Down Twisted: A Jake Savage Novel

By Skeeter Wesinger

Buckle up, as it’s going to be yet another wild ride! It’s a dangerous world full of dangerous people. Yet Jake Savage and his A-team are there to keep things in check. In Down Twisted, the latest in the Jake Savage series, Jake, Mike, Andy, Pauline, and Dakota square off against Russian gangsters, Colombian carteleros, African mercenaries, and Libyan despots, whipping around the globe in a dazzling array of aircraft, ready to do battle at a moment’s notice.

Set in the twilight hours of the Cold War, in a time when the global security situation is undergoing significant and perilous shifts, Wesinger’s novel takes the reader from the hallowed halls and top-secret boardrooms of the Pentagon to the rugged beauty of the Zimbabwean bush, narrating this riveting tale with an insider’s flair for detail and nuance. Jake’s highly specialized elite A-Team takes on missions no one else can.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Mar 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483427478

Book preview

RIP.

CIA Headquarters

August 1990

Langley, Virginia

S addam had been accusing the Kuwaitis of slant drilling Iraqi oil. The Iraqis owed the Kuwaitis a little over $14 billion; the Kuwaitis wouldn’t forgive the Iraqi debt. The week before, Saddam had received a message from United States ambassador April Glaspie. In part, the communiqué read, We have no opinion on Arab–Arab conflicts such as your dispute with Kuwait.

When Saddam asked what commitment the United States had to protect Kuwait, he received the following answer: none. It was all he needed—he took the response as a green light from the Americans. At sundown, Iraqi troops started moving toward the border of Kuwait, although in fact, thousands of them had been moving toward Kuwait for days.

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Iraq started their invasion at two o’clock on Wednesday morning. At four o’clock, the next day, Thomas got a call from his boss, the Director of Central Intelligence, Simmons: Drop everything; we need to meet right away.

In his early sixties, Thomas’s hair was grey. He had lived in the States ever since the Second World War. He had spent his entire career with the CIA, though retirement was coming up fast. He still spoke with a bit of a Scottish accent; he most always had a smile on his face.

Sit down, and shut up—I’ll be doing the talking today, Simmons barked.

Cautiously, Thomas sat down without saying a word.

I’ve been totally inundated with this Iraq thing. A tall, husky man with a good tan, Simmons wore a red power tie with a finely tailored suit, his shoes had a well-polished shine to them.

So what’s this I hear about your guy Savage being arrested in Mexico? Simmons growled. Killing a man with his bare hands in a public place! I’ve got to hand it to you, Thomas—you sure as hell know how to pick ’em. Simmons pulled out a handkerchief and coughed into it, wheezing a little. We had barely promoted him, and now this. I have to tell you, if the press gets a hold of this, they’ll have a total field day. Simmons hacked again; his days of chain-smoking were catching up to him.

Thomas studied his hands; the press already had the story, but he wasn’t about to say so. Luckily, they had bigger fish to fry at the moment, with the Persian Gulf on fire.

By the way, tell Savage thanks. However, it didn’t come from me, it came directly from the president. Simmons cleared his throat again. When the president heard how one of his assistant deputy directors had killed a drug kingpin, barehanded and in a damn hotel lobby, he couldn’t believe it. But I didn’t call you in here for that!

Thomas knew from experience to wait as if he were a schoolboy until Simmons was through working himself up.

There’s a situation in a little place called Kuwait—you might have heard about it, said Simmons, who was a bit more animated than he normally was. I have an honest-to-God princess who needs rescuing, she’s—in Kuwait.

Simmons slid an operation-briefing envelope across his desk. The envelope floated on a cushion of air all the way into Thomas’s lap. Here’s the thing—this rescue needed to happen f’n’ yesterday—is this clear? Now, get your man what’s-his-name—killer—to go do it. Don’t sit there—get the hell out of my office, and get it done.

Out in the hallway, Thomas used his cell phone to call Jake, who didn’t waste time grumbling when Thomas told him he’d need to activate his team for a mission.

Jake only said, I’ll see you at midnight.

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It was 1:15 a.m. when Thomas swiveled to look. It’s, uh-oh, he grumbled.

Hey, Thomas, said Jake cautiously.

Thomas didn’t smile back; in fact, he looked as if he had licked the top of a nine-volt battery. Have a seat—would you like a drink? Thomas paused, Jake, I’m getting too old for this crap. I got my ass chewed out by the Director, so don’t you even start.

