Fredo's Dream: SEAL Brotherhood: Fredo Page 13

  Chapter 17

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  THE PHONE RANG three times and then started to go to voice mail. Fredo watched several new men darken the open hangar door, looking like Naval Intelligence or CIA interrogators. While he’d been distracted watching them, his phone buzzed.

  “Fredo. It’s me.” Her voice was hoarse, and she sounded tired.

  “Sorry to call you so early, but I had to hear your voice one more time. We take off in a few, and I’ll be black for twenty-four to forty-eight hours. How are you feeling?”

  “Thank you. I couldn’t sleep last night. I brought Ricardo home and he is a comfort, but also a handful.”

  “Don’t do too much, Mia. Can you get some help? Have someone else come over? Maybe Luci or Shannon?”

  “They have children of their own, Fredo. Their men are deployed just like you are. I can’t put any more burden on them. I will ask my mother.”

  “Both your parents should come over. Please do that, okay Mia?”

  The pause was awkward. “How are you?” she finally blurted out.

  “I got some rest on the plane. Now that I’ve heard your voice, I will be better, my love.”

  He heard her explode. Her sobs were difficult to hear. “I am so ashamed, mi amore. I ruined our perfect day. I was so selfish.”

  “No, you didn’t. I did.” He cleared his throat and had his back to the bulk of the team, who were gathering by the front of the hangar. “Mia, so good to hear you. I will carry it with me until I come home. Please get some rest. And have Felicia and Gus come and take care of you. You have to do what’s right for the baby. Promise me you will.”

  “I promise. And you have to promise to come home, Fredo.”

  “Already asked and promised.”

  The signoff was harder than he thought.

  A Lt. Commander and several other top aides were discussing something in private with Kyle.

  His LPO motioned to the group to form a gathering away from the open doorway of the hangar. Someone slid the door shut, which kept a lot of the noise from interfering with what Kyle wanted to say. The base at Oceana was hopping, busier than Fredo had ever seen it. Jets were landing and taking off like World War III was in the works. It made him shiver. They normally weren’t part of such heavy operations.

  Lt. Commander Kastian was introduced and began. “Listen up, because I only have a few minutes. You’re heading to the Canaries again, which is why your group is tasked with this mission. Some of you on Kyle’s team have been there before, as you will recall, last year.”

  The audience began buzzing.

  “They have transport waiting for you outside to deliver you to Morocco. We’re going to send you in two private charter jets from there. Like before, you’re going to travel as business leaders, on a fact-finding mission to explore trade with the islands. You are not to identify yourselves as military, understood?”

  Kyle interrupted Kastian. “Once we get to Morocco, you’ll have support from Uncle Sam, although no one is officially on this mission. Here we have two special State Department security units from Washington, Emergency Extraction Teams or EETs, as well as some high level SDSTs coming with. Coop and T.J. and the other medics work with the SDST, especially if we take on casualties.”

  Fredo watched Coop and T.J. look among the group of black-suited professionals, as if they could make out who had medical training. They’d never done a joint mission with this security grouping.

  “We’ve also got a couple gents from a few teams here at Little Creek. I’m going to let you get acquainted on the ride over. We’ll be greeted by diplomatic personnel in Morocco once we land and pick up a couple of new additions from Tenerife. Oh, and we’re coming in through some storms off the coast of Africa, so hang onto your butts and get some sleep early.” Kyle stepped back behind the Commander.

  Lt. Commander Kastian added, “The one thing we know is that Secretary Harrison is deceased, and that’s been confirmed through DNA. The extraction of that information came at a heavy price. The rest of his security team is being held hostage or dead. We have no one on the inside who knows we’re on our way, and we believe they want to remove the hostages to somewhere on the mainland, possibly Morocco.”

  Kyle stepped next to the Lt. Commander. “If they successfully get them transported, we’ll have approximately eight US personnel, including the body of the Secretary of State, and the Secretary of State’s private records, computer, and cell phone, all headed into the hands of local rebels on the Canaries, trying to sell to the highest bidder, who will be someone from Morocco.”

  Fredo knew what kind of an explosive situation this was going to be. He hoped they had some decent intel. He raised his hand, and Kyle called on him.

  “Sir, do we know the current location of the hostages and the body of Secretary Harrison? And what about the fate of Pat Lyman? Is he among the hostages or the dead?”

  “You mean the Secretary’s security detail?” Kyle asked. He turned to Lt. Commander Kastian.

  “We believe Lyman is alive,” said Kastian soberly.

  “And the location?” asked Coop.

  “Villa Las Palomas. I believe you know it, Coop.”

  It was the location Zak had nearly been killed, the house the Secretary had rented before in his brief meeting with Yousef Amir, the Secretary’s friend from Stanford soccer days.

  Amir was now the Prime Minister of Morocco. No one knew, Kyle said, whether he was friend, or whether he had ordered the hit on Harrison. The news started a grumble among the audience.

  This was even more fucked up than the previous mission they’d been on. But the Secretary had been a patriot and had believed in what he was doing, believed he could negotiate a successful settlement and help create an in with a possible new government forming in Morocco. Now that Amir was part of that new government and the Secretary was dead, so much was left unknown. It was never good to go into a situation this way and wasn’t normally how it was done. But this was a full-scale emergency and their insertion was ordered by the President himself.

  Lyman, a former member of Kyle’s SEAL Team 3, became the new mission. Getting him home safely became the new agenda. And of course, not taking on any Task Force casualties in the meantime.

