Ruiz waited.
"It is as you said it would be," the man continued.
"Very impressive."
"Then we are set?" Ruiz said.
The man nodded.
"Yes. I don't suppose you will tell me how your group came into possession of these articles?"
"That is not a story I am authorized to tell," Ruiz said.
"As I informed you earlier, we were not the ones who stole them initially. We appropriated them from the original thieves. And now we are trying to make things right."
"And make money."
"For our trouble, yes."
"Let us hope there will be no trouble."
A limousine was waiting outside the Learjet. Vaughn was dressed in black slacks, black T-shirt, black leather jacket, and in his right hand had a metal case hiding a sniper rifle. All had been waiting inside the plane. He felt overwhelmed, but impressed with the efficiency of Section 8.
He'd thought when he went into Delta Force that he had gone as deep into the world of covert operations as one could go. Now he knew he'd just seen the tip of the iceberg. He – and his teammates – always suspected there was more out there. They'd seen too many things, too much that was unexplained, to accept that they were as deep as it went.
The driver got out of the limo and went around the near side near the foot of the stairs, opened the door and waited, still as a statue. Vaughn went down the stairs and inside. The door slammed shut and they were off.
Vaughn leaned back in the plush comfort of the limo. Between the Learjet and the limousine, there could be no more startling contrast between this and the way he had always gone on missions for Delta Force, via military cargo planes, helicopters, and parachuting.
He ran his hands over the metal case and noted in a distant way that they were shaking slightly. Exhaustion? The stress of the past week? The uncertainty of the future? He didn't know. Probably all of the above, he thought.
This was the first time he'd ever gone on a mission without a team. In the infantry, the Special Forces, and Delta Force, he'd always been part of a team. He'd always been able to count on the support of others to achieve the mission. He looked around the spacious interior of the limousine and longed for the cramped quarters of the back of a Combat Talon aircraft.
He'd made the decision on Okinawa because of lack of other paths.
He couldn't go back to the States and face his sister after letting her down so terribly. She'd had a hard life, particularly after the death of her first husband, and he had made that damn, stupid promise that he knew he never could have held Frank to. And now he was gone.
He also knew his career in the Army was over. To succeed in the Army, an officer didn't have to be good, as much as avoid bad. Any hint of screw-up or scandal and the faceless committees that determined one's future simply saw what was in the paperwork and axed a person's career.
Vaughn leaned forward, elbows on the case, and put his head in his hands, as if he could press his scattered thoughts and feelings into some form of sanity and normalcy.
The conning tower of the old diesel submarine cut through the water. Moreno shared the tight space on top with two lookouts. They had no running lights on and had to be wary of fishing boats that might be anchored for the night. At the fore and after of the top deck of the submarine were two strange contraptions shaped like large twenty-foot-high horseshoes welded to the deck upside down.
Moreno looked to his left, toward Jolo. He could see the outline of Hono Mountain silhouetted against the sky. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigar. Ignoring security for the moment, he cut off the end, flicked his lighter and puffed away.
Several seconds later there was a corresponding small flicker of light, high up on the mountainside. Moreno smiled. While he smoked the cigar in his left hand, he brought the tip of the surviving fingers of his right hand to his forehead in a salute.
After ending his business with Orson, Royce had landed in Oahu and was helicoptered to Fort Shafter, where he entered the simulation center. He stood in the back of the room and quietly watched as Foster brought in his team of computer experts and military liaisons. Royce was surprised that David wasn't here. After all, his boss, and friend – insofar as one had friends within the organization – had requested this highly unusual personal meeting. Upon entering the Sim-Center, Royce had been given a note with some coordinates on it, and right away knew where David was waiting for him – but first he had to make sure the "simulation" got off on the right foot.
Foster stood behind a podium, which had the crest for Western Command on the front. Royce had seen such briefings before. The key for Foster was to get everyone in the room, particularly the military staff, to make the transition from thinking they were playing a simulation to some semblance of belief that this was a real mission. Which, in fact, it was going to be, but no one in the room other than he and Foster knew that. In essence, Foster was the cutout to make sure Orson's team had the military support it needed to conduct the mission.
Royce was concerned about Foster, but they had enough leverage on the computer expert to ensure his complete cooperation and discretion. Royce had no doubt that David had played Foster perfectly. David was too old a hand and too much of a professional to do anything less.
Foster read from a prepared script.
"Forty-five minutes ago, Western Command headquarters received a warning for a covert operation in its theater command. This warning order was relayed to subordinate headquarters, resulting in your presence here at the operations center."
He turned to the senior officer seated in the center, front seat.
"Brigadier General Slocum, Commander Special Operations, Westcom, is in charge of this mission. He will give you the mission tasking."
Foster took a seat and the one-star general took his place. Slocum had a Special Forces combat patch sewn onto the right shoulder of his camouflage fatigues, and the Combat Infantry Badge and the Master Parachutist Badge on his chest, above his name tag. He was all business as he barked out the tasking.
"Westcom Special Operations has been ordered to conduct a direct action mission to destroy a terrorist cell on Jolo Island, the Philippines. The primary target is the elimination – " Slocum looked up from the paper.
"Gentlemen, 'elimination' is the word used in the order. You and I need to talk in plain English. We're going to kill this son of a bitch Rogelio Abayon, the head of the Abu Sayef.
"I'm going to say something, and I'm only going to say it once," Slocum continued.
"We know this is the Sim-Center, not the war room at headquarters. So we know this mission isn't real. But I want every one of you to act like this is real. That flesh and blood soldiers are going to be out there putting it on the line. I hear or see any of you acting with less than your best effort, I'm going to put my boot so far up your ass, when you land, you'll be eating kimchi in the worst hellhole I can slot you in South Korea.
"Questions?"
The room was still.
Slocum nodded.
"Let's get going. Time's a-wasting. G-2. Briefing. Now."
The intelligence officer stood behind the podium. Royce noted that a digital camera was aimed at the man, and he knew that the briefing was being forwarded to Orson in Okinawa, where it would be stored so it could be replayed for the team – once it was assembled.
"There's a lot of disinformation being disseminated about the Abu Sayef," the officer began.
"Which might be part of a deliberate effort on the group's part to keep itself shrouded in confusion. According to media reports, the Abu Sayef only came into being in 1991 when it split off from the MNLF: the Moro National Liberation Front. But classified intelligence reports indicate the opposite is true: the Abu Sayef has been in existence since the end of World War Two under the control of Rogelio Abayon, and the MNLF was actually subordinate to it for many years.