Brother's Keeper

By Joaquin De Torres and Joseph De Torres

Jason Li is seconds away from pulling the trigger to end his life.

Difficult to believe considering three years ago he was on the fast track to becoming a Navy fighter pilot, following in the footsteps of his older brother and modern combat ace, Lt. Jordan Li. But now Jordan is dead; killed in what the Navy claims was a "freak accident" over the Pacific Ocean.

Jason never got over the death of his brother-his mentor, his hero. Now discharged from the Navy for chronic mental breakdown, Jason has no career, no family and no reason to live. It's time to finish it. He begins to squeeze the trigger when suddenly-
The doorbell rings.

Standing there is a stranger who informs him that everything the Navy told him was a lieâ a stratagem for one of the most daring Black Ops missions ever attempted. His brother was the centerpiece of that operation which has now reached critical mass.

The Navy has reason to believe that Jordan may not be dead after all. They need Jason-enraged, victimized and unstable-to find his brother deep within China.

If he accepts, the Pentagon gives him his life back, and the chance to fly the most advanced fighter plane ever designed.

But if he refuses, hundreds of thousands of people will die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456610791

Book preview

Prologue

JORDAN! GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE, GODDAMNIT!

Jordan jammed the stick hard right, launching the aircraft into a diving barrel role that lurched his intestines up to his throat. An instant before he recovered from the maneuver another blinding bolt of light slammed into his portside wing, flipping him over like a toy counterclockwise with a deafening crack.

JESUS! I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH MORE THE PLANE CAN TAKE! Jordan Li spat as he gained control of the aircraft.

JORDAN! BANK LEFT! TWO-FOUR-FIVE DEGREES AND PUNCH INTO HYPERSONIC! The frantic voice pierced through the repetitious blare of the engine stall alarm. The aircraft shuddered with every thunder clap as it banked through the showers of forked light.

Roger that, Rudy! Going hypersonic in three, two, ONE! But as Li pushed on the throttle to bullet through the maelstrom, a massive bolt struck the spine of his plane. Shockwaves rifled through the cockpit and his body. Then the lights went out.

OH SHIT! I’VE LOST POWER! REPEAT! I’VE LOST POWER! Jordan yelled as his fingers instinctively pressed the switches and buttons to fire up the engines again. I HAVE NO INSTRUMENTS! REPEAT! NO POWER! THROTTLE, AERELONS, RUDDER, THRUST-NOT RESPONDING! RUDY, I’M A DEAD STICK!

EJECT, JORDAN! EJECT! EJECT! EJECT!

Jason’s eyes flew open.

He was still sitting at the table. He swallowed hard, and shook the nervous tingles from his spine. How many times had he had this vision? How many times had it brought his mind and body to paralysis? How many more sleepless nights, cold sweats and angry tears would it suck out of him?

Not today. Not anymore.

Jason used his index finger to launch the gun into a spin on the table. The 9mm Glock pistol spun on its side and finally came to a rest, its barrel pointing to one of the standing framed photos he placed in a semi-circle before him. This time it landed on mom and dad. He spun it again; it stopped on Uncle Yu’s photo. He drank down his fifth shot and spun it again; it stopped on his brother Jordan.

Jason sat back and considered this. He had been drinking and spinning the gun for the last 10 minutes, not particularly realizing that the gun had stopped at his elder brother’s photo almost 75 percent of the time. Yet, it only stopped on his own photo twice in like 30 spins. He didn’t know why. He had spun the butt of the gun with the same pressure and speed each time, but this was getting absurd: The gun kept stopping on Jordan’s photo.

He poured himself another shot from the now half-empty bottle of Hennessy XO cognac, a drink made for savoring-not today. Savoring, enjoying, luxuriating-these words no longer existed in Jason’s vocabulary. The vividness of life had faded for the 26-year-old; in fact, it was now colorless and opaque. Dark and light; black and white; it was all the same. He barely tasted food, much less the dulling sweetness of his once favorite liquor. It was simply a liquid now. He took another shot and spun the gun again: It stopped at his brother’s picture.

