THE CONTRACTOR Read online

  “We need a plane,” I blurted out, paying careful attention to any sudden change in Saadi’s expression.

  “I need a yacht,” he said back without a second’s hesitation.

  “We need a plane,” I repeated, squinting my eyes slightly for effect.

  Saadi did not respond but only held up his shot glass waiting for another pour, to which I obliged. He threw down the drink and signaled that we needed to refill Yuki’s glass and our own. We did so and followed suit with the swallowing of the sweet elixir.

  “How about one of those cigars, Nick?”

  Shit, I thought I was there to play him, and he was playing me like a fat Samoan plays a ukulele. He wasn’t going to even continue that conversation until he enjoyed each and every fruit of bribery I had brought.

  I reached into the left breast pocket of my vest and pulled out a cutter. I removed the cellophane from three cigars and then proceeded to cut the tip off each one with the precision of a Mohel.

  Now, one has to understand that this was far more than a bribe. I could have bribed him with some cheap Nicaraguan knock-off cigars, but I had brought my own personal stash. I was literally taking a hit for the team—a hit to my stash of the best cigars in the world, Arturo Fuentes Hemingways.

  You see, back in the 1800s in Cuba, a master cigar maker passed his art to his son, Arturo Fuente. Arturo eventually moved from Cuba to Tampa, Florida where he had a cigar factory. In the 1920s and 30s, his most famous cigar was the torpedo-shaped Cuban Perfecto. Eventually Arturo’s son, Carlos, took over the business and set up tobacco farms in Nicaragua and Honduras. The torpedo-shaped cigars lost popularity except with the highest-level connoisseurs. Ultimately, they became simply impossible to find. In the 1970s, the Nicaraguan and Honduran farms were destroyed by militant rebels. Finally, Carlos Jr. set up tobacco production in the Dominican Republic. Longing for the old ways of production, Carlos Jr. asked his dad if the molds for the Perfectos still existed, to which he responded that they did, but only in the remote town of Ybor. After much searching, they were found again, and in the 1980s, Carlos began to produce the famous Fuentes torpedo-shaped cigars again and called them Hemingways. They are still in limited production and difficult or expensive to obtain, but worth every penny in my eyes. The smoothness, the flavor, the aromas are all what the cigar enjoyment experience should be about. And I was going to share them. Was I out of my friggin’ mind? No: we needed a plane.

  “So, you need a plane?”

  “Yeah, we need a plane.”

  “What for?”

  “So, we don’t have to waste a day driving Magyar to his rendezvous.”

  Saadi blinked his eyelids more than necessary, attempting to communicate confusion. “You need a plane because you… don’t want to drive?”

  I didn’t answer—it was my turn at the ukulele. I handed Merlin and Saadi the cigars, popped a lighter out of my cargo pocket and helped them light up. Then I lit my own, took a long drag, and slowly let the smoke swirl out of my mouth. I poured everyone another shot. The purposeful pause wasn’t lost to Saadi. It was the moment to ponder the request.

  “I am quite sure you have a hook up in country. Let’s all pack it into a jet and get at least as far as Van. Not only would it get our team there tanned, rested and ready, but our principal wouldn’t have to deal with that friggin’ unending trip. I am quite sure he would appreciate the comfort—and the extra effort on our part.”

  “What about the trucks?”

  Hmmm. That was a problem. If we were going to fly, how were we going to get our trucks to Van to meet us for the drive across the border?

  “How about an advance party? Why not have our DSS friends take the trucks. You and Merlin and I can maintain close security on Magyar, and they can hump the trucks and equipment to Van. They can bag out in the early am, and we can take off in the late afternoon.” Now came the kicker: “That would certainly give you and your samurai sweetie another day to...whatever.”

  Saadi rubbed his hand over his forehead and face. There was a contemplative pause as he went over the scenario in his mind. “Not sounding good to me. Too much of a time lag in between departures.”

  Merlin was about to add his two cents worth, but I gave him the “cut it” sign and he kept his trap shut. Saadi needed an infusion of fine tobacco and excellent whiskey before he would be ready to make my decision for us.

