Section 8

CHAPTER 3

The hammer came down on the Delta survivors draped with the thin velvet sheen of secrecy. It didn't soften the blow, just kept anyone other than the team from being aware of it. They were to get the hell out of the Philippines without anyone knowing they had left, just as no one had known they'd arrived. Vaughn found it ludicrous, because the world certainly knew they'd been here. But he kept his mouth shut, said "Yes sir," and, with his gear in hand, climbed into the back of the deuce-and-a-half covered truck that had backed up to the door of their isolation facility.

It wasn't fancy transportation to the airfield, and he suspected that if the military had them available, the team would be put on a World War II era DC-3 cargo plane to fly them back to the States. And the hope would be the aircraft would fall out of the sky and everyone would disappear. But that damned video wouldn't disappear. Vaughn had to wonder about that. Who had shot it? The filming began even before the missile impacted, which disturbed him greatly.

Had the Abu Sayef been that ready? Having a camera continually running to cover themselves in case of attack? But if they had been that ready, the defense would have been stronger than it was. If the LLDS had not malfunctioned, Vaughn was confident they could have rescued the hostages.

He was concentrating on these questions because it helped keep his mind from darker thoughts and emotions. Somewhat. The vision of Jenkins wouldn't go away. His sister had to have heard by now. He had written her a letter, including the photograph, but had no guarantee that the officer he'd handed it to would make sure it was delivered. He knew when he got back to the States that he had to visit her, which made him none too anxious to be returning home.

The truck lurched to a stop, almost throwing the men off the wooden bench they were seated on and tossing their gear about. Then the gears screeched as the truck reversed. Vaughn knew the drill. They were backing up to either a C-130 or C-141 cargo plane's back ramp. They would be off-loaded quickly, straight from truck to plane without touching the ground, the ramp closed, and then be in the air as soon as possible. Just like cargo, except now they were cargo no one wanted. He could pick up the familiar stench of JP-4 fuel burning, and the engines on the plane were already whining with power.

The canvas cover over the back of the truck was pulled aside by an Air Force crew chief. As expected, the back ramp of a C-130 cargo plane was waiting for them. As they got up to grab their gear, the crew chief held up a hand.

"Just the major," he said, pointing at Vaughn.

"The rest of you will be taken to another plane."

Vaughn frowned. He tossed his gear onto the ramp, said his good-byes to his teammates, then hopped onto the ramp. Even as his feet touched the metal, the crew chief was closing it. The truck pulled away with a belch of diesel exhaust, mixing with the exhaust from the C-130's four turboprop engines. The back ramp closed and Vaughn turned to the interior of the plane. The cargo bay was empty except for his gear, which the crew chief was stuffing into a bundle, the type used for an air drop.

"What are you doing?" he asked, shouting to be heard above the sound of the four turboprop engines revving up to taxiing speed.

The crew chief pointed at a parachute strapped down on the red webbing seating that ran along the outer bulkhead of the airplane.

"You got two hours until the drop zone, so you figure out when you want to rig."

"Where am I jumping? What the hell is going on?"

The crew chief shrugged.

"You're jumping onto Okinawa. Why, they don't bother to tell me those things. We got orders, we follow 'em."

He looked at Vaughn.

"You must be pretty damn important to get a whole plane just to drop you."

Vaughn didn't bother to tell the crew chief it was notoriety, not importance. He sat down on the red web seat as the plane lurched forward. He felt the absence of his teammates with the emptiness of the large cargo bay. The crew chief had finished rigging the bundle and gone up front to the cockpit.

Abruptly he stood up and walked to the front of the cargo bay, then back to the ramp. Then back again. He paused at the right rear door and peered out the small circular window. The plane was roaring down the runway now, and he had to grab hold to keep from falling as the nose lifted and they were airborne. He spotted the deuce-and-a-half truck backed up to a C-141 cargo plane – a larger aircraft with jet engines, not turboprop. That indicated the rest of the team was going back to the States, since the 141 was a more logical choice for that long journey. Then he spotted the ambulance waiting its turn to deposit its cargo in the plane. Vaughn knew what was on that ambulance: the bodies of his lost teammates in flag-draped coffins.