What the fuck is going on!? He spun it again, and again, and again-all three times, the barrel pointed squarely on Jordan’s photo. He grabbed the frame and brought it to his face with trembling hands. He instantly remembered when the photo was taken of his ruggedly handsome brother. It was three years ago. Jason himself took the photo when Jordan came to visit him while on leave. He remembered the text he received, having read it several times a day.

"Hey Bro! Our carrier is leaving San Diego for the Ring in two weeks, so I thought I’d take some leave and see you. I can even visit with my old instructors. Speaking of flight school, I’m sorry to say that I’ll miss your graduation. I’m now a member of the new F-1 Cyclone squadron, and will get some serious flying time in the Navy’s newest bird! I’d love to tell you more, Bro, but it’s all highly classified. You’ll understand when you get your wings! Uncle Yu would be hella proud of you. I’ll call you later today. I love you, and I’m very proud of you, bro. Jordan."

The six days they spent together was the last time Jason saw his brother alive. So much had happened; so much had changed. The memories never faded, however; in fact, they are what kept him alive this long. But now even the memories weren’t helping. Life was now shit. He was all alone in this world.

He poured another round and placed Jordan’s photo back on the table. He downed the shot and poured another.

Okay, here’s the deal, he said aloud. If the gun points to me on this spin, it’s today. If it points to Jordan, it’s tomorrow. He slammed the shot, and spun the gun one last time, putting extra power on the spin.

It stopped almost dead center on Jordan’s picture. Jason smirked with satisfaction.

It’s decided. He stood up and stepped away from the table. I’ll kill myself tomorrow.

Chapter 1

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Deep Strike Command

U.S. Naval Station

Yokosuka, Japan

Two days prior.

Scott Rivers ran his fingers through his gray-speckled hair with trepidation. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, squeezing his eyes shut. This was going to be the most difficult assignment of his long career.

He looked down at the dossier he’d been studying for the past three days, going through the two-inch-thick stack of classified documents on one of DSC’s persons of interest. As head of the Deep Infiltration Task Group, the covert arm of the DSC, it was his job to select from dozens of qualified aviators for special flight sorties behind and beyond enemy lines.

These men not only had to match the technical skill set of the program, but possess the socio-psychological framework needed for the types of missions often considered suicidal. The chosen few who matched the profiles, passed the rigorous interviews, and scored well on various strategic aptitude tests, would train as members of the Department of Defense’s most secretive group of aviators-the Black Crow Squadron.

The squadron was such a covert team, so concealed from the rest of the fleet and the admiralty, that even contemporary squadron commanders had no idea what they really did. Their clearances and their duties were well beyond the scope of the frontline naval aviator, in that their orders reflected significant geo-political implications and matters of the highest security.

Black Crow pilots were not keepers of the peace, deterrents to war, bomber escorts or part of the forward fighting units like carrier pilots. Black Crows were aerial hit squads, the special forces units of the sky. Their mission was to fly deep into enemy territory under the cover of night or in horrific weather, and exact damage so great and precise that the enemy would be virtually crippled, delayed indefinitely, or completely decimated in that particular effort. These missions were run not just against enemies of the U.S., but against nations whose war machine developments were deemed too dangerous to allow their completion; and if already completed, too dangerous for their deployments or exportation.

Assembly plants, production warehouses, finishing factories, underground railways, smuggling routes, supply depots, weapons bunkers, sponsoring corporations, and satellite and Internet relay stations were all potential targets for the Black Crows. But these were generic targets in nature; there were also the choice targets. The homes, villas, chateaus, private planes, yachts and motorcades of warlords, drug lords, dictators, top commanders, renegade leaders, and corporate CEOs who financed them were on the list. Special weapons labs, terrorist training compounds, recruitment camps, weapons sweatshops, and key cyber engineering personnel were all targeted.

