Marc Cameron - Act of Terror

“Exactly,” Quinn said. “I’m sure there are some details to get worked out, but I believe that’s the gist of it.”

He pushed to his feet with a long groan. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the head and rubbed down with heavy sandpaper. “My friends will be looking for me. I need to stomp out a distress signal in the snow.”

Hunt took a sip of her tea and grinned. “And just what do you think us CIA types do for three hours while we wait for you to wake up? Already done.”

Quinn collapsed back onto his quilts. He had to get the information back to Palmer about this Dr. Badeeb. The key to what was happening was sure to be with this guy. Quinn took a deep breath, struggling to remain calm. There was nothing to do now but wait and hope that Garcia could hang on.

Washington

Mujaheed Beg lay flat on his back on a piece of cardboard he’d found in a nearby Dumpster, staring up at the grimy undercarriage of his target vehicle. He much preferred killing people to killing cars.

Somewhere up the quiet street, beyond the CVS pharmacy, a dog barked in the darkness.

Over his years in America, he’d found he truly liked motorcars and cringed when he was forced as a last resort to shoot out a window or plant explosives under a hood. Badeeb had sent him to do a little mischief-make some necessary modifications as insurance. The problem with Congressman Drake would not solve itself.

Holding a penlight between his teeth, he inched his way deeper under the car before reaching up with a small Leatherman multi-tool. As always, it fell to Beg to take care of the doctor’s problems.

Once he was finished, he slid out from under the car and brushed the dust of his jeans. He ran a comb through his thick hair and walked into the darkness singing “Love Me Tender” under his breath.

Marc Cameron

Act of Terror

Afghanistan

Quinn’s eyes snapped open at the familiar sound. He pushed back his quilts and was outside in an instant to watch the huge Boeing CH-47 Chinook settle into the whirlwind of snow. He raised his arm in front of him to ward off the flying ice and snow crystals from the twin rotors’ hurricane-force winds.

Karen Hunt came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder as a crew chief bailed out the forward starboard door and shuffled his way toward them in the deep drifts. His voice became clearer as the helicopter’s engines wound down to a low, idling whine.

“You Captain Quinn?” he shouted, nearly falling on his face.

Jericho waved, relief washing over him. “I am. My partner’s got a pressure pneumothorax. You got a medic on board?”

“We got a field kit,” the kid said. He was close enough now Quinn could see the tab on the chest of his green Nomex suit that identified him as Crew Chief Jorgenson. “No doc on board though.” He took off his helmet and held it in the crook of his arm. He looked like a young Viking with his longish blond hair blowing in the cold breeze.

“You’re to accompany me, sir,” he said, all business. “We’re supposed to get you back to Asadabad ASAP.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Chief,” Quinn said. “I need to get my friend stabilized.”

Jorgenson nodded grimly. “We’re on a quick turnaround, sir, due to weather. You’ll have to do it on the bird.”

Quinn used the Chinook’s medical kit on Garcia as soon as they were all aboard. A new needle and catheter helped relieve the pressure. He put her on oxygen and had Hunt watch her while he went forward to meet the pilots.

Jorgenson handed him a green headset.

“Y’all are a long way from home.” Quinn stood behind the cockpit watching the jagged, snowcapped peaks shoot by the windows in a vibrating blur.

“We could say the same thing about you, Captain.” The pilot nodded. “Rod Jones, Eighty-second Combat Aviation Brigade. Bravo Company out of Kabul. Had to use the Fat Cow to get us out here and back.” He nodded over his shoulder at the extended-range fuel tanks in the rear of the bird. “You must have some juice with someone for them to send us this deep.”

Two desert tan Humvees idled on the ramp in Asadabad. One bore the red cross of a medical vehicle. The other had a fifty-caliber machine gun on top and bristled with soldiers dressed in full battle rattle.

“They don’t look very happy to see us.” Hunt’s breath puffed a circle of condensation against the Chinook’s round side window.

Quinn held Garcia’s hand, studying the waiting men through a cloud of blowing yellow dust. The Humvees seemed absurdly small against the expanse of rock strewn landscape of desert and barren mountains.

Both vehicles rolled toward the rear of the Chinook as the rotors whined down.

“Can you remember a number without writing it down?” Quinn looked at Hunt as the helicopter’s rear ramp began to lower.

“That’s what I do.” Hunt smirked. Her face went slack as she looked up and realized he was serious. “What’s going on?”

Quinn rattled off two phone numbers. “Jacques Thibodaux. He’s one of the few you can trust back home. Tell him what we found out about Dr. Badeeb. If you can’t get hold of him quickly, talk to Winfield Palmer.”

The ramp touched down on the desert floor and a squad of six men rushed forward, each with an M4 trained on the chopper’s interior. A side glance out the window told Quinn the Chinook’s pilots and crew had already exited through the front of the aircraft and waited outside to watch the show.

Hunt raised her hands. “The national security advisor? Why are you telling me all this?”

“Take care of Garcia,” Quinn whispered. He opened his mouth to explain more, but the twin barbs of a Taser struck him in the chest. He collapsed, writhing against the metal floor.

The voltage abated and his body fell slack. He was vaguely aware of the dark form of a soldier looming over him. There was a sharp pain in his neck-a rush of wind, then dreams.

Near Gettysburg

Quinn woke to nothingness. No light, no sound, no smell. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Still nothing. Movement was hampered by some sort of harness around his waist. His arms were held wing-like by a similar strap, away from his sides. The faint taste of saline told him he was suspended in a warm-water bath-likely with Epsom salts to float him without effort.

A sensory deprivation chamber-an upright, coffin-like enclosure soundproofed and filled with enough warm water to leave only the victim’s head exposed. He’d spent some alone time in one during training. Some in his element had fallen victim to hallucinations less than an hour after going inside the box. Their instructor had pointed out that the more well-adjusted they were, the more quickly they would succumb. Quinn had lasted almost six hours, three times as long as any other member of his training element.

Every prospective combat rescue officer was sent to SERE-Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape-training in at Fairchild Air Force Base near Spokane, Washington. As a trained interrogator, CRO, and OSI agent, he’d attended advance training at Fairchild and at the Navy’s sister facility in Maine. Quinn was certain these two training cycles had taken at least a year off his life.

Having spent his youth in the wilds of Alaska, survival, escape, and evasion came easy to Quinn. There was little the enemy could throw at him during a pursuit that was more frightening than a nine-foot grizzly sow.

The R in SERE was a completely different story. The instructors had pointed out early in their training that the human mind was far more vulnerable to exploitation than the body. During times of extreme pain, the physical being simply shut down, in effect turning off its ability to feel inflicted stimuli.