Fallen Angel Read online

  Tim grinned at hearing his words repeated. "I am assigned to Space Command. The same unit the Army leads. It's a joint operation. I work under Major Bruce Scalon. I suppose I should give you my full moniker: It's Captain Tim Bryan, formerly with Air Force Special Operations, now with STRATCOM."

  "Didn't like field work?" Moyer kept all sarcasm from his voice.

  "Loved it. Love the smell of gun oil. If they made an aftershave that smelled like that, I'd wear it. Got busted up while on mission. Two back surgeries and another Purple Heart later, the Air Force, in its infinite wisdom, decided a desk job might be better for the health of my team. So much for military intelligence." The last words had a chill to them.

  "Sorry to hear that." Moyer saw many men who spent years training to do Special Ops work only to be injured and have their lives turned upside down. Those were the lucky ones. They got a second chance.

  "I saw plenty of action. So did my dad. Vietnam. Green Beret. KIA."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, Captain."

  "A lot of soldiers left their all over there." Tim's voice grew soft. "Most people won't understand this, but you guys will. You've been to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial?"

  "Yeah," Moyer said. "Several times. Your dad's name must be there."

  Tim shook his head. "It's not. Over fifty-eight thousand names on that wall but not my father's."

  Moyer didn't ask and Tim didn't offer to explain. He didn't need to. Moyer had no doubt the man's father died while on a secret mission, one that couldn't be talked about even four decades after the war ended. That's the way it was for people like Moyer and his team.

  He glanced at Rich in the backseat. The man's expression spoke so clearly words were not needed. Although, seated as he was behind Moyer, Crispin was harder to see, Moyer caught enough of the young man to know that, despite the always present earbuds, he heard everything. Crispin stared out the window, his face drawn.

  Every Special Ops—whether Army Rangers, Green Berets, Marine Special Operations Command, Navy SEALs, or Air Force Special Tactics Squadrons—held the same fear. Not dying. They were prepared for that. But dying while on a covert operation, leaving their families without the closure of knowing how or why their loved ones would never come home. In the end, they would receive a neatly folded flag and the thanks of a grateful nation. But they would go home and forever wonder what happened.

  Moyer decided to lighten the moment. "What can you tell us about Offutt?"

  "I can give you the basics. We have about ten thousand military and federal employees. We're home to the 55th Wing, the Fightin' Fifty-Fifth, and a handful of tenant units including STRATCOM. Oh, and we have a great golf course."

  "I doubt we have time to do any golfing," Moyer said.

  "So you're responsible for satellite operations," Rich said.

  "Yes and no. There are several such units working under U.S. Strategic Command—USSTRATCOM. For example, there is the U.S. Space and Missile Defense Command: SMDC. SMDC provides command and control to the 1st Space Brigade and the 100th Missile Defense Brigade. They also provided space-based tracking.

  "There is also the 193rd Space Battalion run by the Colorado Army National Guard. They provide space-based support to ground-force commanders. Working alongside them is the 100th Missile Defense Brigade that oversees our missile-defense system.

  "The 49th Missile Defense Battalion is run by the Alaska Army National Guard at Fort Greely, Alaska."

  "Why do I think it's all more complicated than that?" Rich said.

  "Because you are a smart man." Tim glanced in the rearview mirror. "You've been military long enough to know that everything is more complicated than it seems."

  "Can you talk about why we're here, sir?" Crispin had come out of his trance.

  "No," Tim said. "Major Scalon will read you in when we arrive."

  "Understood, sir."

  "Do they eat at Offutt?" Rich said. "I could use some vittles."

  "Don't mind him," Moyer said. "He's always hungry."

  "Hey, I was gonna barbecue some pork chops tonight."

  Tim glanced at the mirror. "I'm afraid those chops are going to have to stay in the freezer."

  "I don't like the sound of that." Moyer leaned his head back on the rest and closed his eyes.

  "I didn't think you would." Tim pressed the accelerator a little closer to the floor.