A hush hung over the office. Jake began to say something, but Thomas shut him down, wagging a finger at him. No, don’t—while you were off on your little f’n’ holiday, I was getting my butt reamed by the Director. Don’t ever go pulling a stunt like that again—in a damn hotel lobby! Is Scotch okay?

Thomas reached for the bottle of J&B, he poured two glasses. Jake had never seen Thomas quite this way before—well, maybe once or twice.

The fishing trip to Cabo San Lucas, hadn’t turned out quite the way Jake had expected. Only the day before, Jake, was sitting in a Mexican jail accused of killing drug lord Carlos Ochocha. Carlos had attacked Jake in the lobby of the Hotel Dolphin. Defending himself, Jake killed Carlos in the process.

There was silence while Thomas drained his glass, and once again refilled it. "We have a situation in Kuwait—we need this taken care of—yesterday.

There is a princess by the name of Tatia. Her own security detail was in such a rush to get out of Kuwait they left her behind. Thomas explained how she was now holed up in a house in Kuwait City. Normally, Jake could pick his assignments, but not this time; this operation needed to be done fast. The assignment was right down Jake’s alley, although in reality, he hated rush jobs.

We’re calling this one Operation Snake Charmer. I’ve taken the liberty of putting together a list of logistics for you.

Jake knew he’d need extra men to pull this one off, but laughed, when he saw the document it was blank. There were no weapons available for this operation; Jake would somehow have to get all of the equipment on his own. His fleet of aircraft now included a Gulfstream G-4, the Lear 36, along with his C-130 Herky Bird. His first thought was he’d be burning some jet fuel. His Herky Bird would have two extra crews. Jakes crews would be flying more or less around the clock for the next two weeks, moving both men and the necessary equipment to Saudi Arabia.

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Without sleeping, Jake flew the G-4 to Cyprus, where he’d meet with Nikos, an arms merchant of sorts. Nikos was a small man physically, but he always had a big mischievous smile—one wouldn’t want to play cards with him. He’d clean a person out with his smile still on his face.

In addition to weaponry, Jake wanted to purchase at least four or five helicopters from Nikos if he had them. The meeting with Nikos would take place in the late afternoon at a seaside café Nikos owned in Limassol.

Only five hours later they were sitting outside, enjoying the view of the sparkling Mediterranean Sea. Nikos was wearing a white suit with a wide-brimmed white fedora with a black band.

Savage, my old friend, what brings you here to Cyprus? asked Nikos. It’s certainly not my good looks. What is it—drugs, women, or arms? It must be arms, no?

The waitress, who was maybe eighteen, set a bottle of Plomari ouzo along with two glasses on the table.

Jake smiled. I see you have remembered, he said, pointing at the bottle of ouzo.

The two of them had met for the first time at a small café in Athens, on a side street not far from the Acropolis. Jake had ordered Plomari ouzo, then he’d slid a small note of introduction from Yannis across the table. The note had broken the ice, allowing the two men to converse in a way they wouldn’t have otherwise done.

There was a soft, light breeze blowing in from the sea and the café had a great view. Looking out over the Mediterranean, the spot was great for people-watching. He was enjoying himself so much he’d almost forgotten why he was there, though only for a moment.

I am in need of a few helicopters along with some small arms. What do you think—can you help me out?

But of course—I am Nikos, no? Nikos grinned as if he were a Cheshire cat eyeing a fat mouse.

Nikos thought to himself, Now, this is going to be fun, with the waitress bending over to clear away a nearby table.

Swiveling slightly to see what Nikos was looking at, Jake couldn’t help but notice she wore no underwear. Man, where the hell did you find her? he asked, nearly stammering.

Uh-no, ha, she is from Budapest, she is only eighteen years old. Without missing a beat, Nikos continued. Now, I have six Mi-25s, Russian Hinds, which you can steal from me. They’re located in Khartoum, however—will this be a problem? Nikos asked.

So when can I see ’em? asked Jake, now thinking to himself, Oh no, not Khartoum, Jake hated the place—Khartoum was very hot in August. The city itself smelled like a bag of dead rats.

You haven’t even asked how much they are. I can show them to you tomorrow—will this work for you? Nikos took another swallow of ouzo.

When do we leave? asked Nikos.