Intelligence and pinpoint locational data provided by the Navy’s OPTICA spy satellite and the thermal imaging and identification radars on the planes made AFA or, assassination-from-above missions, a major part of the DSC’s top secret and clandestine protocol. And doing this as deep as 3,500 miles into the enemy homeland gave deep strike an entirely new meaning. To put it succinctly, there was nowhere in the country a building, a route, or a person could hide where OPTICA and the Black Crows couldn’t find, hunt down and eliminate.

The enemy governments and militaries kept these attacks and assassinations secret from the general public and the media for the preservation of national pride, as well as hiding the fact that most of the targets were illicit and criminal in nature.

To carry out such missions, DSC needed a stealth air dominance platform that could remain virtually invisible to any of the modern radar and satellite technologies of the day; have a max ceiling of 75,000 feet and a max range of 3,000 miles; and fly seamlessly between the transonic, supersonic and hypersonic regimes. The max escape speed of such an aircraft was Mach 6—a speed unheard in aviation. The aircraft would be the fastest, highest and farthest flying aircraft ever designed; and would have to do all this while heavily armed. These design parameters were near impossible for the modern era, yet they were imperative to counter the anti-air warfare science of the time.

With stealth technology in the hands of dozens of industrialized nations, missiles designed to destroy such aircraft, known as stealth seekers, were in constant design and production demand. Most of the models were based on the revolutionary Chinese Dragon Fang surface-to-air missile, the first stealth missile ever designed. It was a breakthrough that would alter traditional aerial warfare roles and tactics. If such missiles entered the realm of enemy governments, no American or allied plane—-military or civilian-—would be safe. And this was already happening, and in one case, proved catastrophic for America. DSC was called in to end it.

The F-1 Cyclone was the answer. In partnership with Lockheed-Martin and NASA’s Experi-Nautics division, the 7th generation stealth fighter was designed by the aero-science branch of the Naval Weapons Research Lab 5, or WEPS-FIVE. It was the WEPS labs that produced living legends in the field of bleeding edge weaponry, and living legends were the stuff of the Black Crow Squadron; Rivers should know-he was one of them. But there were also the dead ones. It was Rivers’ job to keep as many of his aviators off the ‘dead list’ as possible.

He sighed. He couldn’t believe what he was tasked to do with the profile in front of him. He rubbed his eyes again in despair.

What are the odds? he huffed. How does he expect me to make this work? The 24-year retired Navy Captain; 15 years of which was as a fighter pilot; six years as a naval-air intelligence staff consultant, and three as a National Security Agency covert analyst-all his experience told him that this couldn’t be done. Yet, his position required him to find a way to get it done.

He was specifically recruited by an old friend when DSC was formed because he was the most experienced and respected staff member of the program. He was held in high regard for his personal and professional counsel for the upper echelon, the pilots, and the missions themselves. His foresight was almost always on the money, and as a civilian he didn’t have to worry about rank, or whose ego would be bruised in dissension. So, when he thought something could or couldn’t be done, it was usually right, and the matter was closed.

He straightened out the files and slid them into the folder. He was about to get up, but then paused. Despite his careful and pragmatic analysis, deep down inside-among his improbable hopes and impossible dreams-something was telling him that maybe, just maybe, there could be a window of opportunity here. He opened the file folder once more, daring to indulge in the thought. But just as quickly, he took a breath and shook his head.

No way. Things don’t just fall into place so perfectly in life. At least, not for me. He checked his cell phone; it was time. He gathered the files and walked down the hall to his boss’ office. The door was open and Melinda, the perky office manager, greeted him with her customary warm smile.

Hey Scott, good morning! She looked at Rivers’ stolid expression and dropped her cheer. Oh, boy. I know that face. Are you okay?

Things could be better, Melinda. Is the admiral in?

