Free Strike Force Bravo by Mack Maloney Page A

copter, a bigger one, an elderly Sea Knight, brought him to an isolated island a hundred miles off the eastern coast of Taiwan. It was an old CIA base. Here he met for the first time the small army of gunmen who broke in with him. They were SDS—State Department Security. Usually charged with protecting U.S. officials both at home and abroad, they did side missions as well at the bequest of the NSC. Fox had worked with them before. They were arguably the toughest if least-known special ops force around. From this little island they were all put aboard the ugliest airplane ever built—and now he was here. In Vietnam.
    And he was very tired.
    And very hungry.
    So Fox unwrapped his wife’s sandwich and finally took a monstrous bite. It was strange: Despite his initial command, no one had lowered his weapon. But upon seeing him take that first bite of his sandwich, it was like a spell was broken. All rifles went down a notch. Another bite, as Fox was ravenous, and people seemed to relax a little more. Bite three, weapons were lowered all the way to the deck. Bite four, and the sandwich was gone—and everyone was breathing normally again. Fox laughed. His wife did make a great Skippy sandwich.
    Of course, it was the SEALs who began squawking first. Squad Leader Barney took two giant steps forward and lined himself up in front of Fox.
    â€œI beg your pardon, sir,” he began, still with a sweaty nose and upper lip. “But I believe my orders supersede yours….”
    Fox took a long swig from his field canteen, stood up, and stretched. Then he addressed the SEAL.
    â€œYou want to make trouble here, Mr. Barney?”
    â€œNo, sir….”
    â€œThen why are you standing in front of me?”
    Barney cleared his throat and said again: “I believe my orders supersede yours, sir.”
    â€œYou do? Well, I have two words for you, Mister Barney….”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œâ€˜General Rushton.’”
    Barney began to respond but stopped himself. He and Fox inhabited the same underworld of Washington and spies. Barney knew who General Rushton was. He was the man who’d sent Team 99 on this mission. But even though they were out here doing his bidding, Barney would never utter his name lightly. That would be sinful. In fact, few people would speak his name unless they were authorized to do so.
    â€œAnd, Mr. Barney, General Rushton says you and your men now belong to me,” Fox went on, each word hitting Barney like a body blow. “Capeesh?”
    To his credit, Barney handled it with grace. He knew when he was being outjuiced. He saluted sharply and said: “ Capeesh, sir…yes, sir….” Then he took two giant steps backward and returned to his original position.
    Fox scanned the rest of the room, palms up, arms outstretched, as if to say, Anyone else want to bitch to me? There were no takers.
    â€œOK then,” he said. “Let’s get jiggy with this thing.”
    He directed the SDS men to arrange the mess tables into a semicircle. All the SEALs, all the Delta guys, and most of the SDS guards sat down. The four men sitting in the back didn’t move, though. Neither did Ky Li. They remained where they were.
    Fox had a laptop that could project images onto the wall. Even against the black paint, these pictures were crisp and clear. There was no need to douse the lights in the mess; it was already dark as a dungeon. Fox activated his remote and put up the first image.
    It showed a typical B-2 Stealth bomber.
    â€œI don’t have to tell anyone what this is,” he began.
    He showed a second image. It was of a B-2F spy bomber. It looked a little bigger, a little newer. The image had the word CLASSIFIED stamped across it.
    â€œThis is just another version of the B-2, except it’s a spy plane and, as you can see, highly classified,” Fox went on. “They call it a B-2F.”
    His next graphic was a satellite image of Oki Jima,