He raised his hand, half in salute, half in farewell, and twisted his head, keeping it in sight as long as possible.

"Bring him in," Rogelio Abayon ordered the guard, his voice filtered by the speaker system. The old Filipino's wheelchair was in a room that was part of a tunnel system, the rock walls of the room semicircular from floor to ceiling, the room running straight and narrow, with doors set in steel walls on either end. Bisecting Abayon's desk and the room was a sheet of bulletproof glass, a speaker and microphone on either side to relay conversation. The glass was pitted in places, as if its strength had been tested sometime in the past and it had weathered the storm.

On the other side of the glass the guard swung open the steel door opposite Abayon and gestured. A middle-age Japanese man in a stained and rumpled black suit stepped in. Over the suit, the man wore a canvas vest with deep pockets. In those pockets were small charges of C-4 explosive with blasting caps stuck in them. The wires led from the blasting caps to a detonator set on a chain looped over the man's head. A blinking red light on the detonator indicated that it was armed. The man looked decidedly unhappy.

The guard immediately went back out the door, shutting it behind him, leaving Abayon alone with the visitor, albeit separated by the glass.

"Is this necessary?" the man asked in Japanese, indicating the vest.

Abayon nodded and replied in the same language, "Yes, it is."

He lifted his hand from the right arm of his wheelchair, revealing a red button.

"I press down on that, you explode. My men will be upset if I have to do that, because then they will have to hose out the room where you are standing, so you do not want to force me to do it."

He placed his hand back over the button, and the Japanese took a step back, fighting to keep from showing his fear, working on his anger to replace it.

"I am an envoy and should not be treated this way."

"Who made that rule?" Abayon asked. He did not wait for an answer.

"What were the rules for Unit731?" This time he did wait, but the envoy was not to be drawn into such talk."You know who I represent – " he began.But Abayon cut him off.

"Do you know who you really represent?"In reply, the envoy held up his right hand, fingers extended, showing that the pinkie on that hand was missing.

"I am the right hand of the head of the Black Wind Society. He sent me here to negotiate with you."

"And who does he work for?" Abayon demanded.

"My master works for no one."

"You're a fool. Which means he's a fool to have you as his right hand."

The envoy's face tightened as anger made him forget about the vest he wore and where he was.

"You had me blindfolded, stuffed in the bottom of a boat, dragged here – wherever this stinkhole is – and have treated me with no respect. My master will not – "

"Your master is a puppet whose strings are being pulled," Abayon said.

"And your people built this place you call a stinkhole."

The envoy looked about, trying to understand that last comment. Abayon sighed.

"Give me your message."

"My master wants you to return what you stole from our country. He wants the Golden Lily back."

"You don't even know what the Golden Lily is," Abayon said.

"It is not a thing, it was an event involving things. And stealing from a thief is not stealing. What does your master offer in return for what he wants so badly?"

"In return, he will use his connections in the government to pressure the Americans to remove all their military aid from these islands."

Abayon stared through the glass at the Yakuza envoy as he processed what this offer really meant. Taking the hesitation as a negative, the envoy laid his next card on the table.

"If you refuse, my master also told me to inform you that he will bring all his considerable resources to bear on destroying you and your organization."

"You should have stopped at the offer," Abayon said, "ridiculous as it was. You've given me the message you were meant to, even though you don't know what it was."

The envoy frowned.

"What is your answer to my master's offer?"

"You were not sent here to ask me anything. You were sent here to tell me something, and I have heard you. However, I suppose I should respond."

Abayon gestured with his left hand, and the video camera in the corner of the room behind him picked up the gesture. The door behind the envoy swung open. The guard walked in with a stool and a small tray on which were a syringe, a rubber piece of tubing, and an alcohol swab. He placed the stool down, the tray on top of it, and then left, shutting the door solidly behind him, the sound echoing into an ominous silence.

"What do you think you're doing?" the envoy finally demanded, eyeing the syringe suspiciously.

"I want you to take that needle and inject yourself with the contents."

"You're crazy."

"You either do that," Abayon said, "or I do this."

He indicated the red button.

"What's in the syringe?" the envoy demanded.