Go right on in, sir.

With a curt smile he nodded and walked into Rear Admiral Bob Marrion’s office, the man who recruited him to DSC three years prior. Melinda closed the door once he was in the room and returned to her desk.

Sit down, Scott, said the burly, balled African-American with his massive back to him. Rivers took one of the two seats in front of desk. When Marrion turned around, he had a coffee cup in each hand. He set one down in front of Rivers, then sat down and took a sip of his own. Without looking at him, Marrion used his left hand to tap a few buttons on his laptop.

I read your e-mail, Scott; twice, in fact.

And? What do you think of my assessment?

I think you’re wrong, to put it bluntly. Rivers opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when Marrion calmly raised his palm. Slow down, Scott. There’s nothing wrong with your overall tactical analysis. Your points are clear and understandably conservative; but it seems you fail to see the premise of why I wanted you to head this particular project.

Admiral-

Bob, goddamn it, Marrion blurted with light-hearted frustration. How many times do I have to remind you? I know you still have your uniform pressed in your closet, but you’re a civilian now. He snickered while Rivers nodded dismissively.

Bob, you’ve trusted me all these years.

Twenty-five, actually, Marrion added abruptly. From the day we first met at the Academy. Marrion smiled with pride, warmly displaying his deep sense of loyalty towards their friendship.

Well then, why won’t you let this project go? I don’t support it; and even if I did, it’s such a long shot that it will work, to speak of nothing of the cost and risks involved.

Marrion nodded with understanding.

Relax, Scott. Drink your coffee. Rivers put the cup to his lips and took a long sip. Marrion looked away from his laptop and pressed his hands together as if to pray. Scott, do you believe in second chances? This question seemed to catch Rivers off guard.

What?

Second chances, the admiral repeated. Do you believe in them?

Yes. Yes, I do. Sometimes thirds, depending on the situation.

Good, because I do very much believe in giving second chances, Marrion said in a very low and committed tone. You now have the authority to grant second chances to two individuals, maybe even three.

How? Scott asked completely baffled.

Commander Rudy Miller, the man you replaced.

But I’ve never met him.

That’s because he left a few months before I called you. He was picked up for Captain, but refused it. Marrion’s face registered regret. He couldn’t live with himself and abruptly retired. That’s why you received all your pass-down from me personally. Rivers simply stared at him, not making any connections. Marrion realized this and nodded. I just sent you a detailed e-mail attachment with all the facts about the case. You will understand more when you read it.

Why don’t you just tell me, Bob?

Because we both know you are too cerebral. You need time to mull things over, and I want you to have all the facts of this project on paper so you can integrate it. It’s what you do best, better than anyone I know. He leaned forward across his desk. It’s what I’m counting on.

I take it that this project is going forward despite my reservations?

Affirmative. This matter has one of the highest priorities for the Pentagon and I’m to report to Admiral Espinoza directly at regular intervals, not to mention those above me in the DSC circle.

How much time do I have?

We have everything you need, and have arranged all the particulars from paperwork, locations, to the logistics. If your initial contact is successful, we’re expecting you to be ready to go in six months. After that, we may have run out of time; which also translates to the world running out of time.

Rivers mulled over the timeframe and the situation silently. He looked at Marrion whose eyes were almost pleading.

Bob, it’s such a-

Long shot, we know this. But the situation is so dire, so important to our national security, that we’ve got to try. He took a deep breath. We’ve got to try.

Rivers looked deep into Marrion’s eyes and saw the concern and fear that shackled him. This was indeed a massive undertaking, perhaps an impossible one; but if Bob Marrion asked him to do it, who was he to deny him? Who was he to ignore 25 years of close friendship? He nodded his head affirmatively, albeit reluctantly.

Thank you, Scott. Marrion handed him a sheet of paper. This is your e-ticket for your flight to San Francisco. You leave tonight. Melinda has money and documents for you, plus two return reservations. If it doesn’t work out, let us know and we’ll cancel the other reservation.