First thing in the morning… work for you? said Jake, who was running on pure adrenaline. Jake loved living on the edge it was what he lived for.

Now, let’s have another drink, said Nikos, who was obviously in no rush, with the night was still young. When the waitress came back, Nikos handled the introduction, her name was Hope, from the Pest side of Budapest. I taught her how to bus tables myself, said Nikos, laughing. Incipiently the sun fell toward the horizon, Hope brought some freshly grilled fish along with another bottle of Plomari to the table. After dinner, they smoked cheroots, and swapped stories while sitting there on the veranda.

The next morning, Jake met Nikos at the airport early in fact it was still dark. Two hours later, they landed in Khartoum, where the sun had begun to appear on the horizon. Soon the sun began to rise and so did the temperatures. Khartoum had received a lot of rain recently; and along with the rain came the humidity, which made them uncomfortable. Nikos and Jake drove across the tarmac to where the Hinds were sitting on the desert sand, at the very edge of the airport. When they got closer, Jake could see the old helicopters were in far worse shape than he’d imagined. Even kids had played inside of the old Hinds. Which had been flown hard and put away wet a few too many times.

But as always, Nikos had one last trick up his sleeve. He had ten new Russian-built engines, all still in their crates, which he offered to Jake making them part of the deal. This was the hook and after negotiating throughout the morning, they settled and then loaded the first of the helicopters into the back of the Herky Bird. But the Hind barely fit, and they struggled to get it on board. Once they finished, they flew back to Cyprus to drop off Nikos.

Next time, don’t wait so long to call. Nikos walked away with the wind ruffling his tattered grey hair, holding a briefcase full of cash.

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Jake flew on to Geneva, where he hoped to charter three additional C-130s to augment his growing fleet. There he met with the president of Privat Swiss Air, a man with whom he’d had no prior dealings. Spiros Lapsis was a tall, thin man with dark brown hair and clear grey eyes. Jake guessed he and Spiros were about the same age forty-something. Jake reached inside of his coat pocket, and produced a business card, he handed to Spiros, who examined it, then Spiros rolled the card over. On it was the signature of Yannis, a restaurant owner in Amsterdam who was also a lifelong friend of Thomas’s, had given the card to Jake. Yannis also had a long history Spyridon Lasis who was Spiros father.

Mr. Savage, my father would very much like to meet you, but I am afraid he’s tied up in London at the moment, Spiros said, without cracking a smile. What can my company do for you?

Mr. Lapsis, I want to charter three C-130s for a few weeks. Yannis said I should contact your father, and here I am. There was a brief pause while Jake collected his thoughts.

Excuse me—I’m sorry, said Jake, handing Spiros his own business card.

Spiros laughed after he read it, assuming Jake was another CIA bureaucrat.

Yannis told me he has known your father since before the war—World War II, I mean—and you always do what you say you’ll do.

Yes, my father will be in Cyprus in two weeks. We’ll be in touch. Spiros was smiling now, he stood and shook Jake’s hand. Making a flight to Germany, Jake he re-read Spyridon Lapsis’ dossier hoping this might give him some insight into the man he had met. In Germany he purchased two cases of Heckler and Koch 33s along with six H&K 417s. He still wasn’t happy, and he flew to Austria where he purchased a case of Glock-40s along with ammo for the lot.

On the way back to the airport, Jake’s car drove past a circus. He instructed his driver to pull over. Pulling back the canvas, he found the ringmaster, then he inquired if they had any extra tents. The ringmaster stroked his beard while he listened to Jake.

The ringmaster was a shrewd businessman; he told Jake in crisp, clear English they had recently retired three tents, and all three were there in Vienna. After negotiating for nearly two hours, Jake had himself a deal; he purchased all three tents with installation. A crew of circus members would deliver everything to the Vienna airport, and after flying them to Saudi Arabia they would set them up at Camp Commando, each with its air-conditioning unit. Jake would provide all transportation to Saudi Arabia for the work crew along with the three circus tents.

The next morning, his fleet of four C-130s was waiting at the airport in Vienna. Jake offered a further incentive in the form of cold hard cash. All four aircraft were loaded rapidly and they were airborne within two hours.

The circus workers along with Jake flew to Camp Commando, where all three tents were set up before sundown. Once the tents were in place. Jake had a maintenance hangar, a new command post, and best of all a sleeping tent, because nobody at camp commando ever slept.

