Covert Commando: A Sam Harper Military Thriller Page 2

  "Got three teams vectored in from the other side. They can't escape."

  Schnier looked pale. Like he'd seen a ghost. "Ever wonder if what you see in a scope is real? Or if yer just imagining it?"

  "Sure. Our minds play weird tricks sometimes. Not going loony on me, are you?"

  I hustled over to the roof access door. Pulled it open for Schnier.

  He flowed through. Carried his rifle case. Concrete steps became minor speed bumps.

  "Plumb loco. For a second, thought Raven, that hippie chick I dated in college, drove the tango's getaway car."

  I followed him down the emergency stairs.

  We needed to exit at ground level before the SAF followed their own urban shot trackers to our location. When it came to the area where the second in line to the Presidency was almost assassinated, they'd lock it down like a shark bite.

  "Too much of a coincidence. Just your imagination. You've been looking for her everywhere since we got here."

  "Dunno."

  This dude needed to focus on the job at hand. "Your mind formed a familiar pattern on the face of someone with similar looks."

  "Yeah, must be it."

  Schnier didn't sound convinced.

  * * *

  Raven cycled through the gears. Dodged around trucks and mopeds.

  Turned right from Batasan Road onto a wide street. Four lanes. Commonwealth Avenue. The swarm of late afternoon traffic escaping the protests would delay pursuit, but didn't help their situation.

  Car's temperature gauge swung into the red. Limited time before it flat out died.

  Omar pointed at an elevated metro train platform atop concrete pillars. "Leave it."

  She shrugged. He was in charge. She parked on the right edge of the street. In a bus zone in front of a five-story building.

  A queue of people waited behind waist-high portable fencing for the next shuttle bus home.

  Omar grabbed her arm. Squeezed hard. "Stay with me, Songbird."

  She gulped. Nodded. Not frantic. Laid back.

  He released her. Opened his door.

  A police officer blew his whistle as he ran toward the rear of their illegally parked car. Sounded like a furious football referee.

  Omar removed a gunmetal gray 9mm pistol from the glove box.

  The officer arrived at Omar's open door. Gestured a command to move on.

  Omar lifted his pistol. Shot him twice in the chest.

  Pop. Pop. So little noise to end a man.

  Stood over his body. One final bullet to the face.

  Tucked his pistol behind his belt. Under his untucked shirt.

  Winced more at the heat of the weapon's barrel than he had during his murder of the officer.

  The crowd waiting for the next bus heard the shots and looked around for the source. A few of the closest turned and jogged away, head on a swivel, either down the street or up to the train platform.

  Why didn't more notice? Realize what had happened?

  Raven left the engine running. Didn't matter now. Hopped out. Almost got knocked over by a motorcycle weaving through traffic.

  Ran around the front of the car.

  This time Omar ran ahead of her. He'd left the sniper rifle behind. His pride and joy.

  Must really hurt.

  He pushed through a crowd of people carrying home-made signs to the protest, "Umuwi ka na ang China."

  China go home already, she automatically translated. Pulled her niqab veil from beneath her headscarf. Covered her face as a cheap disguise.

  She jogged in his wake. Followed him up a staircase. Across the pedestrian walkway over the street.

  He ran as if late for a train. He'd bribe the station security if stopped for a search. Foreign money went a long way here.

  Surely their path was too obvious? Too constrained?

  Maybe the police would catch them.

  If it weren't for the other women back at their mountain camp, she'd hope so.

  * * *

  Larrikowal took off his loose shirt. Exposed the armored vest he wore underneath. Didn't matter now.

  His sergeant had made it close by. He whimpered in pain.

  They'd stuffed their medical supplies in bags behind the dais. Larrikowal didn't dare leave the Speaker unshielded to hunt for them.

  He rolled his shirt into a make-shift bandage. Stuck a shard of bamboo into the middle to use as a windlass. Wrapped the whole thing around his sergeant's upper arm.