I understand. Then I guess I’d better get packing. Marrion stood up and offered his hand, which Scott took without hesitation.

I know this is completely out of your job description, Scott; but as far as I’m concerned, if there’s anyone who can make this work, it’s you. Don’t worry, if you can’t, just come back. We’ll find another way. Rivers nodded, still clutching Marrion’s hand.

Thank you for the opportunity, Admiral. He let go and proceeded towards the door.

It’s Bob, goddamn it!

Rivers smiled, suddenly a bit more comforted that no matter what happened, he’d still have his impenetrable friendship with Bob Marrion.

More than 20 hours later, he would find himself in a room at the Concord Sheraton Hotel, just a few miles from where his new mission would begin.

Chapter 2

A House in Order

2458 Olivera Villa Apartments

Concord, California

Jason sat at his small dining room table and looked about the room. Everything was in perfect order. His personal and household belongings were already neatly packed in boxes and awaiting transport to the closest Goodwill or dumpster. He knew Mr. Sebastiani would pick through them first, pulling out his electronics to keep for himself or his kids. Jason didn’t give a shit. The rooms were cleaned, and the kitchen and bathroom scrubbed down.

He looked at the kitchen bar counter where a stack of envelopes sat crisply. All his utility, cell phone, Internet and cable bills were paid up to the end of the month, and he would drop them in the outgoing slot when he checked his mailbox one last time. He was expecting a letter and hoped it would arrive before he departed. Next to that stack of bills was a manila office envelope with his landlord’s name on it. Within was the final month’s rent, in cash, with an extra thousand dollars for the clean up to come. A small note was tucked inside.

Mr. Sebastiani, I’m sorry for the mess I’ve left you. Use my deposit and this extra cash to cover the new paint and carpet. I really enjoyed staying here. Jason.

His eyes moved further down the counter to another small group of items that the police would need when his body was discovered. His driver’s license, social security card, an official copy of his birth certificate, and his passport sat on a small piece of parchment:

Dear Concord Police Department: I have no living relatives. Please simply cremate my remains. After that, I really don’t care.

Earlier, he decided that he would leave the front door cracked open slightly so a fellow tenant, or Mr. Sebastiani himself could easily gain entry once they heard the bang. For the first time in his life, he considered with dark satisfaction that his house was in order. He turned to the table and surveyed what was in front of him: a take-out menu for Szechuan Village Chinese restaurant; a newly opened bottle of Hennessy XO with shot glass; his cell phone, the TV remote and his Glock. He had called in his order for food 20 minutes ago, so being lunch hour, he expected it to come late. He poured himself a shot while he turned on the TV for the last time.

What the hell, he reasoned; the food won’t be here for another half-hour anyway. He went straight to his favorite program, the History Channel, and was instantly pleased to see a part of his life that he had left behind. Wings Of Tomorrow, his favorite military documentary series was on, and the F-1 Cyclone stealth fighter was the episode’s focus. He downed the shot, picked up the bottle, moved to the couch and put his feet on the coffee table.

Jordan’s plane. He checked the time on the screen and cursed to himself that he had already missed half of the one-hour episode.

". . .And to this day, the speed, ceiling and mission of the Cyclone is classified by the Department of Defense. Industry officials were free to release the average speed of the plane as Mach 3.8, which makes it the fastest on Earth; however, there are rumors that the engine technology designed by WEPS can put the plane upwards of Mach 4 or 5. But no one, save the pilots, designers and builders themselves will ever know.

"Sales and exports of the F-1 are prohibited by Congressional law even to our closest allies. But it’s not to say that other nations haven’t tried to find out, and have even used clandestine means to possess its secrets. Just last year, seven Lockheed-Martin employees involved in the jet’s production plant were convicted of conspiracy to sell trade secrets, blueprints, and samples of the plane’s composite materials to China. The men were sentenced to 15 years in federal prison without parole.