"Something that will make you sleep while my men take you back to the main island. If I wanted to kill you, I could do it quite easily right now."

That made a weird sort of logic to the envoy as he worked it over in his mind.

"But what of your answer?"

"Your master will know it, don't worry."

Reluctantly the envoy rolled up his left sleeve. He picked up the rubber tube and, using his right hand and teeth, tied it around his upper arm. Then he took the syringe and held the needle over his tattooed arm. He paused with the point pressed against his skin. He looked through the glass at Abayon. The Abu Sayef commander waved his wrinkled right hand ever so slightly above the red button.

The envoy slid the needle into his vein and pressed the plunger, pushing the clear fluid in the syringe into his veins. Then he removed the needle and pressed the alcohol swab against the small hole. Abayon gestured once more and the guard reappeared.

"Be very still while he gets that off you," Abayon advised. The envoy was a statue while the guard turned off the detonator and carefully removed the vest. Abayon gestured.

"Go."

"But – "

"Go."

When the envoy and guard were gone, Abayon turned his chair around as the door behind him opened.

The man who had run the video camera the other evening was waiting for him. The taper got behind the wheelchair and pushed Abayon along a corridor cut out of stone. At places the walls were natural rock, indicating that portions of the tunnel had been there before men had entered the cave complex. They went on for five minutes, passing several other steel doors and side passages, a sign of how extensive this labyrinth was, until they came to a room where there was a dialysis machine.

A nurse was waiting, and she efficiently set about hooking Abayon up to the machine while the taper moved a video monitor to a position where Abayon could see it. Displayed on it was a small open field cut out of the jungle with a six-foot-high wooden stake set upright in the ground.

As the dialysis machine began its work, several figures appeared on screen. The Yakuza envoy was struggling between the grips of two guards. They slammed him against the pole while another guard quickly secured the envoy to the pole by wrapping rope around his body. The envoy's mouth was moving, obviously screaming protests and threats, but the feed was video only, which Abayon appreciated.

"It will take a while. A couple of days at least," Abayon said.

"I'm using time stoppage settings," the taper said.

"I'll be able to get the entire thing on one DVD."

"Very good. Let me know when it is done."

The back ramp of the C-130 Hercules transport plane opened once more. This time, though, the plane was airborne at 1,500 feet altitude and air swirled into the cargo bay, buffeting Vaughn as he stood just in front of the hinge for the ramp. He had a parachute rigged on his back, and the static line was hooked to the cable that ran the length of the plane on the right side. On the left side was another cable, to which the bundle holding his gear was hooked. The loadmaster had one hand on the bundle and was holding onto the hydraulic arm that lowered the ramp with the other.

Vaughn moved forward as the loadmaster briefly let go of the plane and held up one finger, indicating one minute until the drop zone. Getting near the edge of the ramp, Vaughn could see blue ocean directly below. He checked the waves and didn't see any whitecaps, which meant the wind wasn't too strong.

He got down on one knee and stuck his head out to the side into the 140 mile an hour slipstream. He could see the familiar outline of Okinawa Island very close, directly ahead. He'd jumped this drop zone before when he had done some work with the First Battalion of the First Special Forces Group, which was stationed on the island.

He spotted the clear field that was the drop zone along the track of the aircraft and got back to his feet, facing to the rear, his eyes on the set of lights high up in the tail section of the plane. The red light glowed, holding him in place. Land appeared beneath the aircraft, the coast of Okinawa that Marines had stormed so many years ago.

The strangeness of the situation was not lost on him. Why someone wanted him to jump and the airplane not to land, he had no clue, other than it seemed a secure way of getting him onto the island without anyone being aware – other than whoever was waiting on the drop zone.

It had crossed his mind that the parachute was rigged to malfunction. He'd checked it as best he could, along with the reserve. He figured if someone wanted him dead, this was a rather elaborate way to go about it. And it wasn't as if he had any other choice. Staying on the plane and not jumping would only delay whatever was awaiting him. He preferred to face it head on.

