Weston Ochse - SEAL Team 666

Eddie’s eyes narrowed.

“No, really. That’s how the other soldiers couldn’t find us. Just as ‘he’ has magic,” he said, using finger quotes again, “we have magic, too.”

Eddie craned his neck to look at Yaya, who until that moment had been looking imploringly at Walker. Walker shrugged and grinned at his friend.

“Go ahead and show him the concealment device,” Walker urged.

Yaya looked around, then reached into his side pocket. He pulled out the old cable he said was from World War II and held it up. “You mean this old thing?”

“That’s it.”

Eddie looked at it and narrowed his eyes. “How does it work?”

This time it was Yaya’s turn to smile. “You put it in your mouth. Here, Walker will show you.”

Yaya handed the cable over to Walker, who reminded himself that Yaya needed a good asskicking. Walker took it, grinned at Eddie, then placed an end in his mouth. It tasted like tar, cigar ash, and an old wig, but he kept it in his mouth.

Eddie looked from one to the other. “But there are two of you.”

Yaya nodded in agreement, and looked at Walker. When Walker’s grin grew even larger, Yaya’s nod turned into a shake.

Walker pulled his out of his mouth momentarily and said, “We both have to have it in our mouths.”

He put his back in and offered Yaya the other end. Yaya put it in his mouth and frowned only a little at the taste. The cable was almost at its limit as it stretched between the pair. Yeah, revenge is a dish best served with old cable.

“But I can see you,” Eddie said matter-of-factly.

Walker removed it from his mouth. “Of course you can. You aren’t a demon. This only works on demons. You know, like him .”

Eddie stared at Yaya, who still had his end in. After a moment, he narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “Not as good as a suit.”

Walker and Yaya exchanged a look.

“What kind of suit?” Walker asked.

“You know,” Eddie said, touching the skin of his arm. “One made from people.”

“You’ve seen this?”

Eddie glanced toward the dead soldiers. “I’ve seen one.”

The barbarians were at the gates. If it hadn’t been a variation on the usual, Billings would have been outraged. They finally had eyes on and CENTCOM wanted to retake control of their satellite, citing their priority. Their priority my ass , she thought. If it weren’t for the fact that SEAL Team 666 wasn’t as highly classified as it was, they wouldn’t even be having this conversation. After all, which was more important, hunting down someone’s cousin they believed to be a member of the Taliban, or supporting an elite unit that was ascertaining whether America was being threatened with destruction?

That the four-star general at CENTCOM knew about SEAL Team 666 and requested the shift in priority anyway was an indictment on his status as Head Asshole in theater. He knew she couldn’t drop the bullshit flag and point out which was more important. He knew that she’d keep the team’s existence a secret no matter what. In fact, she would bet that he was counting on it.

But there was nothing to be done at this point except to try and make something from nothing.

She stared at a map of the world. Her eyes found Myanmar, then drew down the coast until she reached the spot where she believed Kadwan to be. It was so far away from anything. They had assets in Thailand, but they’d have to invade sovereign airspace to get there. Because Kadwan was on the coast, it would be so much easier to bring help across the sea. They could go virtually undetected until the last moment.

She grabbed her phone and put in a call to the SOCOM J3. He owed her a favor for fighting on his behalf for funding, during last year’s congressional free-for-all after the budget cuts.

She explained her situation.

“I’d love to help, Alexis, but it looks like there’s a big operation building along the Pakistan border. CENTCOM intends to conduct a series of airstrikes to root out some of Haqqani militant leaders in Northern Waziristan. C-130s have begun dropping psyop leaflets as part of an information campaign warning the militants that they’re going to be bombed.”

“If we warn them, won’t they flee?”

“Doesn’t work that way. Muslims are used to being threatened. It’s part of their culture to ignore it. Psychological Operations was hugely successful in Desert Storm One, responsible for upwards of three hundred thousand defections.”

“I’ve seen some of the leaflets they used portraying Saddam as a devil.”

“Those weren’t the successful ones. SOCOM had C-130s dropping leaflets on targets, calling them out by name and warning them that they’d be bombed the next day. Then they did exactly that. After the third or fourth time the C-130s dropped their leaflets, the Iraqis got the message. They’d take off running. It got to the point where they didn’t have to drop conventional bombs, just paper.”

“Nice. And they intend on using that in Waziristan?”

“Yeah. Only they’re going to drop GBU-43s. We call them MOABs.”

“I’m not up on my bomb nomenclature. What’s a MOAB?”

“Stands for ‘mother of all bombs.’ Like the BLU-82, a fuel air explosive used to clear landing zones, it requires presidential approval for release. It’s a twenty-one-thousand-pound bomb containing nineteen thousand pounds of H6 explosive. It vaporizes everything within a square mile, then continues its devastation, gradually diminishing to nothing on the farthest edge of its effective range.”

Billings realized her jaw had dropped. She closed it as she thought about the absolute devastation one of those would do on downtown Washington, D.C., or any major city for that matter.

“I know. We haven’t used it very often. The Russians have been using thermobaric bombs since their turn in Afghanistan. In addition to doing damage, they suck the air out of caves and anything within the blast radius. MOAB has a tremendous thermobaric capacity.”

“So the intent is to drop leaflets, then the MOABs?”

“Yep.”

“How many will they drop?”

“No one knows. They brought seventeen of them into theater yesterday, though.”

Billings took a moment to process the information. Finally she turned back to the map. She thanked him and hung up. She had probably one more call to make. She went into the other room and spun up the video feed. It rang twice before it answered.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Vice President. I’m engaged in an issue here and need permission to reach across the pond to our friends in Whitehall.”

He had a face that was Hollywood handsome and a voice made for politics. He was a moderate. He was a consensus builder. He would have been president had it not been for information surfacing about how he’d arranged for an abortion for his girlfriend in college.

“Why can’t we handle it?”

“Operation PUFF DRAGON.”

“That would do it.” The vice president leaned back in his chair. Behind him was his desk in his working office on the grounds of the Naval Observatory. Pictures of his wife and Great Danes rested in silver frames. Paperwork was scattered on the desk’s surface. “Is this regarding what you briefed me before?”

“It is, sir. Triple Six has found the locus of the problem and needs some support. We’re losing priority as we speak.”

The vice president shook his head and frowned. “This is bad timing. PUFF DRAGON needs those assets. As much as we need Triple Six, I can’t change priorities.”

“I realize that, sir. But I have another option. HMS Victoria is operating in the Indian Ocean en route to resupply at Diego Garcia. I might be able to convince the admiral aboard the vessel to send a sortie or two in support of our men.”