  “So how did things go with the wife?”

  “Wonderful. We had a great time roaming the city. She is off to Edirne tomorrow with a good friend of ours. I will catch up with them next Saturday.”

  “Nice,” Saadi responded, putting his arm around the petite Asian and pulling her close.

  Perhaps my plan would work. He really seemed to be enjoying his time with Yuki.

  “What about you, Merlin? Any ladies in your life?” Saddi asked.

  “Hmmm,” he started. “There are always ladies in my life—just nothing really permanent. It’s probably my fault,” he continued, fingers casting their invisible spells. “I just don’t have a lot of patience.”

  Saadi snuggled up a little closer to his lady. “You definitely need to be patient. But it’s always worth the wait.”

  “Suck-up!” I said half under my breath.

  Merlin held up his glass for another shot. “Well, that just hasn’t been my experience. But I do ok. It’s just so many women, so little time for me.”

  I had to laugh. Merlin was sorta quiet. He didn’t seem the ladies’ man, yet I had seen it with my own eyes. He had the ability to turn on the boyish charm in the midst of the usual testosterone-fest that occurred when a bunch of EP guys got together at a bar. He stood out as a safe alternative to the tattooed, loud, beer-swilling guys. Hey, it worked. Whatever it takes, right?

  “So, about the plane, Saadi…”

  “What about it?

  “Can we get one?”

  “Already have one.” He took another drag on the cigar. “Learjet 60. We’ll be fueled and ready for wheels up at 1500 hours tomorrow.”

  I hated the fact I liked this guy. I liked the fact I hated this guy. He had us all hooked up already, but he didn’t say a thing until I had provided all the refreshments. Bastard. I smiled. At least the rest of the evening was going to be relaxed. Except for the part where I had to inform Big Dave and Rusty that they were gonna have to drive 1600 km while we soared through the air, relaxing on fine Corinthian leather.

  CHAPTER FOUR - Death Spiral

  Okay, so that didn’t go very well. Just when our DSS buddies were starting to feel like we were all one big, happy family, I had to go and tell them that the contractors were gonna be sipping champagne at thirty-thousand feet while they were eating the dust of endless Turkish roads. I tried the “there will be great scenery” angle to no avail. Oh well. Sometimes you get the bear, and sometimes the bear bites you in the ass.

  Either way, we were all headed back to Iran while my lovely wife vacationed with that red-haired bastard Erik. Of course, I’m just kidding. I was glad that Miss got to see me, tour around a little bit, and be in about the safest hands possible. She damn near had her own bodyguard. And I had nothing but respect for Erik. He had spent a lot of time imparting knowledge to both Miss and me. So there was no reason to be jealous; besides, even though he was in awesome shape and slicker than an oil barrel full of eels, he was probably fifteen years my senior and an honest warrior. I had nothing to worry about.

  But that was what was worrying me. Stuff that seems too perfect and too safe are usually neither. I kept reminding myself that I wasn’t the jealous type. But that was bull crap because once I worked my mind past Erik, I went on to involuntarily contemplate the young and strong bodies of the Turkish wrestlers—tanned, oiled, buff. Hell, I was getting a woody thinking about the whole thing. As usual, it all came back to my usual solution—whatever. There was a mission to be planned, and whatever the gods had in mind was going to happen anyway.

  Rusty, Dave and I spent a good part of the evening pl
anning the advance teamwork, mapping routes and alternate routes, marking out safe houses along the way, and planning alternate rendezvous points in case things turned to a shit storm. They would be responsible for securing the lodging location and reconning other venues.

  The SUVs were all going to be hard vehicles. They each had armored side panels, bulletproof glass, armor plating on the bottom to protect against IEDs, and integrated weapons storage.

  We went down to the underground garage and went over the trucks, made sure we had crypto, handhelds, GPS, and a bag of Paras, Glocks and Sigs to use as backups for the team. We had two HK SMGs, two AK Karinovs, two SOCOMs, a box of flash-bangs, the team’s luggage, a ton of ammo, and emergency food, water, decon, and other goodies. Dave and Rusty checked to make sure the no-flat tires were good to go, the engine checked, all the electronics worked, and that they were fueled up with spare cans in the back.