  CHAPTER 2

  CAPTAIN SCOTT MASTERS OPENED his eyes and tried to focus the blurry image playing on his brain. Something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

  He was afraid.

  Terrified, but he couldn't remember why.

  His heart alternated between fluttering and smashing the inside of his rib cage like a jackhammer.

  He blinked, then squeezed his eyes shut. A second later he opened them again. The fog in his mind cleared and his vision sharpened. He was on his back, staring at a water-stained ceiling. Dark patches dotted with black mold hovered over his head.

  He tried to swallow but couldn't muster enough saliva to make the effort worthwhile. He ran a dry tongue over even drier lips.

  Where was he? His sluggish mind tried to piece together the jigsaw puzzle of memory, but it was like catching houseflies with his bare hands.

  Think. Remember. He was good at giving orders. It was one of his strengths. Still, his confused brain refused to obey.

  He turned his head to a dirty plaster wall and a row of small windows set just below the ceiling. Each window harbored milky-white, translucent glass letting light in but not allowing a view of the outside world.

  A dripping sound drew his attention to his right. Water fell, drop by drop, to a puddle in the corner of the bare, cracked concrete floor.

  With most of his brain cells firing, Masters took inventory. He was on a metal-framed bed. The mattress was lumpy and smelled of urine. He could see a 1950s-style metal chair with torn upholstery on the seat and backrest. The rest of the room was empty. On the far wall was a wide door with peeling white paint.

  Wait. That's what he had to do. Wait for his mind to clear more, then he'd know what to do next. Overhead hung a row of pendant lights with glass diffusers. Countless dead bugs inside the glass shades.

  As his brain grew more aware, so did his body. Pain, both sharp and dull throbbing, radiated from his right shoulder, the fleshy part of his right waist, and from the right side of his face.

  Injured. I'm injured—wounded.

  The pain grew and Masters began to wish the brain fog would return.

  He tried to rise from the bed but couldn't. Something held him down. He willed his right arm to rise, but it refused. A few moments later, he felt the leather straps confining him to the bed.

  Tugging, pulling, wiggling, Masters tried to free himself, but he lacked the strength. Weak. He was so weak, something he attributed to blood loss when—

  It came back, striking his consciousness like a cruise missile. The sound of automatic gunfire, the thud, thud, thud of 7.62mm rounds striking him. At first there was no pain, just the sense someone slugged him several times. Then the pain came: hot, piercing. His first thought was to wonder how the rounds got past his body armor; his second thought was to scream at the top of his lungs.

  He remembered falling. "I'm hit! I'M HIT."

  The ground was hard and cold. He rolled onto his back. The sky was a washed-out blue. He saw a face: Tech Sergeant Eddie Glassman. "Take it easy, Cap. I gotcha. You're gonna be all right." Glassman's face said otherwise.

  Masters heard another shot and Glassman disappeared. A moment later, everything vanished.

  The door to the room opened. Masters turned to see a short but thick man stroll in. He wore old-style fatigues, definitely not U.S. issue. On his side he wore a GSh-18 9mm sidearm. Russian.

  "Greetings, my friend." The man spoke in a higher pitch than Masters expected. Although his accent was thick, he spoke English well. "I hope you are feeling better. You've had a rough time of it."

  "Who are you?" Mast
ers could barely recognize his own voice.

  "I am Podpolkovnik Vitaly Ivanovich Egonov, your host."

  "Pop . . . pod . . ."

  Egonov chuckled. "You Americans have such trouble with the Russian tongue. Podpolkovnik. It is my military rank. Very much like your lieutenant colonel. You may call me Vitaly Ivanovich unless you are opposed to using the patronymic, in which case you may call me Colonel."

  "Where am I? Why am I strapped down?"

  "You are in a hospital not far from where you invaded our land with your soldiers. You have been wounded. We have saved your life."

  "Are you the one who endangered it?"

  Another chuckle from the Russian. "As a matter of fact, I and my team are responsible. We shot you just as you would have shot us had we snuck across your borders armed with military weapons. You must admit, you were asking for it."