  Not much left of his lower arm. No easy place to apply direct pressure, just attempt to cut off the flow from above.

  He tied the make-shift shirt-rope off. Wound the stick. Took up all the remaining slack, and then a bit tighter.

  Felt his sergeant's artery below his tourniquet. No pulse. Bleeding slowed. Stopped. Good.

  He checked the time. Medical would want to know. Improvised a strap from his sergeant's boot-lace. Tied down the stick so it wouldn't move.

  From now on, his team would carry their combat tourniquets with them even on quiet civilian protection assignments. Materials out of reach weren't useful.

  Two more of his SAF team, both in uniform, finally pushed through the flow of the thinning crowd to reach the plaza.

  It'd only been a few minutes, but he took a long and deep breath to quiet his pulse.

  Reinforcements.

  The radio in his ear crackled.

  "Both ShotRadar buildings are secure. No snipers. Repeat. No Snipers. Captain, you're clear to move the Speaker."

  Chapter Four: Shooting Execution Style

  Michelle paced a semi-circle around her hut. Flipped the hemline of her locally sourced black cotton dress out of the way of her stomping knees.

  One of the floor's nailed-down bamboo strips creaked every time she stepped on it.

  She'd made her bed up hours before with a sleeping bag. Her bed filled the center of the woven thatch wall opposite the ladder down, hence her semi-circle.

  Her nipa hut, raised on house-posts against storms in the South China Sea, combined home and office.

  West Philippine Sea, she corrected herself. Wouldn't do to slip up on the name with her outside voice.

  She'd rented a group of isolated nipa huts next to the ocean with the Agency's cash. The walled resort compound perfectly contained the two platoons of Rangers assigned to assist her mission while keeping nosy neighbors away.

  As far as anyone was concerned, this was just a corporate retreat, keeping to themselves.

  Not to mention being the ideal location for their mission. She'd claimed this frond-thatched hut for herself.

  It alternated between nice and a nightmare to be surrounded by so much testosterone near the water.

  After the last visiting forces agreement treaty with the Philippine government broke down, they were supposed to be hidden visitors here.

  Deniable. Under civilian cover. Covert commandos.

  Sam and Schnier asserted the privileges of rank to split the largest hut as their headquarters. Maybe she should use it, instead of her cramped quarters.

  They certainly weren't there right now.

  No, she couldn't remain near Schnier's shooters and Sam's Military Intelligence platoon.

  Too many ears. Might overhear her boss reaming her out.

  She descended the bamboo ladder. Each rung complained as her steps stretched the leather straps holding the cross-pieces to the poles.

  Strode across the sand to the foot-thick, rubber-coated communications cable. It led from farther inland, across the beach, and then vanished into the sea.

  The reason for their presence here.

  Far enough.

  She punched the saved number on her secure sat phone. Best to get this over with.

  After they exchanged guarded greetings, CIA Assistant Director Edward Metcalf's deep bass voice boomed out of her phone's speaker, "I'm cutting you off. Pack everything up. Get those rangers in Manila to the embassy, where they can hide out with the marines until this blows over."

  Sh
e took a deep breath. She'd promised herself she'd be more diplomatic with lackadaisical Langley losers.

  Honey caught more flies than vinegar, after all.

  That's what Sam claimed, anyway.

  "Sir, the Philippine's Special Action Force hasn't caught up with our men. They'll evade and regroup. Nothing to worry about. It'll be like they were never there."

  "You set Ranger counter-sniper teams in a ring around their legislature. SAF was already on alert for sniper threats."

  She could hear his disbelief and exasperation through the phone, but couldn't insert a word in edge-wise.

  "Your, how did you put it, 'fresh local intelligence' told you all about the sniper threat, but it didn't occur to you that if the SAF caught your teams in place after shots were fired, they'd decide the United States Army was planning to assassinate their legislative leadership?"

  Michelle grimaced, glad he couldn't see her. "Yes, sir, but one of our teams also disrupted ISIL's assassination attempt. Forced them to flee. We have teams closing in now."

