Omega Sanction

Chapter Twenty-four

Dublowski watched the plane take off, then turned and scanned the small group of people in the Fayetteville Airport. Parker was on her way back to D.C. to try and arrange a meeting with Kim Gereg, the chief of Operations for the CIA. Dublowski didn't think much of the plan, but Parker was still a colonel and he was a sergeant major, so there wasn't much he could do to dissuade her.

He went to the closest pay phone and took out his wallet. A card was tucked into the deepest fold in the worn leather and he retrieved it. He used a calling card, then dialed the number. It was answered on the second ring.

"Giles."

"Sir, it's Dublowski."

"What did you do this time, Dan?"

Dublowski almost smiled. "Sir, we got some problems here and need some help."

"We?"

"Mike Thorpe and I."

"Thorpe's in Europe. Stuttgart, last I heard."

Dublowski wasn't surprised that Giles knew that. The old boy network in Special, Operations was very efficient. "Right now he's actually in the Ukraine," Dublowski said.

"What are you guys screwing up now?" Giles asked.

Dublowski gave the retired colonel a thumbnail sketch of the most recent events, all the while watching the terminal to see if anyone was watching back. When he finally rattled to a close, there were a few seconds of silence before Giles said anything.

"I'll be at Bragg tonight."

"Yes, sir," Dublowski acknowledged, feeling a small measure of relief.

"Out here." The phone went dead.

Dublowski walked out of the terminal to his truck and got in. He drove out of the parking lot and toward post, keeping an eye on his rearview mirror. He hadn't spotted Ferguson since the confrontation at Anzio Drop Zone, but that didn't mean there wasn't some other CIA dink following.

As he drove, Dublowski pulled out a metal briefcase and flipped open the lid. A small laptop computer was inside, courtesy of Chief Warrant Officer Simpkins. Dublowski turned the laptop on and did as Simpkins had instructed him.

The screen cleared, then a series of concentric circles appeared in the center. Across the bottom a bar line indicated the receiver attached to the computer was racing through the spectrum of radio frequencies.

The bar froze on a frequency and a dot blipped exactly in the center of the circles. Dublowski nodded to himself.

He drove through the main post onto Chicken Plank Road and headed west, across the training areas that made up the bulk of Fort Bragg. He passed the spot where Takamura had been killed; there was nothing to indicate the fatal accident except the bark scraped from the tree where the car had hit. The dot still remained in the exact center of the computer screen, which didn't surprise Dublowski in the least because the dot indicated a bug planted somewhere in his truck.

He passed Camp Rowe, continuing to the old, abandoned airfield. He drove across the pitted tarmac onto the dirt, continuing into the tree line. He parked in a small clearing surrounded by pine trees. He pulled a FAMAS from under the seat. The French-made automatic weapon was unique in that the magazine went behind the trigger, thus shortening the overall length to less than thirty inches. A laser sight was screwed onto the long carrying handle on the top. Dublowski pulled the charging handle back, loading a round in the chamber.

He exited the truck and walked out of the clearing into the woods to the west. He walked along the tree line until he found a spot that suited him, with a clear field of fire encompassing both the truck and the one road leading in. He lay down on his stomach, resting the forward guard of the FAMAS on a small log in front of him.

"Do you know where Nabi Ulmalhamah is?" Thorpe asked.

Mikael had a set of binoculars on a tripod, mounted just inside the small window in the rear of the fan. He was seated on a stool behind the glasses, eyes fixed on the compound. They had been waiting now for over an hour and Thorpe could tell that the Mossad men were ready to wait however long was necessary. They had several coolers full of food and drink, even a small chemical potty in the back.

"No."

"Anything on Jawhar kidnapping young girls?"

Mikael kept his eyes to the glasses. "No, although it wouldn't surprise me after seeing what he did in that motel room. This is the first time Jawhar has been here, so it is the first time I have had any sort of contact."

"How did you get on to Jawhar and this colonel?" Thorpe asked.

"Intelligence from headquarters," Mikael said. "How they got their information, they didn't bother to share with me."

"But if you didn't uncover this," Thorpe wondered, "who did?"

"I don't know," Mikael said, "but the hit team in the other vans was sent to me six days ago."

"Six days?" Esdras had said nothing about a hit team or a nerve agent weapons deal. He'd also said that the Germans had given them no information on the takedown of the arms dealer in Germany.