  "We were just sightseeing."

  "In Siberia? No one goes sightseeing in Siberia, not carrying automatic weapons and high-tech military communications." Egonov pulled the worn chair next to Masters's bed and sat. From the right pocket of his pants he removed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. A moment later he blew gray smoke in Masters's face. "Now, why don't you tell me who you are?"

  "Just a guy passing through town."

  "What? No name, rank, and serial number?"

  "You watch too many movies." According to the military Code of Conduct, Masters was required to give his name, rank, and serial number. Information might keep him alive. He was taught to give only enough information to keep himself alive without compromising the mission. He didn't feel like providing that much information.

  "Perhaps you are angry with me for having you shot. I can understand that, but you must remember you shot back. Some would argue you shot first."

  "They would be wrong." Masters's voice grew stronger with each phrase he uttered. So did the pain.

  "Perhaps." Egonov took a long draw on the cigarette, then blew a long stream of smoke into the room. "What is your name?"

  "Puddin' Tame, ask me again, and—"

  "—and I'll tell you the same. Yes, I'm familiar with the term and poem. Very well, let's go about this another way. Your name is Scott Masters and you are a captain in the United States Air Force assigned to the Air Force Special Tactics Squadron."

  "If you know all that, then why bother asking me?"

  Egonov rolled the cigarette between his index finger and thumb, staring at it as if it held secrets of its own. "Verification and to see how cooperative you are. I'm disappointed in the last matter."

  "Gee, it hurts me to hear that." A bolt of pain ripped down his back. "Where are my men?"

  "They are being taken care of. The ones who are alive, I mean."

  A shot of adrenaline ratcheted up his heart rate. "I demand to see them."

  "Demand? Demand! You're in no position to demand anything. You are my prisoner."

  "Our countries are not enemies."

  Egonov stood. "Nor are we friends. I don't know what they teach you in the United States, but Mother Russia is not as cohesive as you imagine. Much of the economy is in the hands of gangsters, and our leaders are impotent oafs, poisoned by the West. We are a fragmented country, Captain. The one hand doesn't know what the other hand is doing. Some of us have different ideas about the future of this great land."

  "I'm not into politics."

  Egonov slipped a hand into his pocket and retrieved a piece of paper. "I've been doing a little research. Even now, I have a great many people learning as much about you as possible. I found this on the Internet." He raised the paper and waved it in the air. "I'm not as familiar with your Air Force as I should be. My focus has always been on troop movements. You should know this well." Egonov sat again and brought the paper in front of his face.

  I am an American Airman.

  I am a Warrior.

  I have answered my nation's call.

  I am an American Airman.

  My mission is to fly, fight, and win.

  I am faithful to a proud heritage,

  a tradition of honor,

  and a legacy of valor.

  I am an American Airman.

  Guardian of freedom and justice,

  My nation's sword and shield,

  Its sentry and avenger.

  I defend my country with my life.

  I am an American Airman:

  Wingman, Leader, Warrior.

  I will never leave an Airman behind,

  I will never falter,

  And I will not fail.

  "Sound familiar?"

  Masters turned his face away. "I may have heard it before. What about it?"

  "May have?" Egonov chuckled. "I bring it up because you need to know, if you haven't already figured it out, that you have faltered, you have failed, and you did leave men behind."

  A sledgehammer to the gut would have hurt less, but Masters showed no emotion. Instead he stared at the water stains on the ceiling.

  Egonov waited in silence, then sighed. He stood and shouted something in Russian. The door opened and a thin man in a white lab coated entered, pushing a medical device similar to what Masters saw while visiting his brother in the hospital. A burst appendix landed his brother in a hospital bed attached to several IV lines.

  Egonov tossed the still-burning cigarette stub to the concrete floor and let it simmer. A moment later, he lit up another.

  "Those things are bad for your health, you know." Masters was glad his fear hadn't yet affected his voice.

  "You might be surprised at the number of things bad for a man's health." Egonov inhaled deeply showing his defiance. "Cigarettes, bad food, bad vodka, an angry captor: all things that could be harmful to a person."