The next day, the operation to rescue the princess would begin. Finally, over taken by exhaustion. Jake collapsed onto one of the cots; out cold in a mere second, he began to dream of Africa. Outside in the hot Saudi desert one of the Hinds was making a test flight in preparation for the upcoming rescue while men and supplies continued to roll in non-stop day and night.

Camp Commando

August 1990

Saudi Arabia

A t Camp Commando, Jake made a last-minute phone call to Tatia. Jake wanted to know her status. When he heard sixteen others would be going with her, he only grunted.

That ’s not a problem. Please don’t shoot my men, they should be there soon, he said.

The winds were perfect they had only one chance to get this done. The guys re-calculated how much battery power they’d need to make the target, after thinking about it they decided to doubled it. The guys also added a spare helium tank to each of the Cloudhoppers. Joking around, Mike took a hit of helium after first filling a surgical glove and then he began speaking as if he were Donald Duck.

Mike. Jake shook his head and looked down at his watch.

Let’s get ready to fly, ordered Jake.

With the Cloudhoppers away. Andy was a little anxious. Even with the winds in their favor, the flight was longer and slower than he’d expected. In his late twenties, Andy was almost too tall to be a fighter pilot, but he flew both jets along with helicopters. Andy was a CIA black-ops man who had been assigned to the team. Jake was doing the best he could to help bring him up to speed. Almost halfway through his battery, Andy noticed his motor temp was increasing, so he switched to his backup battery, and the temp came back down. The two balloons had been tethered together for communications; they also used low-power radios to communicate with each other. Soon, Mike had the same problem with his motor temperatures. Following Andy’s lead, he switched to his second battery, and his motor temp came back into the green.

Mike was one of Jake’s special-ops guys, not CIA black ops. He was a former Navy SEAL and also one tough SOB. He loved working on and riding Harleys. Once he’d ridden all the way from San Diego to Cabo San Lucas, a thousand mile ride. Mike had been with Jake’s team for three years, and Jake had counted on the fact he always made good decisions.

Mike and Andy used only their on-board GPS to guide them. Mile after mile of desert lay before them, even while they approached Kuwait city, visibility was almost zero. Finally, they were within two miles of the jump zone, it was then they could make out a few lights, here and there, with their night vision goggles.

As Andy and Mike were approaching jump range, Andy’s motor over-temp light illuminated. He quickly flipped to his primary, but it wasn’t any better, then once again the motor temp continued to rise. When Andy’s motor quit altogether, Mike took the lead, towing Andy along.

Minutes dragged by until finally they were now at the jump zone, waiting until Mike’s motor shutdown in over-temp. Minutes later, they jumped, leaving the balloons behind. Falling, they deployed their ram-air parachutes. With the help of night vision along with a laser beacon, they were able to jump right into the garden which surrounded the house. Unfortunately for Andy, the garden was full of rosebushes. Having landed right in the middle of one, Andy cursed fighting to disentangling himself, then he made his call to the command center.

Rocky, we are on the ground—over, Andy repeated himself.

Roger, it is confirmed, Evel Knievel is on the ground; Rocky is standing by.

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Tatia was still on the roof when both Mike and Andy dropped in. She hadn’t even seen them until Andy started swearing at the rosebushes. With her entire entourage in tow, she scurried into the courtyard before Andy and Mike had even hidden their parachutes.

Andy counted them, then he radioed back to his base. Two plus seventeen for extraction. We are heading to the primary—over.

Confirmed nineteen for pickup—over, said the base radio operator.

Without delay and with little discussion, the group was on their way. Avoiding Iraqi patrols while they cautiously worked their way out of the city, full well knowing even the slightest slipup might cost them their lives. The team allowed double the estimated time for the extraction. It would put the rescue helicopters on the ground about an hour before sunrise.

One of the things Andy had told the group was to not look at any cars. When Tatia translated Andy’s Arabic, Andy laughed. He gripped her hand firmly, not letting go of it. Mike, along with Tatia’s cousin Lydia brought up the rear, helping the slower ones along.

After forty-five minutes, they sat down at the edge of the desert. Andy made the call, informing Jake they were ready for the extraction. Rocky Evel Knievel is Romeo Pop—ready for pickup. Repeat: Romeo Pop—over.

Confirmed Evel Knievel is Romeo Pop, was the reply.

