now she wishes I’d smoked him when I had the chance?

I turned, seeing her face illuminated by the lights of the dash. “Jennifer, what’s going on? Why do you keep asking about him?”

She paused, then said, “Nothing. I was just wondering.”

“Bullshit. You remember on the boat, when you said you could read me? You were right, but it works both ways. Nobody else sees it, but I do. Tell me what’s going on.”

She stared at me for a moment, then snaked her hand over mine on the bench seat. “I have to tell you something.”

“Okay…I’m ready. I think.”

“It’s personal. You can’t tell anyone else. I mean that.”

What the hell?

“Yeah, sure. You going to let me in on a big secret? I’m finally getting to see the real Jennifer or something?”

She said nothing, and I saw her eyes tear up. Holy shit. What is going on?

“Lucas…Lucas did something. Something I want you to know about.”

I waited, only hearing sniffles, finally saying, “What?”

When she looked up, her eyes were still wet, but clear, and her voice was now firm. “You know what. He murdered Ethan. Slaughtered his whole family. We need to get him. We shouldn’t let it go.”

The change in tone raised a flag. She’d known about Ethan and his family when I had Lucas in Bosnia. Why get bloodthirsty now?

“Jennifer, you heard the boss. The Taskforce isn’t going to do anything about it unless he becomes a threat to national security. We don’t chase murderers.”

“I’m not talking about the Taskforce. I’m talking about us.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

She reached into a pocket of her pants and brought out a card. An ID of some sort. She said, “Pull over.”

“Why?”

“Please.”

I did so, getting a radio call from Knuckles behind me. I told him we were fine and to continue on. He protested, and I barked at him. He slowly disappeared ahead of us. Jennifer turned on the dome light and handed me the card.

It was my friend’s driver’s license. Ethan, with that same goofy grin. Now gone, tortured to death by Lucas. The picture caused a spike of anger at his loss.