"We aren't really sure."
"How about where?"
"We don't know that, either."
"Okay, Colonel, let's approach this from a different angle. What do you know?"
Harrington shrugged. "We know that he's missing. Him and his entire squad. Gone, like fucking ghosts."
Payne grimaced. "I don't believe in ghosts."
"Neither did I. At least not until recently. Now I'm not so sure."
Somehow the Department of Defense had managed to lose an entire squad, which was pretty tough to do with modern Combat Survivor/Evader Locator (CSEL) radios, technology that provided precise geoposition and navigation data to rescue parties. That meant Schmidt was running a classified black op, a covert operation that the Pentagon didn't want anyone--not even Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR)-to know about.
"Tell me, how black was the mission?"
"Black as you can get," Harrington answered. "And it's my job to keep it that way."
"If that's the case, why bring us into it? Why go out of house?"
"Is it because I'm black?" Jones asked.
Harrington ignored him. "The reality is you trained Schmidt so you might be able to give us some insight into the way he thinks-where he'll go, what he'll do, who he'll rely on. The truth is you MANIACs are an interesting breed, one with a unique sense of warfare that no one fully understands but yourselves. Furthermore, two generals and an admiral assured me I'd be a fool if I didn't use you as a resource."
"Just a resource? Nothing more than that?"
"Actually, I'd welcome you aboard in any capacity. Whether that's here or in the field."
Payne glanced at Jones, who was nodding eagerly. That wasn't a surprise because Jones was always up for another mission. Upon his retirement from the military, he became a private detective, setting up shop in Payne's office building, a way for the best friends to grab lunch whenever possible. Unfortunately, the life of a Pittsburgh PI was not nearly as glamorous as Jones had imagined, especially compared to the missions he ran for the MANIACs. How could taking pictures of cheating spouses ever compare with killing terrorists or blowing up bridges?
Payne, on the other hand, was more reluctant. He wasn't fully comfortable in the corporate world, opting to donate most of his time to local charities instead of living at the office the way his grandfather had. But that didn't mean Payne was willing to risk it all. If he was killed without an heir, he knew Payne Industries would be dismantled, piece by piece, and sold to the highest bidder. And that was something he couldn't let happen. He loved his grandfather way too much to dishonor his life's work by doing something reckless.
Still, Payne felt a similar obligation to his military career, an unwavering devotion to his country and the men he trained. If one of them was in trouble, he knew it was his duty to help-whether that was as a behind-the-scenes resource or as an expert in the field. Hell, he couldn't live with himself if he opted to sit on the sidelines while one of his men needed him. In his mind, that would be far more irresponsible than risking his own life to help.
"Okay, Colonel. We're willing to lend you a hand. What do you need us to do?"
"I need you to come with me. We'll have plenty of time to talk en route."
"En route?" Jones asked. "To where?"
Harrington stood from his chair. "Korea."
Payne winced. He wasn't expecting such a long trip. "North or South?"
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters. I need to know how much ammo to pack."
Harrington smiled an all-knowing smile. "Don't worry, Payne. Packing won't be an issue. I already sent some men to your homes. Your clothes are waiting at the airport."
3
The plane departed from a cargo hangar at Pittsburgh International Airport, far away from the main terminal. It was a nonstop flight to Los Angeles followed by trips to Hawaii, the Marshall Islands, and Japan. Harrington would accompany them to California, briefing them on the way. After that, Payne and Jones would travel overseas on their own, which was the Pentagon's way of ensuring deniability.
Payne got comfortable for the long trip, changing into a gray Naval Academy sweatsuit that accommodated his 6-4, 240-pound frame. He had played two sports (football and basketball) at Annapolis, yet made his name in a different arena: kicking ass. It didn't matter if he was facing ninjas or Nazis, Payne had the innate ability to isolate his opponent's weakness and exploit it, using a combination of strength, quickness, and leverage. He had refined his skills over the years, training at Fort Bragg, Naval Base Coronado, and several dojos around the world. Yet none of them could take full credit for turning Payne into a warrior. That particular gift was a blessing from God. A part of his DNA, just like his brown hair or hazel eyes.
He made his way to the back of the plane, where a conference area had been assembled. Four first-class chairs surrounded a wooden table, cluttered with three laptop computers, several manila folders, and a thermos full of coffee. Harrington sat on the left, growling into his cell phone, telling someone to do something ASAP or he was going to kill the guy's mother. Meanwhile, Jones sat on the right, staring at his computer screen.
"Anything interesting?" Payne asked as he buckled himself into his seat.
"Not really. The colonel blocked every porn site on the Internet."
Harrington hung up at the mention of his name. "What was that, Jones?"
"I told Jon that you've been keeping important details to yourself."
He knew Jones was lying but wasn't going to press it. "So, Payne, now that you're in your jammies, are you ready to begin?"
Payne gave him a mock salute. "I'm comfy and accounted for."
"Oh, goody." Harrington opened the top folder and removed a single photograph. "Captain Trevor Schmidt, thirty-five, served as a MANIAC until three years ago. Based on your recommendation, he was selected to lead his own crew, one that did special projects in the Persian Gulf."
"Meaning what?" Jones asked.
"Meaning they're none of your goddamned business."
"Great! Thanks for clearing that up."
Harrington stared at him, unaccustomed to backtalk. "As I was saying, Schmidt kicked a lot of ass during his first year. No matter what we asked-and we asked a lot- he got it done. We were thrilled with his results and quickly increased his workload. That is, until the incident."
Payne arched an eyebrow. "The incident?"
"You know how it goes. We got some piss-poor intel and dropped his crew into a zone that was much hotter than we expected. Of course, he kept his composure and handled himself brilliantly. I don't know how he did it, but the bastard managed to fight his way out. Several injuries to his crew but no deaths."
Jones beamed. "That doesn't sound like an incident. That sounds like a MANIAC."
"Actually, that wasn't the incident. The incident came later." Harrington opened one of his folders and slid it across the table. Neither Payne nor Jones looked at it. They knew that what Harrington was about to say was far more important than what was written in the report.
Reports were written in black and white. They were more interested in color.
"As you know, our military has a strong presence in the Persian Gulf. Iraq, Iran, Kuwait. Every Arab nation in that godforsaken desert. We've been there for years and we'll be there for years-even places the president doesn't know about. Unfortunately, when you're talking about thousands of soldiers, you can't keep everything a secret. Bases are sitting targets. Troop movements are constantly monitored. So are our warships in the gulf and the Red Sea. We do our best to protect our men, but let's face it: war is war. There are going to be casualties."
Harrington tapped his folder for emphasis. "Your boy Schmidt did everything right. He protected his wounded, secured transportation, and got the hell out without announcing his position. He avoided the hostiles for several hours, waiting until he was far from the hot zone before calling in air support. Eventually, his crew was picked up, patched up, and taken to Taif."