  "Call them off. Return to the embassy. We'll arrange a flight, or perhaps a slow boat on its way from China, to bring you back to CONUS."

  Pretty sure he was joking about China. The Seventh Fleet anchored itself in Japan.

  She'd dedicated her life to her career. Clawed her way to the top. To her posting as Station Chief here. Now Sam's reckless do-gooding had burnt her position to the ground.

  Destroyed her reputation for competence.

  "Our original mission remains intact. The Chinese are a threat to the undersea cable network. Huawei isn't going away. Let us remain and we'll protect both the Speaker and the network. We can't just ignore the remaining risk to an allied power."

  "Sure you can. Allow me to demonstrate how ignoring a professional liability works."

  Her phone blanked as he hung up on her.

  Either they gave up on stopping the terrorists Sam's MI platoon had gathered electronic intelligence on, or remained truly on their own.

  She wished Sam was here for her to curse out, instead of roaming Manila with that hot-head Schnier and his platoon.

  If she just had enough power, she could aim it at the evils present everywhere.

  But she already had few enough friends left.

  * * *

  Spaced out, Raven stared through the half-open window of their elevated train car. The painted concrete walls of Quezon City's crowded people jungle flew past outside.

  Faded red. Pale blue. Algae green.

  She'd never gain Omar's easy comfort with death.

  The resident's wall colors looked like they'd given up on life.

  Omar snored behind her, drained after a night of waiting to shoot and the adrenaline of their escape.

  Supposedly, she watched for signs of pursuit, but her mind flew to the other side of the world.

  Back in Texas.

  This wasn't what she'd signed up for. Her sociology professor made life as a rebel sound so fulfilling.

  Fighting for The People. Helping the poor.

  Pure motives. Passionate for a cause.

  Those weren't enough.

  She'd horrified her traditional Texas family by converting to Islam. She'd thought of herself as submitting to the will of Allah. That made clear she would no longer submit to her parents. To their expectations.

  Their abuse.

  It'd been simple. Proclaim the Testimony of Faith. Get accepted into a new global family.

  Travel to the other side of the world. Fight western capitalist oppression.

  Join Omar's band of freedom fighters. Help the resistance of Allah.

  But somewhere, it'd gone wrong. She'd screwed up.

  Just still wasn't sure exactly how. Bummer.

  Worthless.

  Omar, the Wrath of Allah for The People, shifted in his sleep.

  She flinched. Didn't want him to awaken.

  Ever.

  That wasn't the peace she'd sought. Had she been this murderous in her thoughts before joining him?

  She should pray, but instead she stared at the jungle canopy wrestling the edge of the city.

  Omar's phone rang. He snorted and awoke. Clawed at his shirt pocket. Answered.

  Shouting from the other side of the conversation.

  Omar ignored security to argue. "There were other bird watching teams in the trees. Our agreement held no warning of tight quarters."

  Alone in the train compartment, speaking in code, it wasn't too risky.

  More noise. More subdued. More conciliatory.

  "No." Omar frowned. "The deed was done at substantial risk. Compensation must be increased."

  Something about checking with someone. Wanting to preserve their relationship. A strange accent. Almost sing-song.

  "Do that, but deliver soon."

  Omar growled as he stabbed at the phone to disconnect the call. Glared at her.

  She ignored him. Stared out the window at the passing jungle. She was strung out. A nervous wreck.

  His mood would pass. They almost always did.

  * * *

  Larrikowal worked with a team of five more of his men to surround the speaker. Escort him off the platform. Indoors. Back into the Batasang Pambansa Complex.

  Away from any potential physical threat.

  All things considered, the Speaker had remained remarkably calm throughout the attack. Larrikowal shrugged. Hard to tell in advance how someone will deal with stress.

  A paramedic team carried away his sergeant. He'd visit him in the hospital later.

  Larrikowal paced down the BP Complex's long corridors toward Police Central.