Mikael pulled back from the glasses. "Is there something I should be aware of?"

"If you don't know, I don't know," Thorpe said, "but something strange is going on with this entire situation."

Hancock stood alone, the late afternoon sun casting a long shadow across the perfectly cut grass. His shadow merged with that of the tombstone in front of him.

He assumed he was being watched. He always assumed that everything he did as well as everything he said outside the confines of his secure office was seen and heard. And even inside his office he often wondered and played it as safe as he could. When the scale had to tip between pursuing the country's best interests and one's own career's best interests, there were many inside the Agency who tipped it toward the latter.

Hancock always preferred to make the two synonymous as much as possible. What was good for the country would be good for him. That attitude had allowed him to survive and prosper for many years in the labyrinth of the CIA. He had never acted out of emotion, but always cold logic after careful evaluation of the facts. At least until now.

He looked down at the letters etched in the stone:

Just the name and the dates of a life cut short. Cut short by bullets fired from American guns during a mission supporting American goals. The irony of his brother's death was not lost on Hancock, but what was important to him were two things. One was the hand that had actually fired the gun that had killed his brother on that beach in Lebanon. The second — and more important — was the person who should have made sure that hand wasn't in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Hancock didn't believe in coincidences. He understands the concept that two things that affected each other could actually be unrelated, but he had long ago learned he couldn't afford the luxury of believing they weren't related. The Special Operations Nuclear Emergency Support Team was on that beach in Lebanon for a reason, of that Hancock had been convinced from the first moment the operation his CDA team was running was interdicted. And there was only one reason Thorpe and McKenzie had been there — Kim Gereg, the CIA liaison to SO/NEST, had sent them there. She'd played her hand and in the long run it had worked out quite well for her.

But the game wasn't over yet. Hancock turned from the headstone and strode across the grass toward his waiting car.

Dublowski turned his head and stopped breathing as he listened for a repeat of the sound. He held his lungs for thirty seconds, then slowly exhaled. He'd been in the same position for two hours, not moving, all his senses tuned to the forest around him. The sun was very low on the horizon, dusk settling in, the tops of the pine trees highlighted with the last rays of light.

Whoever had planted the bug in his truck had not come rushing up as he had hoped. That ruled out Ferguson. Dublowski seriously doubted the CIA man had the self-discipline to hold back more than two minutes despite the broken nose.

The hair on the back of Dublowski's neck rose, a feeling he'd had before. He rolled, pulling the FAMAS around, settling the stock into his shoulder, finger curled around the trigger. The muzzle swept back and forth as his eyes scanned the darkening forest behind him for any movement. Nothing.

But Dublowski knew there was someone out there. He had not expected for it to take this long and regretted not bringing night-vision equipment. With his back against the log, he checked out the woods in small arcs, taking in every little detail he could make out, the muzzle of the FAMAS staying synchronized with his eyes.

There was the noise again. A stick cracking to the right. Dublowski turned slightly, lining up the weapon. A figure was moving through the woods thirty meters away, the outline of a rifle visible in his hands.

Dublowski sighted in on the man, his finger tensing on the trigger. A second silhouette appeared behind the first, causing Dublowski to pause. A line of men passed by, moving stealthily through the woods, a patrol of Special Forces students from nearby Camp Rowe.

Dublowski waited until the patrol disappeared into the dim woods, then he stood, stretching out his back. He headed back to his truck in the clearing. The toes on his left boot hit a tree root and he stumbled, saving his life as the bullet cutting across the top of his head, parting his thinning hair, slicing the skin.

Dublowski continued the fall, turning it into a forward roll, tucking the FAMAS into his stomach. He came up to his knees firing, sending a spray of bullets into the forest, uncertain where the round had come from, as there had been no sound of a weapon firing.

Two seconds later, as the bolt slammed home on an empty chamber, he dove to the left, pulling a fresh magazine out of the cargo pocket of his fatigue pants. The woods still echoed with the sound of his firing as he slammed the fresh magazine home.

His body was tensed, expecting a bullet at any moment. His eyes darted back and forth, hoping he'd spot the muzzle flash and survive long enough to return fire.

Nothing.

He heard voices, men moving through the forest. The training patrol was returning, investigating. Dublowski lowered his weapon and reached up. His fingers probed the tear in his scalp. Another inch lower and his brains would have been splattered all over the forest floor.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Dublowski muttered as he looked at his blood-covered hand.