The green light went on and the loadmaster let go of the bundle. It slid off the ramp, the static line for its parachute playing out. Vaughn followed right after it, as he'd been trained. Stepping off the ramp, he free-fell for three seconds as his static line played out, pulling the deployment bag out and off the parachute, which opened with a snap. Vaughn had assumed a tight body position upon exiting the aircraft, hands wrapped around the edges of the reserve, chin tucked down to his chest, legs tightly together. The opening shock vibrated through the harness and his body.

He had done the routine so many times, he wasn't even aware as he looked up, checked to make sure his canopy was fully deployed and functioning, then reached up and took the toggle on each riser in each hand, gaining control of the chute. He'd stopped counting his jumps once he reached three figures and earned his master parachutist wings. He'd never understood civilians who jumped for fun. To him it was always a part of his job. He jumped for mission or pay. It was too dangerous a thing to do for fun.

He looked down, spotted the bundle floating toward the ground, and turned the chute so he was chasing it. This was what the Airborne called a Hollywood jump – no rucksack, no weapon. The easiest kind to do.

He looked past the bundle to see if he could spot anyone on the drop zone. There was a black Land Rover moving across the open field; like him, chasing the bundle. He turned his attention back to what he was doing – even if it was a Hollywood jump, he was still going to make contact with the ground hard. Military parachutes were not designed for soft landings. One did not want to float slowly to the ground when there was a chance of getting shot at.

Feet and knees together, toes pointed down, Vaughn stared straight ahead at the horizon. The voices of the "Black Hat" instructors bellowing that command through bullhorns as he did his first jumps at Fort Benning many years ago echoed in his head. Like most Army training, airborne school had been designed to build instincts, not develop deep intellectual discussion about the training. His toes hit, and in quick succession his calves, thighs, hips, and side, and he slammed into the ground.

He lay still for about two seconds, as he always did after a jump, savoring life. He could smell the tall grass he lay in, and layered on top of that, the nearby ocean. Adrenaline made all the senses more acute. Then he was up, unbuckling his harness before gathering in his parachute. He grabbed the opening loop in the top center and pulled it out to extend it fully, then began figure-eighting the material, looping it around both arms extended out to the sides. As he did so he noted that the Land Rover with tinted windows was already at the bundle. Whoever it was moved fast, because by the time he had the parachute stuffed in the kit bag, the Rover was coming toward him. It skidded to a halt and the driver's door opened.

Vaughn recognized the man who stepped out.

"Mr. Royce."

"Just Royce will do."

He jerked a thumb toward the rear of the Rover.

"Throw the chute in. I got the bundle."

Vaughn did as instructed, then got in the passenger side. Royce threw the truck into gear and took off.

"Why am I here?" Vaughn asked.

"I've got a good battery for the designator," Royce said.

At the designated time, Professor Foster checked the "dead drop," as he'd been instructed upon receiving those two code words. There was a practically unnoticeable chalk mark in the right place on the side of the old loading platform in an obscure corner of Fort Shafter where antiquated military vehicles rusted away. Foster had half hoped the sign wouldn't be there, but he was a logical man and knew that action B would follow action A. And now he had to do C.

He got on his knees and reached under the rotting wood platform. His hand groped for the package that he had been told would be there. But there appeared to be a logic breakdown. He retrieved nothing but a couple of splinters that drew blood and curses.

He continued the fruitless search for several more minutes, to no avail. Why would someone put the mark but not the package? Reluctantly, he got to his feet and blinked at the figure standing less than ten feet behind him, wearing shorts, a Bermuda shirt, and sandals. The man's face was in the shadow of his broad-brimmed straw hat, but he had a fringe of white hair along the edge of the hat. There was a small backpack slung over his shoulder. Foster had neither seen nor heard him approach.

"I've got what you need right here," the man said, pointing at his head and then at the pack.

"Who are you?" Foster demanded, looking past the man, searching the area for anyone else. They were alone as far as he could tell.

"I'm David. I'm here to brief you on what you are to do."

He gestured.

"Come, walk with me."

Foster came alongside as the old man began to walk through the abandoned vehicles, planes, and assorted equipment.

David began: "Needless to say, this is top secret, Q classification and completely compartmentalized. The only one you will ever speak of this to, when needed, is myself and my replacement."

"Your replacement?"

"Don't worry about that right now," David said.

"You complete this task and there will be a promotion and reassignment in it for you."