  Right now, he needed to report to his superiors. In a political matter such as this, they'd need to brief the Secretary of National Defense.

  Lelfin Dorenza headed up more than the military. His cabinet department also encompassed the nation's police forces.

  Larrikowal respected Dorenza, but preferred not to enter his notice for a negative event like this.

  Careers, even lives, had been ruined for less.

  At least Dorenza and the Speaker were political enemies, both in the running to replace the current President, ineligible to run again in this election.

  Maybe the thought of his rival being so unpopular to be at risk of assassination would put him in a good mood.

  Unless he needed a scapegoat to make it clear to the people he wasn't involved. That Dorenza hadn't deliberately allowed the Speaker's security to lapse.

  To fail.

  No, Dorenza had a reputation among his subordinates as a fair man. He wouldn't throw Larrikowal to his enemies, would he?

  The light security had been the Speaker's decision. His insistence, in fact. Larrikowal had an email trail from the Speaker's office declining any additional security inside the Plaza, or in the surrounding buildings.

  They'd stated publicly that they trusted their popularity with the people. They didn't need protection from their own supporters.

  How'd that turn out for them?

  Larrikowal preferred not to be the one answering for that.

  He approached Police Central. Squared his shoulders. Plastered a grim smile on his face. Blew past the sergeant at the front desk. Headed for his boss's office in the back.

  Either way, this wouldn't be a pleasant conversation.

  He smacked his head. Dumi! He'd forgotten to call his girlfriend. Tell her he was fine. She'd have watched the speech on television.

  That chat wouldn't be fun either.

  Chapter Five: Shooting Information

  Schnier furiously refused to think about Raven while they returned to base. He managed to delay his call to Major Williams for all of 15 minutes after they arrived at their beach headquarters.

  Truckin' secure communications into their raised hut made the autonomy of this, his first independent command, a fond, but distant memory.

  Williams never beat around the bush. "Whiskey Tango Foxtrot did you think you were doing splitting your platoon in
to sniper teams to scatter across Manila?"

  Schnier resisted the urge to stand at attention while on the secure sat phone in his own hut.

  "Harper's platoon developed tactical intelligence which indicated an immediate threat to allied local government officials, sir. We needed to act immediately to prevent a jihadi assassination."

  "You're supposed to be in charge over there. Reigning him in. Instead, Harper's a dangerous influence on you."

  Schnier tried not to give Sam, playing with his laptop at his flimsy desk, an earful. "Yes, sir. No excuse, sir."

  "Don't feed me that. Shooting up the city while you're supposed to be covert is bad enough, but how the hell did you blow your entire operational budget already?"

  Bull-dung. He'd momentarily put that little snafu out of his mind. "Human error, sir. My new clerk inadvertently transposed two digits in the National Stock Number for the requisition. Instead of 1375-25-119-7872 to order a case of fuse cutouts, he typed 7782. Limpet mines are more expensive than fuses, sir."

  "I don't care about the details. Fix it before they arrive. What's a ranger platoon going to do with a dozen limpet mines?"

  A mine magnetically attached by hand to a ship underwater and then detonated later? Not much use to a land unit.

  "We'll get it straightened out, sir."

  "Better, you signed off on it. That leaves you with no remaining budget for bullets and beans. Quit screwing up your command, Captain."

  "No excuses, Major."

  After his CO hung-up, Schnier stuck his head in his hands. How could he prevent other people's mistakes from tearing his command away from him?

  The sparse hut furniture reinforced his sense of isolation. Sam tapped away at his keyboard.

  That hombre always looked cheerful.

  Annoyin'.

  Well, no use crying over spilled fuses.

  He heard a rattle and clack from the base of the ladder into their hut. Knew that sound.

  Finally, someone who wouldn't spend their time dressing him down for today's action.

  Michelle raised her head over the top of the bamboo ladder. Ascended into the room.

  He'd always appreciated her movement, especially in that flowing black dress. Fine as horse hair split eight ways.