  Once they were satisfied, and once I was satisfied to the point where I knew that our TL Saadi was going to be satisfied (not that Yuki wasn’t doing an excellent job at that), I signed off on our checklist, and we headed back to the apartment to go over the plans for the fiftieth time.

  Then I told the boys to hit the sack because they were gonna have to bug out at 0-dark-thirty. The close protection team—meaning Saadi, Jim and I—had the luxury of being able to sleep in a bit, as we weren’t hitting the friendly skies until 1500. For some reason, both of my DSS friends flipped me off when they headed to bed.

  Standing on the tarmac with the team, each member with his bug-out bag slung over his shoulder, reminded me of the beginning of many missions that had started the same—though there were a few glaring differences. Instead of ruck straps and dew rags flapping in the breeze, it was suit jacket lapels and garment bags. Instead of sand-colored boots lined up and ready to board a huge gray monster of a plane, there were shiny black Bates tactical dress shoes. Everyone was packing, but all that steel was concealed from sight. And the C130 was replaced with an immaculately clean Learjet 60 whose entire fuselage could have fit into the cargo bay of one of the huge military transports. Finally, contrasting with prior missions that had been in some far-away land, our mission was standing right there with us, reviewing papers in a black leather portfolio with two aides from the Turkish embassy. But it was all good.

  Merlin had neglected to mention to me that he had attended a special Aircraft security course in the States, but he must have told Saadi because he was assigned to do a security recce of the craft along with a specialist from the Turkish security forces. At least it made me feel good that one of our own was making sure our asses were going to make it safe and sound to our next glorious vacation destination. I couldn’t hear much over the engines, but Merlin gave Saadi a thumbs up and motioned to us to move out. Merlin headed up the ramp into the jet, followed closely by Ambassador Magyar and Saadi. I was pulling tail-gunner and took a last look around the vicinity to make sure there wasn’t anyone there who wasn’t supposed to be. It was a small private airport, so security was easy to manage. Still, we followed procedure.

  The ground crew pulled the blocks from the wheels, and the co-pilot pulled the door closed and secured it. Immediately the craft began to move. Much better than commercial flights, where everyone must be seated and buckled with tables in the upright and locked positions, and where the pilot has to wait his place in line for take-off. We had the whole place to ourselves and were moving out with a purpose.

  I surveyed the inside of the jet. Now this was more like it! I had made the hop from Jordan to Baghdad and environs several times on “company” aircraft, but they were all utilitarian and basic. A few were even prop planes. This thing was a damn piece of artwork. The cabin was well lit with recessed lighting, which enhanced the rich tones of the walnut and other luxury woods accenting the space. Each seat was fine toffee-colored leather. There were two expertly located conference tables that did not break up the cabin’s traffic flow or detract from its spaciousness. Along one wall was a wet bar complete with sink, refrigerator, and custom open cabinetry that housed an amazing collection of spirits and liquors. Of course, they didn’t have any Balvenie, but somehow that still didn’t detract from the overall sense of luxury the Learjet provided.

  Within a minute the co-pilot asked us to secure ourselves in our seats for takeoff, which came thirty seconds later and was so smooth you could barely feel yourself leave terra firma. However, as the result of the amazing thrust of the engines, serious Gs could be felt, giving you a real sense of speed—something you often don’t feel in a large commercial or military aircraft.

  Within a couple of hours, we would be on the ground in Van, meet up with the surely tired and pissed Diplomatic Security Services officers, get everything set with lodging, and then see what sort of dinner plans Mr. Magyar had in mind. All would go smooth as long as our DSS buddies had done their advance correctly.

  After about fifteen minutes, our pilot came back to the cabin to introduce himself. He too was part of the Turkish security forces and was a full-time flyboy for his country’s diplomats. We got the flight stats and ETA for Van, and he came around to each of us to shake our hands and welcome us aboard. Soon after, I checked with the Ambassador to see if he had any immediate needs, which he did not, and then Saadi, Merlin and I kicked back a bit. We spent the relatively short flight going over notes on our principal, the inspection team, the current “sitrep” for Iran’s border as well as the nuclear materials issues at hand.