Foster picked up the pace without even realizing it.

"Reassignment to where?"

"The National Security Agency Headquarters at Fort Meade."

David put out a hand, slowing Foster back to his pace.

"The big show. Running simulations for the National Command Authority. Doesn't get any bigger than that."

Foster contemplated the offer, trying not to show his enthusiasm for something he had yearned for.

David gave him an appropriate amount of time, then removed the carrot and showed the stick.

"You screw up, of course, and the little situation from your last year in college will have to come up. You remember. The bowl game. The trip to Tijuana two nights before? You did much more than break curfew."

Foster froze. No one knew of that. No one.

David dipped into his pocket and pulled out a couple of photographs. He fanned them like a short deck of cards in front of Foster's face, confirming his worst nightmare: the event had been recorded on film. But that was almost two decades ago.

"How did you get those? Who took them?"

"Come come," David said.

"Let's be in the real world."

He held up a hand as Foster started to say something.

"We will not discuss it at all. Just be aware that your life is never as private as you think it is and that there are reasons why people are chosen for certain positions – good reasons and bad reasons, but reasons nonetheless. Which brings us to here and now."

He slapped Foster lightly on the shoulder.

"Look at this as a good thing. The glass is half full and you now have the opportunity to top it off."

David held out the backpack.

"There's a laptop in there. Coded only for you. You'll see. It will only work when your palms rest on the pads below the keyboard. It has the information on what you are to do and links to data sources that will help you in accomplishing your goal. Do not let anyone use it, because if someone other than you tries to access the keyboard, the hard drive will be destroyed.

"Essentially," David went on as they continued to walk through the graveyard of rusting military gear, "you are going to run a simulation involving a covert strike onto Jolo Island in the Philippines to destroy the Abu Sayef."

"But – " Foster began.

"There are no buts," David said.

"It will be a simulation to those who you bring in to do it, but in reality the mission will actually be going on. I think you understand how you would work such a scenario."

Foster blinked as the implications sunk in. And right away he did understand. It would be a delicate balancing act, but it could be done. But why? His thoughts were interrupted as David halted in front of a rusting hulk of an old UH-1 helicopter.

"Did you know that when President Nixon ordered the halt to bombing raids during the Vietnam War, the order was so broad, it stated that there would not be any flights into North Vietnamese or Cambodian airspace? And that reconnaissance teams that had already been inserted across the border and were counting on helicopter exfiltration were abandoned? Simply abandoned."

"I'd never heard that," Foster said.

"It's in plenty of books," David said.

"But most people do not care for the lessons of histories, especially those that killed people for political expediency."

He put his hand on the nose of the helicopter.

"You can go now."

Foster was confused. David pointed.

"Go."

Foster turned and walked quickly away, as if by distancing himself from the messenger, he was distancing himself from the message, even though he had the pack holding the computer on his shoulder now. After taking a dozen steps, he paused and turned, a question forming on his lips.

But there was no one there.

"Isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing twice and expecting different results?" Vaughn asked as Royce drove them down a road winding along the Okinawan coast.

"Stupidity is failing and accepting it," Royce replied.

"Your job this time isn't to rescue hostages. There aren't any to be rescued."

Vaughn's face flushed red, but he didn't say anything.

"We want to make sure no more hostages are taken by the Abu Sayef. Ever."

"And how are we going to do that? It's a large organization."

"We cut off the head and the body dies."

Royce glanced over at Vaughn.

"Your task – your new team's task – will be to kill Rogelio Abayon, the leader of the Abu Sayef."

"What new team?" Vaughn asked as he absorbed this mission.

"And isn't assassination against U.S. law?"

"This isn't an official mission," Royce said, emphasizing the word, "which also answers the question of legality since it will never have occurred. Your new unit is called Section Eight. Drawn from various organizations to fight terrorism on its own terms. No rules except don't get caught, and if caught you are denied by our government."

Vaughn considered this.

Royce continued.

"Remember, although you blame yourself for what happened on Jolo Island, it was an Abu Sayef terrorist who fired the RPG that killed your brother-in-law."

"I was in command and I was the one with the laser designator," Vaughn said.

"You think a lot of yourself," Royce noted.

