Brad Thor - The Athena Project

Looking up, Rhodes caught John Vlcek’s eye. Feigning boredom, he looked at his watch and then pretended to yawn.

She smiled at him in response. Heger would break. It was only a matter of time.

She had Ericsson tip him back up and then she allowed him a moment to catch his breath. His clothes were dripping with sweat.

Then, without warning, without giving him a chance to answer her question, Rhodes signaled for Ericsson to tip the board back over.

As it began to tip back, Heger yelled, “No! Stop.”

Rhodes signaled for Ericsson to keep going as she said, “I’m sorry, Radek. We can’t stop.”

The board slammed onto the floor. “Oh, my God. Stop,” he yelled. “Please stop. I will tell you.”

“Tell me what?” asked Rhodes, bending down close to him again.

“Anything,” he stammered. “Everything.”

Megan pressed gently against his broken collarbone with her thumb.

“We never met the purchaser! We only met his attorney. His name is Branko. Branko Kojic. I sold everything in the bunker to him.”

PARAGUAY

SUNDAY

The pilot of the aging Beechcraft King Air 100 made sure everyone was buckled in as he circled the dusty landing strip one last time. As alums of the U.S. Army’s former clandestine unit out of Honduras, codenamed Seaspray, he and his copilot had made so many jungle landings they could do them in their sleep.

Conducting their final pass, they kept their eyes peeled for any goats, chickens, or locals that might need to be scared off. They also assessed the integrity of the landing strip itself. The last thing they needed was an inopportunely placed rock or a gaping hole to snap off a piece of their landing gear, or worse. They had very precious cargo onboard and they knew what would happen to them if anything bad befell their VIP passengers.

Leslie Paxton looked at Jack Walsh and smiled. She’d never seen him out of his uniform before. He looked good in civilian clothes, though she didn’t think anyone would suspect him of being a missionary. His bearing, his haircut, that gaze that could cut right through steel, it all just screamed military.

If the truth be told, there wasn’t much if anything about their team that looked missionary. Even the explosives expert Jack had brought along, a retired naval EOD tech by the name of Tracy Hastings, looked military. While she was an attractive girl, she had the body of an amateur weightlifter. The woman must have worked out at least eight hours a day. There also seemed to be a question about her health, as Jack had asked her a couple of times about headaches, to which Tracy responded that she was feeling fine.

It seemed to Leslie that the two had an interesting father-daughter type of relationship. Jack said that he had worked with Tracy before an accident had forced her out of the Navy. She was one of the best EOD, or Explosive Ordnance Disposal techs, he had ever seen. She was also one of only a few women in the entire Navy ever to hold the job.

But despite Tracy’s significant skills, Jack confided in Leslie privately, a bomb that she had been disarming had gone off. As a result, she suffered severe facial lacerations and had lost an eye.

Paxton was not only hard-pressed to notice any scarring, which apparently many rounds of plastic surgery had helped mask, but the surgeons had done such a good job matching her existing pale blue eye that she never would have known that Tracy had lost the other had Jack not said anything.

In addition to Tracy, Jack had brought along four operators for security. This was a highly irregular assignment. In fact, Red Cooney, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, had wanted him to bring more security, but Jack had talked him out of it. They already had too big a footprint in his opinion. When you included the man they were meeting at the airfield, their party would number eight people total.

Jack’s argument to the chairman was that the operation stopped being covert the minute they doubled their numbers and added the security detail. Cooney, though, didn’t care. He wasn’t about to hand al Qaeda, Hamas, or whoever else was floating around in these jungles such a huge PR coup without a fight. Cooney didn’t even want to think of the hay the terrorists could make if they captured not only one of the Pentagon’s top intelligence people, but also the director of the top military research agency.

The security men were polite, but kept to themselves. They spent most of the flight sleeping. Of average height, but exceptional build, they were Special Forces soldiers from Seventh Group, formerly stationed in Panama, and now stationed at Elgin Air Force Base in Florida. Though Seventh Group had seen a lot of action as part of Task Force 373 in Afghanistan, the men all spoke fluent Spanish and had extensive experience in the jungles of South America. They were honored to have been handpicked for this assignment and were glad to be getting back to the jungle.

The airplane bounced on the dusty runway and taxied over to a small building a step above a hut that functioned as the terminal, control tower, refueling depot, and bar.

Sitting on a stool chatting with the airport’s sole employee and bartender was Ryan Naylor.

As the bush plane taxied over toward them, Naylor thanked the bartender, paid for his Diet Coke, and walked out into the sun. Once the pilot had shut down the engines, he approached the aircraft and waited for the door to be opened and the air stairs lowered.

Jack Walsh came down right behind the SF personnel.

“Admiral Walsh,” said the young doctor cum spy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“I’ve read a lot of your reporting,” replied Walsh. “The pleasure is all mine. You’ve been doing great work down here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Walsh turned to help Leslie Paxton and Tracy Hastings as they came down the stairs. Then, he made all of the introductions.

Naylor helped unload their gear. Parked next to the “terminal” were two beefy-looking Toyota Land Cruisers with brush guards, rows of halogen lights, engine snorkels, and extra-large off-road tires. Secured to their roof racks were spare gas cans and expedition equipment.

Pointing at a door behind the bar, Naylor said, “This will be your last chance at indoor plumbing for a while, so if anyone is interested, now’s the time.”

The ladies excused themselves, and while Walsh tried to decide what gear he wanted in which Land Cruiser, Naylor got to know the SF men.

He gave them a rundown about terrorist activity in the area as well as what the RUMINT was. They discussed who’d go in which vehicles, who would lead, and then one of the SF men issued Naylor a radio.

By the time they had their logistics sorted out, the ladies had returned.

“Not exactly the Plaza,” said Paxton, referring to the facilities.

“Javier is going to upgrade the bathroom right after the free wi-fi goes in,” said Naylor.

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied, drawing her attention to a satellite dish on the roof. “He also makes a mean margarita.”

“I’m definitely a margarita girl,” said Tracy.

Naylor smiled. Was she flirting with him? “When we come back,” he said, “I’ll buy us all the first round. How’s that?”

“Deal.”

They continued to make small talk until the SF men had loaded the last of the gear and then Walsh said, “Time to saddle up.”

It was decided that they would ride four per vehicle, Walsh, Paxton, and two of the SF men in one Land Cruiser, Naylor, Hastings, and the remaining two SF operators in the other. As Naylor was the most familiar with the area, his was designated the lead vehicle.