David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

Brendan nodded and spent the rest of short trip staring out the window as they sped over the waves. He hadn’t been in a helo since… since the mission in the South China Sea. As if in sympathy, his knee twinged with pain.

The Seahawk landed with a flourish at the edge of the Muscat airfield. A lone figure waited for Brendan as he ran under the heavy downdraft. The tempo of the rotors increased as the helo took off again.

Brendan’s ears rang in the silence, and he worked his jaws to clear them. The middle-aged man opposite him wore a muted print Hawaiian shirt with khakis and loafers. A wide-brimmed straw hat completed the outfit. He extended his hand. “Artie Brindle. You must be Brendan.”

Brendan shook the man’s hand. It was a firm grip that seemed in contrast with the man’s overall innocuous appearance. He saw his smile reflected in the man’s dark glasses. “Brendan. Can you tell me what’s going on, Artie?”

Artie offered him a thin smile. “Sorry, my young friend, I’m just the middle man. I’m here to get you some fresh clothes, a hot meal, and a ride to your next destination in…” He consulted his wristwatch. “Two hours.”

He swept his arm toward a waiting car, a late model SUV. Brendan realized Artie was probably an NOC, a CIA case officer in nonofficial cover, used to handle local needs when the CIA needed to keep an arm’s length. What the hell had Baxter gotten him into?

The next two hours passed in a blur as Artie took Brendan to a small apartment where he had a stack of clothes waiting and some takeout food. “Sorry about the pile. I wasn’t sure about your size, so I just bought the rack.”

Brendan had no idea where he was going, so he opted for comfort and layers. He selected a pair of jeans, ankle-high hiking boots, an Under Armour T-shirt topped by a Patagonia long-sleeved shirt, and a dark-colored form-fitting Northface jacket. After a quick shower, he joined Artie in the small sitting room and was surprised to see it was already dark outside.

“Eat up,” Artie told him. “We leave in fifteen minutes.”

They rode in silence back toward the airport, and Brendan noticed he stayed off the main roads. Finally, Artie parked on the edge of the airfield and shut off the headlights. Darkness fell around the vehicle, and the only light in the area came from a lone overhead light outside a distant hangar.

The whipping cadence of rotors sounded overhead and Brendan could make out a darkened Black Hawk helo descending toward the ground in front of them. Artie stuck out his hand. His smile was a white slash in the darkness as he leaned close to Brendan and shouted, “They don’t tell me much, but this thing looks serious. Good luck, sir.”

A few seconds later, Brendan was in his second helicopter of the day and being handed another set of headphones.

The pilot flared the rotors and landed gently in the harsh glare of the military encampment.

“This one looks big-time, Commander,” the pilot said before Brendan pulled the headset off and handed it back to the crew chief.

He dropped to the ground and ran across the sand toward a waiting figure, a Navy lieutenant, who popped him a smart salute before he extended his hand.

The roar of the helo faded, letting the officer drop his voice to a conversational tone. “I know you’ve got questions, Commander, but right now, my orders are to get you to the general.”

“But—”

“The general does not like to be kept waiting, sir.” He was half-jogging toward a small building on the edge of the makeshift airfield, surrounded by smaller inflatable tents.

Brendan had never seen one, but this had all the earmarks of a JSOC exercise. The Joint Special Operations Task Force was the US military’s quick response team. Designed to be able to launch a full-scale raid anywhere on the planet within a few hours of Presidential notice, JSOC had come to public fame following the raid that killed Osama bin Laden. While most of the media attention went to SEAL Team Six, the JSOC force was also comprised of Army Rangers and Green Berets, as well as the full-scale military transport fleet needed to move an elite fighting force anywhere in the world at the drop of a hat.

A Chinook helo, the immense double rotors folded back for transport, was being unloaded from one of the massive C-17 cargo planes. A team of techs stood by ready to prep it for immediate flight.

The lieutenant held the door for him as they entered the small command center. In contrast to the organized chaos outside, the interior of the building was hushed. An Army colonel looked up from one of the waist-high tables and stabbed his finger across the room.

“You! McHugh!” He might have meant it as a question, but it came out like an order. He stalked over to Brendan, his deep-set eyes fierce.

Brendan swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re late. Boss wants to see you. Follow me.” He turned on his heel and marched to a larger table at the far end of the room.

The colonel touched an older man on the arm. “He’s here, sir.”

Lieutenant General Dave Sitler looked more like a grandfather than the commanding officer of the most lethal strike force on the planet. He offered a warm smile as he clasped Brendan’s hand in his massive paw. “Welcome to the party, McHugh.”

He cocked his head. “You look a little confused. Do you know why you’re here?”

“No, sir. I was extracted from my sailboat this afternoon and flown here—”

“Sailboat?” Sitler’s laugh echoed. “Son, what you do on your free time is up to you, but we’re here to lock down some loose nukes in Iran, and I’m told you are an expert on the launchers.”

A light went on in Brendan’s head. The TELs — the sensor must have detected a nuclear-tipped missile. “The sensor my team placed on the North Korean launcher detected a nuke? In Iran?”

“No flies on you, McHugh. You led that raid and your expertise could make all the difference right now.”

“How can I help, sir?” Over the general’s shoulder, he could see a flat screen showing what looked like an interrogation of a fat man sitting behind a desk and wearing only a T-shirt.

“Gear up. You’re going with us.”

Brendan’s knee throbbed. “Sir, I—”

“No time, son. Looks to me like you walk fine, and we’re not planning on putting you on point. You have first-hand knowledge of the target vehicles. We need to be absolutely certain these are the same TELs your team tagged before we turn them into piles of slag.” Sitler nodded to the lieutenant. “Get him geared up. We leave in twenty.”

Brendan’s mind whirled as the lieutenant pulled him toward the door. Outside, the tempo had reached a fever pitch. A line of helos, rotors extended now, were being swarmed by technicians and flight crews doing preflight checks.

They entered the open door of a large tent where a team of men were gathered around a crude topographical display. No one looked up. Brendan recognized the concentration on their faces. These were SEALs prepping for an assault. This was a bad idea. He had no business being here. Not anymore.

Two men detached themselves from the group and approached Brendan. The first stuck out his hand. “Lieutenant Dave Ringler, call me Ringo.” He gestured to the man trailing him. “Meet Petty Officer Jack Wiley — we call him Coyote. He’s your babysitter, Commander. I understand you have operational experience — that’s great, but I need your word that you’ll do whatever Coyote says.” He leveled his gaze at Brendan. “His job is to get you in and out in one piece and with no extra holes. Capisce , sir?”

Brendan nodded. He held out his hand to Coyote. The man’s dark eyes glittered and it seemed to take a long time before he grasped Brendan’s hand.