China is by far the biggest solicitor of information concerning the F-1. One Pentagon official stated that if China were to incorporate the F-1’s abilities and power plant into their own stealth fighter program, it would shift the balance of air superiority in the world.

Jason downed another shot.

It’s just a matter of time, he spat. You can’t keep secrets from the Chinese; they have too much money. Sooner or later, for the right price, someone is going to just hand them the fucking plane. There’s no such thing as national loyalty anymore; that shit’s out of style. It’s all about money.

"Amazingly, the Navy has a near perfect safety record with the Cyclone; in fact, in the last four years since its maiden flight, only one plane has suffered a casualty. And in that casualty an American hero was lost.

No, Jason breathed pleadingly. No, no, no! Don’t make me watch this. He reached for the remote but just couldn’t turn it off.

"That tragedy occurred just three years ago when a squadron of F-1s from the carrier USS George Washington was on patrol north of Taiwan in the East China Sea. It was at night and in stormy conditions when a freak lightning bolt hit one of the five F-1s. The plane exploded instantly at 55,000 feet. The escalating lightning storm caused the group to disperse and head back to the carrier.

This incident shocked the U.S. Navy and the country when the pilot was identified as Lieutenant Jordan Li, the world’s only modern combat ace, who in his first year serving in the Iranian War, shot down no less than 12 Iranian fighters. He also destroyed countless strategic positions and had a 97 percent success rate on bombing missions.

NO!!! WHY DO I HAVE TO SEE THIS!? Jason jumped to his feet, winding back his arm as if to hurl the shot glass at the TV. Then a photo of his brother flashed on the screen. He was wearing his flight suit, holding his helmet and smiling from a Navy F-35C cockpit. Jordan’s slicked-back hair, sharply chiseled face and almond-cut Asian eyes was displayed in several Navy file photos, yet they looked more like modeling shots. Jason dropped down to the sofa from weakened legs, his tears spilling forth.

How can this be on right now? he whimpered, pressed within the torment that he had long suppressed.

Lieutenant Li was already a superstar in the naval aviation community when his plane was struck down that tragic night. The Navy and the nation lost a proven hero. He was only 26. The segment pulled to commercial with Jordan’s face gradually fading out. Jason turned off the TV and put both hands to his quivering face. He lied full out on the couch as the anguish poured over him like hot sand.

Jordan Li was not only his brother, but his childhood guardian, high school protector, and college mentor. Four years older, Jordan had to be a man at a very early age. After the death of their parents when they were in elementary school, Jordan helped raise him with 60-year-old Uncle Yu, their father’s brother and only blood relative in the Bay Area.

When the boys moved in with their uncle in Richmond, it was Jordan who acted as their second father. His sense of responsibility, justice, and temperance guided Jason through the years, protecting him, nurturing him, and making him strong and independent. They promised to never leave each other throughout life; it was a promise so strong that Jason tried to emulate as much of his brother as he could.

Following in Jordan’s footsteps to UC Berkeley, Jason graduated with honors in computer engineering and joined the Navy, while Jordan was already a rising star as a navy aviator cadet. After scoring nearly perfect on his Aviation Selection Test Battery, Jason entered the naval pilot pipeline, hoping to be stationed with Jordan and fly missions together from the same aircraft carrier.

As he began the arduous 48 months of Naval Aviator Cadet training, Jordan was already making a name for himself in the fleet. In his first two years as an F-35C Lightning III combat pilot, Jordan’s magnificence in the Gulf of Oman was noticed early. Stationed onboard the USS Abraham Lincoln in only his second mission, his three-plane detachment was jumped by a squadron of seven Iranian Sukhoi Su-30 Flanker fighters. He shot down two planes and forced a third to ditch in the gulf.

On his third mission against Iranian ground targets, he destroyed two Flankers and completed his ground support bomb drop, crippling a