Pakistan. “That is no secret, my friend. The Crusaders have contacts throughout our country.”
Kassim waved a hand. “No, no. This is unusual. The Americans were soldiers but had no uniforms.”
“Then how do you know they were soldiers?”
“My source works in the base facilities office. He says the soldiers are there disguised as security consultants. But they have the look and the bearing of soldiers: mostly young, very fit, with military haircuts, though most are growing beards. He saw weapons and…”
“How many men?”
“The corporal did not feel he could question them without raising suspicions. He saw six or eight, but he learned there are accommodations for as many as forty.”
Ali absorbed the information, wondering if the Crusaders could be so fast off the mark after his first two failed “deliveries.” While he was thinking, Kassim interjected.
“There is something else.”
“What is it?”
“A woman.”
Steve Lee was running White Team through some drills as Padgett-Smith finished some remedial pistol training. Jeffrey Malten had attempted to improve her speed with a manageable reduction in accuracy but finally conceded enough was enough. As the former SEAL cleaned the Hipower, Padgett-Smith regarded Lee’s men with something approaching professional detachment. Most were casually dressed — some in cutoffs and T-shirts — while incongruously wearing gloves. She turned to Malten. “Why do some of them have gloves but so little else?”
“Oh. I know, it looks funny, but some guys prefer wearing gloves on an operation while others go bare handed. Whatever they do, they practice the same way. There’s a saying, ‘Fight like you train.’ It can be a little hard to manipulate some guns or equipment with gloves so those guys practice with them on. There’s a compromise, though. Fingerless gloves protect the hands but allow full use of the fingers. It’s just personal preference.” He tried suppressing a grin and failed.
“What?” she asked.
“Well, there’s another reason for some of the young studs. The CDI Factor.”
She cocked her head. “CDI?”
“Chicks dig it.”
Padgett-Smith scowled at him. “That’s absurd. Do they really…”
“Hey, Doc, it got your attention, didn’t it?”
Ali and Kassim spoke in subdued tones. The other jihadists were men of proven commitment, but as the cell’s intelligence officer Kassim took nothing for granted.
Ali bent close. “What of the American woman?”
“It is difficult to say. Apparently she is the only female with the so-called security agents.” Kassim permitted himself a smile. “But I have learned her name.”
“Well done, brother! Your sources must be praised. What is it?”
“Smith.”
Ali’s smile melted before Kassim’s eyes. “My friend, that is of no use. Smith is as common among the Crusaders as Mohammed among the faithful.”
“Oh…”
The bio-engineer placed an assuring hand on the Syrian’s forearm. “Please tell your operatives that the leadership is pleased. Ask them to obtain more details, but not at risk of being discovered. Now, what else need we discuss?”
“I should start making plans for the next package. When do you expect the messenger?”
“Within one week.”
The Hip lifted off the ramp, dipped its nose during translational lift, and chugged off to its pad across the field. Keegan and Eddie Marsh watched it with helmet visors lowered. They both relished the sound and smell of helicopters.
“Well, I feel pretty good about it,” Marsh volunteered. He was a former Army warrant officer, several years younger than Keegan but with a comparable amount of helo time.
The Navy pilot lifted his visor. “Yeah, I do, too. Captain Mir knows what he’s doing. Good stick, good instructor.”
“They’ll be back tomorrow, right?”
“Affirm. And likely every day after. We can use all the time we can get, and Frank’s door kickers need to practice dismounts, too.”
Marsh unzipped his jacket, which reminded Keegan of something. “Eddie, you’d better take that flag patch off the sleeve. Either that or don’t wear the jacket.”
“Hey, you know me. My theme song is ‘Proud to Be an American.’”
“Well, that’s fine, but we can’t go waving the stars and stripes over here. We have to keep a low profile.” He nudged the army flier. “You know that.”
Marsh’s tone became defensive. “Well,
“C’mon, Eddie. It’s just a flag.”
“What do you mean, ‘just a flag’?”
“It’s only a symbol. Most people look at the starry spangled banner and see what they want to see. I know what it represents. Or doesn’t represent. Not anymore.”
Marsh felt his hair bristle on the back of his neck. “Like what?” There was more edge in his voice than he intended.
“Oh, hell. Forget it.”
Marsh jabbed a finger at Keegan. “No, man. You raised it. Let’s hear it!”
Keegan inhaled, exhaled, and briefly closed his eyes. He knew exactly what was going to be said in the next thirty seconds. “All right, Eddie. You’re a good guy, straight arrow, red, white, and true blue. You look at Old Glory and you see Mount Rushmore or something. I see the federal thugs raising that flag over the ashes of Waco. And a lot more.”
Marsh was incredulous. He almost stammered. “Well, to hell with Waco, man! Besides, it’s not the flag’s choice where it’s raised.”
Now Marsh was visibly upset. The veins stood out in his head. “By god, Keegan, if you’re comparing the American flag to those…”
“You’re reacting emotionally, Eddie. Try thinking with your brain instead of with your glands.” He resisted the urge to add
Frank Leopole strode within earshot, intending to get the pilots’ assessment of their second day flying the Hip. As he drew nearer he saw Marsh’s animated gestures and rising tone. Keegan, as usual, was calm and composed.
“What the hell’s going on?”
Leopole’s voice had the practiced tone of a Perturbed Marine Corps Officer. He reckoned it lay somewhere between an ordinary Parris Island DI and an outraged Catholic nun. Either way, it was a daunting performance.
Keegan thought fastest. Which meant he allowed Marsh to speak first.
“Colonel, I’m just about…” Keegan saw the light flick on in Marsh’s eyes. The kid knew he’d been had.
“Yes, go on.” Leopole had defaulted to Parade Ground Marine: hands touching behind his back, torso slightly inclined forward.
Marsh looked down. “Well, um. It’s about the flag. The American flag.”
Leopole gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “Say what?” He looked at Keegan.