Andy told Tatia to split the group into two; one group would go with Mike, the other with Andy and Tatia. The men had the groups lying flat on the ground, with Mike and Andy lying on either side of Tatia. Andy could hear the helicopters in the distance. We are popping cherry smoke—over.

I have you in sight, radioed Jake.

Flying the lead helicopter, Jake dropped it in. He watched while Andy loaded the princess then he helped the other finally he climbed aboard the helicopter. The helicopter was on the ground for thirty seconds, twenty more than planned. Pulling up on the collective, Jake pushed forward on the cyclic. With a snap the helicopter lifted off cleanly making a shallow exit turn, his twenty two years of flight experience was apparent.

Flying the Russian-built Hind, Mike landed next. Coming in quickly with a little extra speed, the powerful rotor downwash caused a large dust cloud to rise from under its rotors. The side door flew open, and right away, Lydia began to help the others. All seven quickly followed, mostly Lydia’s close family. All of a sudden, vehicles started speeding toward them while the third and the fourth helicopters quickly maneuvered into position. This put the helicopters between the vehicles and the recovery Hind.

On the ground, the oncoming Iraqi vehicles were moving quickly. The third and the fourth Hinds were now providing cover fire for the Hind which was picking up the second group. Mike was helping to load the helicopter, when—wham—a bullet struck him in the back, knocking the wind from his lungs. He fell forward halfway into the helicopter.

Lydia reached over, picking up Mike’s weapon. She began firing as if she’d been doing this her entire life. Mike finally caught his breath enough to drag himself fully into the helicopter. Reaching back, Mike grabbed Lydia, and in one swift fluid motion, he pulled her up and through the open hatch of the Hind.

With a thump, she landed on top of him, her long black hair falling into his face. She looked into his blue-grey eyes, now overcome with emotion. Her eyes were dark, mysterious like the Arabian night. Slowly, she moved closer then she kissed him—a kiss which seemed to last forever. For Mike, the kiss was somehow surreal, almost as if he were intoxicated, because he felt no pain.

Skip, the pilot, could only watch helplessly while his friend Mike slumped forward. Skip had been with the team for three years. He was another special-ops man, a former Army Ranger who wanted something more out of life and this certainly was it. Skip was only thirty, but one would never have known it. He was a practical joker who did magic on the side.

Skip pulled pitch, then kicked hard left rudder. The helicopter jumped off the ground. With the helicopter spinning to the left, it lifted off into the blackness, with its side door still half open.

Lydia felt, God was watching over her, because none of the bullets had struck her. Mike who was lying there didn’t dare move, he knew the vest had stopped the bullet, he was certain his ribs were broken. However, a feeling of well-being rushed over him when he looked into her face.

Up front, both of the pilots were amazed none of their passengers were dead—the flight crew had counted more than twenty Iraqi bullet strikes against the side of the craft. Lydia’s family members were praying, when they noticed what was going on. Her father stopped praying. Lydia! he said sharply. She didn’t even hear him.

Skip hated flying the old Hinds. Russian dogs he called them. The Hinds were noisy; even with noise-cancellation helmets, the racket still pounded the heck out of its occupants. Every time he returned from a mission, Skip was happy to be alive.

The sky was black like tar, with a thick cloud cover. The four helicopters were on the deck, contour flying. Any lapse in focus could prove fatal.

Up ahead, Jake was flying the Black Hawk, carrying the first load of refugees along with the princess. The FLIR system lit the darkness helping them and the moon was only a few days past full it didn’t even shine through the overcast. Jake was struggling to stay focused.

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Inside the well-used circus tent back at Camp Commando, the celebration hadn’t yet started. The sun had begun to rise over the Saudi Arabian desert when the Black Hawk helicopter landed on the ramp.

Jake had promised the sheikh he’d fly his daughter to Dubai. The sheikh could meet her at the airport later in the morning. The princess would, hopefully, be at the base for only ten minutes. With a fresh crew, the Herky Bird would fly all of the refugees to Dubai. After this mission the team would fly to Cyprus for a quick vacation or so they hoped.

By the time the second helicopter set down on the tarmac, Mike was unable to move. When they removed his bulletproof vest, even Jake was amazed. There was a huge bruise on Mike’s back. Andy removed the bullet it was still lodged in Mike’s vest. Then Andy examined the round, he could clearly see the round was a 7.62 or .30 caliber.