  The skinny man pushed the device to the middle of the room and stopped when Egonov raised a hand. Masters studied the device. It was an IV pump mounted to a chrome pole with wheels at the base. Several plastic IV bags swung from the hooks at the top of the pole. Masters's heart revved up.

  "Some information for you, Captain Masters." Egonov motioned to the man with the IV stand.

  "The captain has several wounds, all caused by bullets." He spoke as if he had a pair of hardboiled eggs in his mouth. "The first is just above the belt on the right side. The bullet passed through the flesh cleanly and missed all vital organs. Unfortunately, it has grown infected. I imagine it is quite painful."

  Masters said nothing.

  The man shrugged then continued. "Another round grazed the right zygomatic arch—the cheekbone—and passed through the right ear. The resulting damage will require substantial plastic surgery. It, too, is infected."

  A grotesque image played on Masters's mind. Would his wife and daughter still love him if he returned home looking like a man who tried to shave with a lawn mower?

  "The patient's third wound is to the right shoulder. The round entered at roughly a forty-five degree angle relative to the medial line of the torso and the shattered proximal humerus bone and the great tubercle. The glenohumeral joint is, well, it is quite the mess. Like the other wounds, this one is also deeply infected. Without treatment the best-case prognosis is complete loss of the arm's usefulness; worst-case scenario, well, let us just say it is grim."

  Masters's stomach twisted and fought the urge to vomit.

  Egonov stared at him for a full minute. "Do you understand what the doctor is saying?"

  Masters nodded. "He said, I'm busted up."

  "A nice American colloquialism. Yes, you're busted up and each of your three wounds is infected." He motioned to the IV stand. "You need at least twenty-four hours of intravenous antibiotic treatment. Probably forty-eight hours." He looked at the doctor who nodded.

  "We should begin soon." The doctor unwound the power cord, and pushed the IV stand to the head of the bed. A moment later, the IV pump powered up. Although he couldn't see it, Masters assumed the doctor plugged the device in. It emitted a sharp beep.

  "Not just yet, Doctor." Egonov moved to the foot o
f the bed and exhaled a lungful of smoke that circled his head. "Have you ever seen gangrene, Captain? It's a horrible sight. Those who have had it tell me it's extremely painful. I have seen men beg for death, but that's not the worst. Do you know what the worst part is?"

  "I've got a feeling you're going to tell me." He shifted on the bed and pain rifled through his body. Even his toes hurt.

  "The worst part of all, Captain Masters, is the smell. It turns the stomachs of the strongest men. Without the proper antibiotics, your wounds will grow worse, and you will die a horrible death from infection."

  "And if I talk, you'll give me the drugs?"

  Egonov nodded. "You are a smart man. As a special gift, I'll let the doctor administer pain medications. You'd like some pain medication, wouldn't you? It will help you sleep."

  Masters gave a graphic description of where Egonov could stick his meds. It made the man laugh.

  Egonov rounded the bed to Masters's side. "I know we've only known each other for a few moments, so let me tell you something about myself: I am a patient man and a man of good humor, but I have my limits when it comes to my work. You do not want to cross the line with me. I am giving you an opportunity to be returned to health."

  "All I have to do is sell out my country."

  "Such a harsh way to put it. Your country has sold you out. Did I get that phrase correct? I know how your military works. You are part of a Special Operations team. You've entered my country like a thief. You wear no insignias, no patches, nothing to identify you. That way if you are captured, just as you have been, your country can deny your existence—which they are about to do. I don't ask much. I want to know why you're here. It is that simple."

  "I'm a tourist."

  "A tourist. Really? You will talk and I will have to do nothing more than watch."

  Masters wished he could muster enough saliva to spit, but his mouth was desert dry.

  Egonov drew deeply on the cigarette until its end glowed a bright red. He exhaled into Masters's face. "Let me say it again. I am not a man to trifle with." Egonov straightened, removed the cigarette from his mouth, and slowly snubbed it out—in Masters's facial wound.