  Both my internal sense of direction and internal clock are pretty accurate, not to mention I have an uncanny ability to estimate a woman’s weight, but I digress; the point is that both of these senses began having little alarms go off. It took me a couple minutes to notice, but then the alarms rang louder in my head; something was off. It felt like the plane was bearing north for some reason. And tick-tock, tick-tock—we were definitely past our ETA. It could have simply been a small change in our flight plan due to air traffic or weather, but inside my head I was feeling something more.

  I tapped the face of my watch and looked at Merlin, who must have felt my glare because he instantly looked up from his magazine.

  “You feeling it?” he asked me.

  “Yup,” I responded, getting up from my seat. “Gonna check this out. Might be nothing.”

  Merlin wasn’t buying it. He understood that warrior senses are more highly tuned than most folks’, and he trusted them. Something was not right.

  As I rapped politely on the cockpit door, I heard nothing. I listened for a minute that seemed like an hour, but there was no noise. I knocked on the door again. There was no answer. I looked back at Merlin, who was getting up from his seat and had already alerted Saadi. Merlin then pointed to the window.

  One glance sent a shiver down my spine, and I immediately knew we were in the wrong place. It was way too mountainous. Everyone in the cabin had an oh shit moment at the same time, and the protection team burst into action. Saadi went right to the Ambassador, and Merlin joined me in banging on the door and yelling for some response from the pilot or co-pilot.

  “Jim, take this door—” I didn’t get to finish the sentence before Merlin kicked at the cockpit door. It barely budged. Jim kicked it again.

  “Fuck! They’ve locked it or blocked it!” Merlin said. Then he exploded a front kick at the hinge side of the door. It buckled. He looked at me, and we both kicked against the left side of the door as hard as we could. The hinges snapped, and we forced the door back.

  “Damn it!” I said half under my breath. I knew we were screwed. The pilot sat strapped in his seat, head hanging limp over the top of the seat and hands splayed out to the side, palms up. His throat was cut from ear to ear, allowing his head to hang back farther than natural. His face was a waxy white; he had obviously exsanguinated right there in his chair. The dead co-pilot revealed what had happened.

  The co-pilot had been a suicide killer. He had terminated the pilot with a quick slash to the throat from behind, do
nned a white tunic, properly covered his head so that he could present himself to Allah, and bravely, or insanely, plunged the knife into his own heart. Pools of blood slickened the cockpit floor.

  I guess they supposed nobody would notice until it was too late, and they were almost right. The plane began to lurch to the right and lose altitude. I knew it would soon lose the correct orientation and lift and begin a death spiral into the mountainous terrain below.

  I asked Merlin if he could fly. He laughed. I yelled to Saadi, but he also confirmed my worst fear; neither he nor the Ambassador had any aviation skills. So I’m thinking, Well damn, team leader, step up and lead! But there was too little time for squabbling. I just unbuckled the pilot, dumped him out of his chair, stepped on his back, and took a seat. Merlin looked for a second and then did the same with our terrorist co-pilot.

  “Ahtaraq fi Aljahim—you fuck!” Merlin spoke in his finest Iraqi accent as he literally tossed the terrorist out of his seat, his body hitting the floor with a crack. “Ok Branson, you better do something fast,” he told me.

  Hmmmm, I thought to myself. I wonder what all these buttons do… The most important thing was to get back to level flight and maintain some altitude so we didn’t kiss the mountains. Okay, there were four very obvious things in front of me that I had seen on TV and from a distance in real life before. There was an altimeter. There was a gauge that reflected level flight. There were the throttles, and there was the steering wheel. I was sure it had another name, but hell if I knew or cared what it was.

  “Merlin, just watch all the gauges. I have no idea what they are, but if they start turning red and blinking, let me know.”

  “Gotcha!” he responded.

  Following nothing but my intuition, I grabbed onto the wheel and pulled back slightly. The aircraft nose began to raise, but we were still slowly turning to the right. I eased the wheel left and got the desired response.