The round must’ve been fired from one to two thousand meters away, most likely by a sniper—thankfully outside its effective range.

Well, it was one hell of a shot, said Jake.

Jake made a call: they’d transport Mike to the medical facility in Frankfurt, Germany. After loading fifty pounds of ice into an ice chest, Jake slid the cooler into the Learjet.

What’s this for? asked Andy.

To keep the beer cold—what else? Jake shot back, laughing. He turned to the flight crew. Now, try to keep some ice on it.

Mark the pilot was beginning to swing the Learjet’s door closed, when Lydia jumped into the jet. Jake, who was standing there, looked at her, not annoyed but momentarily confused. He’d never met Lydia, but he had only one question for her: How old are you, miss? he asked insistently.

I’m eighteen—here’s my passport, she said, handing the passport to him. After he looked the document over, Jake handed it back to her, then he tapped the skin of the Learjet twice. The pilots pulled the door closed, and quickly taxied out to the runway for departure. Lydia’s parents were standing there, stunned.

I can tell you’re shocked, Jake said to Lydia’s parents. To himself, he wondered how the heck he had gotten himself into this mess. She’s eighteen, heck if you try to hold her back, she’ll only run away. She’s in good hands, I’m sure she’ll be in touch with you. Now, we need to get to Dubai.

Once they’d loaded the Herky Bird, he put the princess in the flight engineer’s seat for the one-hour ride. Skip snagged himself a ride, he was still full of adrenaline after the morning flight. He was excited to be back on the ground. However, he was still too fired up to sit, still hearing the sound of the bullets striking his helicopter.

After they took off, Skip told Jake the story about how Lydia had picked up Mike’s H&K, and provided some unbelievable fire support, as if she were a professional. He continued on and on about how she didn’t even flinch even with over twenty rounds hitting the Hind. Skip also mentioned Lydia wanted to attend an American university. Jake listened intently to the tale Skip was spinning.

A short time later, they landed at Al Garhoud, in Dubai. The sheikh who had been waiting made his way to the plane where he found Jake, and the two men hugged. The sheikh and Jake sat down in the planes ready-room. With the sheikh insistently asking Jake flat out how much the operation had cost. Jake let him know the bill was a skosh under $60 million. The sheikh looked at him with a straight face. Will you take a check? he asked, looking over the top of his sunglasses.

But of course we will, replied Jake, with a broad smile.

The sheikh wrote a check for $60 million, then he slid it, along with a briefcase, across the table. Jake never even opened the briefcase.

Soon the Herky Bird departed and flew back to Camp Commando. Jake later discovered there was $2 million in cash inside of the briefcase.

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John Hughes was a U.S. senator from Pennsylvania, and an old friend of Jake’s. During the return flight from Dubai, Jake called the senator and gave him a brief update. Hughes wondered to himself, how Savage could make it sound so easy.

The senator and Jake had rubbed shoulders a few years back when Jake had been out hobnobbing one night back in the 1980s. An esteemed senator from Nevada had been tossing a party in Georgetown. While Jake was making the rounds, he’d met a tall and very personable gent. The guy had one of those smiles he made people feel comfortable within seconds. The two had become great friends over the years.

On the phone with the senator, Jake used one of his chits hitting Hughes up for an appointment to the U.S. Naval Academy for the niece of Sheikh Mohammed al-Abdullah al-Sabaha. After hearing about how Lydia had single-handedly held off an entire company of Iraqi troops, John laughed, he said he’d see to it personally. Jake knew how to spin it when he had to, but in fact it had been Lydia’s heroism had allowed her comrades to escape while bullets flew.

The Herky Bird touched down at Camp Commando, where they spent the remainder of the afternoon shutting down the operation. All of the helicopters would leave for Djibouti aboard the chartered C-130s. Everything except for three well-used circus tents along with three stripped Hinds were being moved. The stripped Hinds would remain in Saudi Arabia, though Jake was sure somebody would call him about them someday.

By five o’clock everything had been packed and crated. There were six members of the operation who had wanted to go back to the States instead of Cyprus, Jake along with Dakota flew with them to Germany. After arriving in Frankfurt, they taxied once more to the military side of the field. At the hospital it was now well past visiting hours, Jake would wait until the next day to see Mike.

