“I’ll handle it myself, Richy. I need you out on the perimeter with Doc.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Alone once again, Mariano completed another series of deep breaths, then closed his session with a silent prayer. He would need divine guidance to see him through the next couple of hours, a period of time that could very well be the most important in American history.
As he stood up from the rattan mat on which he had been seated, Mariano stretched his solid, muscular, six-foot frame. The blood rushed into his numbed limbs, and the ponytailed veteran attacked the shadows with a lightning-quick series of complex karate blows. This physical activity served to awaken him completely, and he stopped briefly at the adjoining head to relieve himself and wash up.
The reflection staring back at him from the bathroom mirror was that of a stranger. The full salt-and-pepper beard that covered most of his face was less than a month old. He hadn’t worn his hair this long in years, and it felt odd lying against the middle of his back.
Of course, there could be no mistaking his rather large, flat nose, which had been broken too many times to set properly.
Familiar dark brown eyes stared back at him beneath thick, bushy brows, and even though his grandmother had warned of bad luck, he allowed them to merge at the bridge of his nose. His late wife. Carmen, had always said that he reminded her of a muscular version of Charles Manson whenever he let his hair and beard grow. How very ironic it was to favor a mass murderer, when in reality he was only putting on yet another disguise for his occupation as a paid, government hit man.
Still serving his country at an age when most men would be counting the days to retirement, Mariano could escape the ravages of age by the strength of his convictions. There were serious affairs of state to attend to, and he would somehow channel his energies to keep his worn body going. After all, final victory would soon be theirs, and there’d be plenty of time for rest in the halcyon days to come.
With this hope in mind, he exited his quarters and headed for the detention block. The rock-hewn passageway was lit in red, and Mariano’s eyes needed time to adjust to the dim conditions.
With brisk, clipped steps, he passed by Operations, where a trio of technicians were seated at their workstations, needle shaped stalactites hanging from the irregular ceiling above them.
The cavernous rock-walled room in which they worked had been built by the Defense Department in 1963. It was one of seven so-called Delta Operations sites, secretly constructed beneath the United States to offer top military brass safe haven during a nuclear conflict.
The Freeman site was within easy driving distance to the Whiteman Air Force Base ICBM fields. Government architects had taken advantage of a naturally occurring limestone cavern to create a self-sufficient, blast-proof command post. An ample supply of pre stocked foodstuffs, auxiliary power generators, and an unlimited source of fresh water from its own underground river guaranteed the site’s survival should the unthinkable come to pass. In the event of war, select VIPs and their families would be evacuated to the cavern city, to ride out the attack and wait for the fallout to settle.
Along with billions of dollars of obsolete weapons systems, the Delta sites had been retired in the early ‘70’s. Today, few in the Pentagon even knew they existed, and it was because of this anonymity that Mariano and his forces were able to clandestinely base their operations here.
The advent of computers and satellite communications allowed them to work with a minimal staff. Supplies were stored in bulk, and except for an occasional visit by one of their helicopters, the locals had no reason to suspect that this subterranean complex existed.
As site Commander, Mariano had many responsibilities, security among them. When the hand of fate, and a well-placed insider on the White House staff, conveyed Andrew Chapman practically into their backyard, Mariano’s forces expanded their duties. The elimination of the Vice President was his top priority, and until he received concrete proof that Chapman was dead, he couldn’t rest — so important was this to their mission’s ultimate success.
In a cramped cavern offshoot that previously had held radiation-detection gear, they had built a detention cell. Except for the incarceration of an occasional drunk co-worker, this was the first time it had been officially put to use.
Mariano silently slipped into the darkened passageway outside this cell, and peered through the steel bars of the locked entryway. There were two individuals confined inside. The redheaded female appeared to be in her early twenties, and was dressed in tattered blue jeans and a skimpy halter top. She looked like a local, and he focused his attention instead on her companion.
Mariano guessed his age to be about fifty. He was attired in wrinkled khakis and a dark blue polo shirt, with an empty leather holster clipped to his belt. He was in superb shape, and it was while studying his face that a relieved smile crossed Mariano’s bearded face. Somehow his men had succeeded in capturing one of the very men he had been so desperately seeking these past couple of hours.
“First Sergeant Vincent Kellogg, if I’m not mistaken,” greeted Mariano from the shadows.
“Or should I say Special Agent?”
The shocked look on his prisoner’s face was all the confirmation that Mariano needed to see, and he stepped toward the bars and added.
“It’s been much too long, Kellogg. I believe the last time I saw you was back at Long Thanh, when my team was headed in-country and you were on your way on the gravy train back to the States.”
Mariano grabbed the cold steel bars, where there was just enough light for his prisoner to see the face of the man who was addressing him.
“Chief Mariano?” Vince spoke like a man seeing a ghost.
“That’s me. Sergeant Spit and Polish. You know, there’s one thing I always wanted to ask you. Why would a Special Forces soldier of your caliber turn down an opportunity to join SOG and command his own team?”
Vince wasted little time replying.
“I guess I couldn’t stomach the idea of earning my rice bowel being a cold-blooded assassin.”
Mariano grunted.
“You’re still a fucking geek, Kellogg. You swallowed the company philosophy hook, line and sinker, didn’t you, my fine cunt-eating friend. It never did get through that thick skull of yours that it’s impossible to win the game unless you’re playing on a level playing field.”
“Since you two obviously know each other, would you mind releasing us from this place? You have no right locking up us like this,” protested Miriam.
“And who are you, anyway?”
Mariano laughed.
“Let’s just say I’m a ghost from the past, sent here to torment your Boy Scout companion.”
“Listen to the girl, Mariano,” urged Vince.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, but you certainly don’t have the right to lock us up like this.”
“You’re going to lecture me on human rights, Kellogg? That’s a laugher, coming from one who serves the great deceiver himself.”
Mariano halted for a moment to regain his composure, and when he continued, he did so with a contained calmness.
“We’ve been fated to meet again, my friend, and you might as well make the best of it. You’ve stumbled into a real goat fuck this time, Kellogg. But you don’t know how lucky you are.
“I don’t know what candles you’re burning, but you were spared a certain death in the Crimea. Our mutual friend, ole spit and polish himself, Sam Morrison, took your bullet, Kellogg, as did our esteemed Commanderin-Chief and the rest of his pencil pushing butt-fucking entourage.”