"So all those missions you went on where everything worked and the team was successful – those were all your doing? You kept your brother-in-law alive on all those missions? All by yourself?"

"That's bullshit logic and you know it," Vaughn snapped.

"Yeah, it is," Royce agreed.

"But you're denigrating your brother-in-law's sacrifice by beating yourself up. He signed up, he volunteered again and again – hell, you don't get into Delta Force without volunteering, what, how many times?" Royce ticked them off on his fingers.

"Once to get in the Army. Then Airborne. Then Rangers. Then Special Forces. Then Delta. That's five."

His voice turned harsh.

"So who the fuck do you think you are to be so important, more important than the sacrifice he made in his willingness to serve his country? Get your head out of your ass, Vaughn, and take the opportunity I'm giving you. Direct your anger outward and not inward."

Vaughn didn't reply as the Land Rover bounced along what was now a dirt road, heading toward a mountain. There was silence for a few moments, then Royce began speaking, almost as much to himself, as to Vaughn, as if reminding himself of something important.

"Did you know that Okinawa was the largest amphibious assault of the entire Pacific campaign? And that more people died here, on this island in the assault, than in the combined atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Twelve thousand Americans killed. Over 100,000 Japanese military and conscripts killed. And over 100,000 civilians. At least those are the guesses. No one really knows what the true numbers were. The estimates were made by subtraction."

That got through to Vaughn.

"What do you mean by subtraction?"

"They didn't count the dead after the battle because so many were buried by blasts or incinerated or otherwise wiped from the face of the earth. What they did was count how many civilians were still left. Then they subtracted that number from the prewar population and came up with their casualty estimate.

"And then there were the wounded. Almost half of the American wounded were caused by battle stress, around 26,000 men. That's almost two full divisions wiped out simply by the psychological stress of fighting here. Then there were the kamikazes off shore. Thirty-four ships were sunk and over 350 were damaged by them."

Vaughn tried to visualize war on that scale, but even his combat missions couldn't relate. Those men who had fought here, and the civilians caught in the middle, had truly seen the elephant. A damn big one.

Royce continued.

"The civilians here were used to typhoons. But the worst one that ever hit the island was nothing compared to the tetsu no bow – the storm of steel – that the U.S. Navy and Air Force unleashed on them."

Royce pulled the Land Rover up to a chain-link fence manned by two armed guards. They were next to a small river on the right. The dirt road beyond went to a tunnel entrance barely wide enough for the car. Beyond that there was darkness.

"This tunnel," Royce said, as the guards swung the gate open, "was a hiding place for motorboats that the Japanese loaded with high explosives – the kikusui, floating chrysanthemum – that they planned to bring out on railroad tracks, put into the river there, and send out to hit the American fleet. For some reason, that plan was never carried out. Maybe the Japanese naval commander had a fit of conscience. More likely they didn't have the fuel for the boats, since it was diverted to the kamikazes, who were considered more effective."

The gate was open but Royce didn't move the Rover. He turned to Vaughn.

"Section Eight is classified far beyond anything you've ever been associated with. Only a handful of people at the very highest levels know it exists and what its mission is, which is to fight the bad guys with no rules. Gloves off. If you're successful here, you redeem yourself…" Royce paused.

"…and you'll get revenge for your brother-in-law."

Vaughn sat still, but his mind felt as if it had gone over the edge he had experienced in isolation back in the Philippines. He was in free fall.

Royce continued the sell.

"No bureaucracy. No staff officers interfering. Everything is tightly compartmentalized for security reasons. You will, of course, always be monitored, even when not on mission, but you'll have plenty of free time. The pay is five times what you made in the military and not traceable, so no IRS. In fact, when you join, you no longer exist in any database, anywhere. We make our own rules in this unit."

Royce waited a few seconds.

"Do you accept?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"We always have choices."

"I assume once I go black I can never come back out?"

"Good assumption."

"I'm in."

Royce didn't seem overjoyed.

"It's not that easy."

Vaughn hadn't figured it would be, and he waited.

"You have to prove yourself first."

"How?"

"Do a little job for us. If you're successful, you join Section Eight. You fail…well, if you fail that means you're dead."