Once she was on the highway, she returned Patti’s call. Security protocols were in place, and consequently, Patti was the only member of the
“That was a minute and forty-seven seconds,” the Snow Maiden said after Patti answered her phone. “Fast enough? Or am I fired?”
“Shut up and listen to me. I’ll be at the airport waiting for you. I’ll tell you where when you arrive.”
They met at a Starbucks inside the main terminal. The Snow Maiden ordered a pumpkin spice frappuccino and told the cashier that Patti would pay for it.
The Snow Maiden always received her mission orders in person, and that was fine by her. Electronic listening and tracking devices had become so complicated that she never knew who was watching or listening. Nanobot technology had developed rapidly in the past decade, and it only took a light dusting for an enemy to be able to track her wherever she went. Countermeasures were necessary, and so they’d both gone into the ladies’ room and “dusted off” before speaking.
“It’s all on here,” Patti said, handing the Snow Maiden a smartphone whose screen displayed a picture of an Indian man who resembled a professor or business professional.
“Who’s this guy?”
“Manoj Chopra. He’s a banker, a finance manager, a genius with investments. He was working for the royal family of Dubai before the war began. One of our people in Italy was tipped off to a transaction involving one of Dubai’s sovereign wealth funds. We’d thought no one had access to them. The funds had been lying dormant since the bombs, but this recent activity has sparked interest.”
“You want me to kill him?”
“Of course not. He’ll get us into Dubai’s vaults. Intel we were gathering before the war indicated Dubai was beginning to stockpile oil reserves. The locations of those secret reserves, along with the country’s gold — and the gold of several other nations from the region — will be in one of those subterranean vaults, and Chopra is our key.”
“You’re positive he can get you in there?”
“He was one of the most trusted confidants of the royal family. He can get us in.”
“All right, then. It’s a simple kidnapping. Don’t you have anything more interesting?”
“That’s rather amusing coming from someone who almost lost her life because of carelessness.”
The Snow Maiden smirked. “If you guys were watching me, why didn’t you help?”
“We don’t like to interfere. You know that. You’re merely a subcontractor, but we’ve put a lot of faith in you, and your work thus far has been exemplary. I hope you’re not too preoccupied.”
She tensed. “Chopra’s location is in here?” she asked, lifting the smartphone.
Patti nodded.
The Snow Maiden rose. “Then thanks for the drink. I’ll call you when I have him.”
THREE
Brent sat alone in a corner booth, sipping his draft beer and absently eyeing the flat screens suspended from the ceiling. Several football games, a car race, and a European soccer game barely earned his interest. The Liberator was a requisite hangout for Special Forces guys and those considered a step up from them — the men and women of Ghost Recon, an elite and highly classified group of warriors handpicked from the Special Forces ranks. Ghost Recon soldiers were issued the most cutting-edge, state-of-the-art technology, and it was a great honor to be selected for such an organization — even though you couldn’t tell anyone about it, because the Ghosts didn’t exist.
From 2016 on the day the nukes dropped to mid-2020, Brent had fought with various Special Forces teams, even traveling up to Canada to fight against invading Russian forces. His work there had gained him the attention of Ghost Recon’s leadership, and, after dragging himself through an intense qualifications process and course, he’d been selected to train and lead a new Ghost Recon team.
But that glory was short-lived.
He and his new group had run a couple of small missions in Pakistan that had gone south because Brent was too used to fighting by the seat of his pants instead of sticking rigidly to a plan. He’d had that freedom in the regular Special Forces, and he wasn’t always compelled to keep everyone in the communications loop, but the Ghosts were much more hardcore about their operations, not blindly following orders but executing them with surgical precision and with full disclosure and accountability on the battlefield. His newbie team had run a simple intelligence- gathering operation in the country of Georgia, and that, too, had wound up in the toilet because Brent had second- guessed the plan and had jumped the gun on the operation. He’d also failed to properly communicate with his superiors. Some things were better left in the field, and sometimes his superiors didn’t need to see the uglier side of an operation. Unfortunately, the Ghosts’ equipment had higher-ups breathing down Brent’s neck 24/7, which really unnerved him, and he sometimes took out his frustration on his people.
As a consequence, Brent went through team members the way he went through beer, some requesting transfers, others simply getting dropped by him. Recent rumors had it that guys who couldn’t hack it on other Ghost teams were being busted down and collected into a group of misfits to be led by Brent. They would get all the crap jobs like guarding oil tankers, or they’d get some of the most dangerous but least important jobs — since they were the most expendable group in the unit. They would act as “bait” while the other teams swept in and stole the glory. Ironically, even the military’s most elite still had its bottom of the barrel, and though the Ghosts’ least capable operators were arguably ten times more lethal than the average Joe, Brent’s colleagues would never let him live down his mistakes and weaknesses.
And speaking of one such devil, “Schoolie,” a master sergeant with no neck and a complexion as scarred as a crushed beer can, ambled over to Brent’s table. They called him “Schoolie” because he dreamed of becoming a professor at the U.S. Army War College. Trouble was, he was too inept to ever get his degrees. He was an excellent warrior but more of a kinesthetic guy who did much better with physical tasks than mental ones.
The drunken oaf shook his head at Brent. “I know why you’re sitting alone.”
Brent just looked at him.
“They hate you,” Schoolie went on. “You’ve put ’em back through Robin Sage like they were noobs. You’re talking trash to them. So they hate you.”
Brent took a long pull on his beer and thought about that. He had forced his entire team to go back through the Army’s hellish and grueling Robin Sage training exercise, normally reserved for Special Forces candidates, not seasoned Ghost Recon warriors. Being forced to go back through the training was humiliating enough, but Brent had deemed it important and necessary because his current group was suffering from a severe lack of morale. He’d hoped that returning to the course might rekindle some of their “beginner spirit” in regard to combat operations. He’d been mistaken. His team had resented the training, though they were respectful enough to keep those feelings to themselves; however, their expressions said it all.
“Is there a punch line in here somewhere?” Brent finally asked Schoolie. “A sarcastic remark? Or are you auditioning to become my therapist?”
Schoolie grinned. “That’s pretty good.”
“Unless you’re picking up my tab, you’re dismissed.”
“Your people won’t even drink with you.”
“They’re not here yet. Get lost, before I pull rank and things get ugly.”
Schoolie snorted. “They’re right over there. They’ve been here for fifteen minutes. You haven’t even noticed.”
Brent rose slightly so he could look over a small wall between the booths. He realized with sagging shoulders that the bastard was right. His entire Ghost Recon team — all eight operators — had put together two tables on the other side of the bar. They were sitting around, drinking, joking, and getting ready to order.
