David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

A plain text chatroom with a five-minute countdown clock in the lower corner filled the screen. Hashem was already logged in.

By the time they had completed the prearranged script to verify their identities, there were less than four minutes remaining.

How is our package? Hashem wrote. Even in this secure environment, they spoke in vague terms.

No change, Rafiq typed back. How much longer must I stay here?

Hashem took a long time to respond. As long as it takes. Be patient.

Rafiq wanted to scream. It had been four years! His fingers shook as he typed.

I need an end date.

Another long pause. Was Hashem deliberately running out the clock to avoid the conversation?

Your mission is to be the hidden sword, the blade of death they never see coming. Be patient.

The countdown clock was less than a minute now.

I need to get out!

I have faith in your strength. WE have faith in your strength. You will not let us down.

The screen went black as the timer ran down to zero. The program automatically erased his web session and wiped his deleted files clean.

It had been like this every month for the last four years. Is the cargo safe? Stay in place. When would it end?

Rafiq shut down the computer, and switched off the desk lamp. He eased back into the soft leather of the chair, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. The only sound in the quiet of the ranch house was his own breathing.

You have a good life here.

The thought came to him unbidden, and the truth of it hurt. He liked his life — no, he loved his life here on the ranch. But he could not shake the thought that if he didn’t leave now, in thirty years he’d be like Javier, getting drunk every night, missing the only woman he’d ever loved.

Nadine.

Rafiq stood and crossed the room with swift strides. He flung open the door to the study and almost ran down the hall to their bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

Nadine had left the curtains open when she’d gone to bed and moonlight lit the room in stark black and white. He dropped his shirt in the doorway and stepped out of his shoes as he moved to the bed. He unbuckled his belt and yanked down his trousers and underwear together. His cock swung heavy and free as he slid between the sheets.

She’d left her nightgown on the chair, and he ran his hand down her naked back, stopping to caress, then kiss, the small of her back. She rolled her hips toward him and he rubbed his stiff member against her spine.

“Ohhh.” She let out a soft moan as she slid her hand down his belly.

Rafiq’s hand cupped her breast. He used his chin to push aside her hair and nuzzle her neck, nipping at the soft skin of her throat. She was breathing heavily now, her nipples hard under his fingers. He lay Nadine on her back and mounted her, letting out a sigh as he slid deep into her silky wetness. Her feet locked behind his hips and her hands grasped his buttocks as she pulled him deeper into her, her back arching with the effort.

Together they found a rhythm, and her breathing grew sharp with lust. The skin of Rafiq’s sides went slick with sweat under her grasping hands as he held himself back, waiting for the magic moment when her body told him she was ready.

He thrust again, felt her hips spasm around him, and he let himself go…

He woke to the feel of Nadine’s hands stroking his face. She traced his jaw lightly, running her fingers across his lips. She faced him, propped on her side, one hand under her head, the other caressing his face. Her naked breast lay a few inches from his lips, and Rafiq teased her nipple with his tongue.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

Rafiq could make out her face in the shadows, her eyes glimmering large in the light of the moon. In all the time they’d been together, he’d never said he loved her, and she’d never asked.

“Do you love me?” she said again, her tone insistent.

“Yes,” Rafiq said, surprising even himself. But it was true, he did love her. This whole crazy night had done nothing but reinforce that to him.

He slid closer so his face was only inches from hers. She was taking quick, sharp breaths, as if she were still in the throes of their lovemaking and her eyes were glassy bright in the darkness.

“Yes,” he said again. “I love you.”

“Marry me. I don’t care if you have to go away. I’ll do whatever you need me to do, be whatever you need me to be. But, marry me. Please.”

Captain Rick Baxter pushed the rim of the ball cap up and swiped his forehead with his wrist, careful not to let any of the paint stripper touch his skin. The stuff stung bare skin like the dickens. He really wanted to rub his eyes, but settled with blinking them a few times in rapid succession.

“I didn’t agree to no break, sir ,” came a rumbling wheeze from behind him.

Rick smiled at the extra emphasis on sir . “And I don’t recall volunteering for this gig, Master Chief.”

The rumble turned into a laugh, followed by a sucking sound as he drew on his pipe. The old man appeared at Rick’s elbow. He gestured at the yacht with the chewed stem of his pipe. “She’s lookin’ good, skipper. Shapin’ up nicely, she is.”

Rick stood to his full height and stripped off the rubber gloves he was wearing. The old man barely reached his shoulder. He’d known Master Chief O’Brien for almost thirty years, ever since he’d started at Annapolis. As a green, newly minted ensign from the Naval Academy, O’Brien had even been there to get Rick’s first salute, and the special silver dollar that went along with it. It seemed like the Master Chief had appeared somewhere in every sea tour Rick had done in his career. The old man was retired now, but he worked in the shipyard at the Naval Station across from the Academy. Rick had made a point of looking up the old codger when his work brought him to Annapolis.

He smiled down at the weathered face. He’d looked like that for as long as Rick could remember, so old that one of the wise-asses onboard his first ship had nicknamed him “The Ancient Mariner.” Rick shook his head. Say what they might, the old man had more energy than any sailor half his age and twice the experience. Oh, and he managed to flout every naval regulation on smoking.

The pipe stem still pointed at the hull, and O’Brien’s bushy gray eyebrows arched at Rick. “Are we havin’ a senior moment, sir ? I believe I asked you a question.”

Rick laughed. “You’re right, Master Chief, she’s a beauty. She’ll be just perfect.”

The ship was a beauty, a forty-four-foot yacht he’d managed to wrangle from the Naval Academy sailing fleet. She was an old-style racer, a little wider in the beam and with a heavier keel than the latest models, and therefore a touch slower, but for his project, she was perfect. He touched the hole where they’d be placing the hidden hydrophone and stepped around the fuel cells that would power all the electronics he planned to cram into the hull.

The fuel cells had just arrived this morning, and they were even better than he’d hoped. The latest DARPA could offer him, the two blocks were the size of car batteries but could power a small apartment building for a week. Each.

He smiled to himself. This was going to work. All he needed to do was to get this ship through refit, find a crew, and get it to sea. Then they’d see what kind of intel he could bring in. He tightened the arms of the coveralls tied around his waist. Finishing the refit was the key. This morning, he’d even stripped off his uniform shirt and donned a pair of coveralls to help out.