Dakota and Jake finally headed for the officers’ club. The place wasn’t packed like the last time they were there. After entering the club, they found seats—this time, with a view of the door. The two of them didn’t have to wait long before Big Sweeney showed up, then the party was on in earnest. Sweeney had been in the air force for twenty-three years. He and Jake had first met in Bangkok back in the late 1960s, and they had been friends ever since. Sweeney was the one who’d introduced Jake to Marie, but their relationship had faded with time.

Sweeney gave Jake a big bear hug, then he bought them a round of drinks. The air force had recently flown Sweeney up to full colonel, and since he had new orders, he’d be leaving by the end of the week. The new operation he’d be part of it was called Desert Storm, but it was still hush-hush.

Sweeney told them he was headed to some air base in Saudi. Before he could finish, Dakota spit out his beer, and he and Jake both said, Camp Charlie Foxtrot! in unison.

No, it’s called Camp Commando, said Sweeney, wondering what the two were talking about.

Dakota put his arm out, gripping the big man by the shoulder, a grin on his face. So those reconnaissance photos—do they show three big tents? By now, Dakota was laughing.

The look on Sweeney’s face told the tale. Without another word, Jake and Dakota both knew they’d hit the mark. For the next five minutes, Dakota told Sweeney all about how the scorpions were the size of Maine lobsters, and how the sand got into everything. Sweeney didn’t know what to say.

You’ll have to bring your own water, food, fuel—everything—with you. Well, they’re building a road in it should be complete in a couple of months. So this is going to be yours, eh? When are you getting out of the air force?

Two more years and I’m out.

This Camp Commando, you’re calling it now, is nothing more than a hellhole in the desert. The air force isn’t doing you any favors sending you there. Jake wondered how Big Sweeney was going to get out of this one.

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The next morning, Jake and Dakota were off to the hospital in Wiesbaden, Germany. When they finally found out which room Mike was in, the two of them headed there. When Jake stepped off of the elevator his phone rang.

Good morning, Senator. How are you? Yes, please stand by.

Jake walked over to the nurses’ station, where the duty nurse informed him he couldn’t use his phone there. With the senator holding on the line, he asked politely if there was a fax machine he could receive a fax on. Finally, she relented and give him the number.

I heard, Jake. I’ll talk with you later, said Senator Hughes. The last thing Jake heard was the senator’s chuckle; he knew what the man thinking, he always seemed to find trouble.

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When they found Mike’s room, he was sleeping. Lydia was sitting in a chair by his bedside, reading. When she saw Jake, she got up, and ran to hug him. Lydia and Jake stepped outside into the hallway to talk.

The nurse from the nurses’ station walked over and handed him an official-looking fax. Then she smiled, turned, and walked back down the hallway without saying a word. In his hands, he held an appointment to the U.S. Naval Academy, with Lydia’s name elegantly printed on it. On the lower right-hand side was the signature of the president of the United States: a presidential appointment to the U.S. Naval Academy.

I want to thank you for what you did the other night. I wish I could give you a medal, but I have an item here. Well, it might be the start of something new for you. He held the fax out. This is a small token of our appreciation for what you did.

Lydia looked at the document, then she began to cry tears of joy.

From inside the room, Mike called, Hey, Jake, is that you?

Yes, Mike, it’s me. Jake stuck his head into the room. Hey, Lydia has some news.

Lydia handed Mike the fax. I’m going to the United States to attend the U.S. Naval Academy! she said, beaming.

Mike began to read the document, when it sank in she’d be leaving soon. Now he was both happy and sad at the same time. He also knew he would soon lose her.

Milan

August 1990

C asually, the haberdashery—or the merceria , they called it in Milan—opened its doors for the day. Sitting at a small café across the street, Enrico was finishing his cappuccino. Enrico had been meeting with his wholesaler in Italy for several days. Only a few weeks had passed since Carlos’s death, and his boss, José, hadn’t been happy when he’d heard Enrico was only steps behind the Americanos. Enrico was a former paramilitary operator in Colombia’s Special Forces. Jose had sent him to Italy to handle things with their distributors there.

Enrico made his way across the street to the merceria. After greeting his Italian tailor, they began the process of selecting suits. It was nearly lunchtime by the time he’d finished choosing a dozen suits. Enrico proceeded to a nearby restaurant, where he sat at a window table, people-watching. After he finished lunch, Enrico returned to the merceria for adjustments. The merceria would ship the suits within a