Free Section 8 by Robert Doherty Page B

thought as they exited the terminal and the man who had shown the badge gestured for him to get into a waiting limousine.

Ruiz noticed there was someone already in the back as he slid in, trying to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting inside. The two escorts got in the front, separated from the rear by a thick plate of what Ruiz assumed was bulletproof glass. The limousine moved away from the curb.

"I have been to the holding area," the man in the shadows said.

Ruiz waited.

"It is as you said it would be," the man continued. "Very impressive."

"Then we are set?" Ruiz said.

The man nodded. "Yes. I don't suppose you will tell me how your group came into possession of these articles?"

"That is not a story I am authorized to tell," Ruiz said. "As I informed you earlier, we were not the ones who stole them initially. We appropriated them from the original thieves. And now we are trying to make things right."

"And make money."

"For our trouble, yes."

"Let us hope there will be no trouble."
    Tokyo
    A limousine was waiting outside the Learjet. Vaughn was dressed in black slacks, black T-shirt, black leather jacket, and in his right hand had a metal case hiding a sniper rifle. All had been waiting inside the plane. He felt overwhelmed, but impressed with the efficiency of Section 8.

He'd thought when he went into Delta Force that he had gone as deep into the world of covert operations as one could go. Now he knew he'd just seen the tip of the iceberg. He—and his teammates—always suspected there was more out there. They'd seen too many things, too much that was unexplained, to accept that they were as deep as it went.

The driver got out of the limo and went around the near side near the foot of the stairs, opened the door and waited, still as a statue. Vaughn went down the stairs and inside. The door slammed shut and they were off.

Vaughn leaned back in the plush comfort of the limo. Between the Learjet and the limousine, there could be no more startling contrast between this and the way he had always gone on missions for Delta Force, via military cargo planes, helicopters, and parachuting.

He ran his hands over the metal case and noted in a distant way that they were shaking slightly. Exhaustion? The stress of the past week? The uncertainty of the future? He didn't know. Probably all of the above, he thought.

This was the first time he'd ever gone on a mission without a team. In the infantry, the Special Forces, and Delta Force, he'd always been part of a team. He'd always been able to count on the support of others to achieve the mission. He looked around the spacious interior of the limousine and longed for the cramped quarters of the back of a Combat Talon aircraft.

He'd made the decision on Okinawa because of lack of other paths.

He couldn't go back to the States and face his sister after letting her down so terribly. She'd had a hard life, particularly after the death of her first husband, and he had made that damn, stupid promise that he knew he never could have held Frank to. And now he was gone.

He also knew his career in the Army was over. To succeed in the Army, an officer didn't have to be good, as much as avoid bad. Any hint of screw-up or scandal and the faceless committees that determined one's future simply saw what was in the paperwork and axed a person's career.

Vaughn leaned forward, elbows on the case, and put his head in his hands, as if he could press his scattered thoughts and feelings into some form of sanity and normalcy.
    Off Jolo Island
    The conning tower of the old diesel submarine cut through the water. Moreno shared the tight space on top with two lookouts. They had no running lights on and had to be wary of fishing boats that might be anchored for the night. At the fore and after of the top deck of the submarine were two strange contraptions shaped like large twenty-foot-high horseshoes welded to the deck upside down.

Moreno looked to his left, toward Jolo. He could see the