  “When you step out of that plane in Morocco and rendezvous with the chartered jets, you’ll be dressed as tourists. Remember, you are business tourists, looking to make investments in Tenerife or the Canaries in general. The local news doesn’t know about the Secretary, and we want it kept that way, so no speaking about it. Do not trust the locals at all. No talking about any of this amongst yourselves until we’re secure. Understood?”

  The crowd of nearly two dozen men nodded.

  The door was opened, bringing in much-needed air into the stuffy hangar. The men lined up and boarded the huge transport plane.

  Fredo and Coop stayed together. Before Fredo could begin the climb up the gangway, Coop grabbed him.

  “Remember, Fredo. This is what you were made for. It’s showtime.”

  “Roger that. I’m ready. And I’m keeping my promises. All my promises.”

  THE HOT MOROCCAN desert breeze hit them like a furnace blast, even though it was still pitch black and wouldn’t lighten up for another three hours. So scorchingly hot it nearly took Fredo’s breath away. He was grateful he had an aloha shirt that wasn’t decorated with women in grass skirts, as it would draw too much attention and be seen as inappropriate. Several of the other Team guys wore logoed golf shirts. But the aloha shirt would identify him as an American, and that was part of the plan.

  Again, they were directed to wait inside a hangar away from the prying eyes of others who might sport night vision equipment. Chairs were provided in front of a small cluster of officials preparing to address them.

  An attractive career diplomat, Allison Nouri, Assistant Deputy Consular General to Morocco, spoke first, making the introductions. “Welcome to Morocco, gentlemen. While we expect that we won’t be hosting you this part
icular trip, we trust that you will have success while on your mission to the Canary Islands. We are deeply saddened by the events that have taken place regarding Ambassador Harrison, whom I was lucky to call a friend.”

  She bit her lip and smiled down at a gentleman in black sitting in the front row. “I have a prior engagement and was not planning on being here today, but couldn’t miss this opportunity to welcome you and to let you know the entire embassy staff welcomes you. If there is anything I or my staff can do for any one of you gentlemen, please don’t hesitate to let us know. The United States is grateful for your service.”

  She smiled again and extended her palm toward the front row. “This is Fernando Cabrera, and he’s our liaison on the islands. Anything happens and you’re alone or offsite or need backup, please call him first before anyone else. While we are cordial with the local police, please do not attempt to engage their support. Mr. Cabrera?”

  She stepped back, gave Cabrera an efficient bow, and abruptly shook several hands before exiting out of the rear of the building. They heard a car motor roar to life.

  Cabrera took his time to stepping up to the front. He walked with a very slight limp and also appeared to have an artificial foot below the ankle. Fredo thought Cabrara looked more like an ex-military type, perhaps a freedom fighter or mercenary of some sort in his past. He left his sunglasses on. His square jaw, thin moustache, and fit physique gave him an intimidating look.

  “Mrs. Nouri was not expecting this little meeting today, so I apologize for her early departure. I am a US citizen, but have lived in the Canaries my whole life. I will be your eyes and ears while here, and I also interface with the local police. As Mrs. Nouri said, you are not to engage local law enforcement at any time.”

  He inhaled briskly and straightened his stance, scanning the room slowly, as if checking out every man seated or standing before him. “Now the rules. The local police, called Policia Local, appear harmless and for the most part, they are. You will find them most cooperative and friendly, as long as you don’t challenge their authority. They find stray dogs, write tickets for drunken behavior in public, and make sure the trash is picked up and that traffic laws are obeyed. They also are here to ensure that all tourists are treated fairly and that there are no complaints from any of the big cruise ships that dock our shores. They make sure shopkeepers don’t overcharge or give incorrect change.”

  “The second and third groups of officials are called the Guardia Civil and the Nacional de Policia. They deal with everything from low-level crime to prostitution, human trafficking and the drug smuggling trades. Don’t even talk to them. Easy to identify those two because they’ll be dressed in all black.” He stood back, hands on his chest, to demonstrate the point.

  “And they wear the same glasses and gloves,” Cabrera demonstrated by tapping a finger of his black gloved hand to the side of his face. He smiled, and bowed. Fredo instantly didn’t trust him, and he guessed most of the Team made the same assessment.

  “I believe we have a Mr. Lansdowne?” Cabrera searched the crowd, and Kyle stood and took his place beside the man.

  “I’ve been here several times, mostly as a tourist but once most recently on our mission. When it comes to the local police, claim complete language stupidity and do not stare back at them. These are not nice guys and they’re armed to the teeth and possibly—”

  Cabrera interrupted Kyle. “Corrupt? Was he going to say corrupt?” He grinned, showing a glint of gold teeth in his mouth that reminded Fredo of Jaws from the 007movies. “Officially, we do not have corruption. If it exists, and I’m not saying it does, it is unofficial and small. A man does what he needs to do to provide for his family.” Cabrera was cool, but his upper torso was toned and hard as any of the SEALs. Fredo wondered if he was some kind of hired gun for the State Department or CIA spooks.

  “Wonder who he really works for,” Danny whispered to Fredo. Fredo put his finger to his lips and frowned.

  “Keep your eyes and ears open,” Kyle continued. “I’ve got a map of the compound. It has thirty-five rooms, is relatively remote, and at the top of Las Palomas with a view of nearly the whole island. But only one way up the hill and one way down, by car. We do not have authorization for nor have we attempted to use any choppers.”

  Outside the open hangar door a sleek Gulfstream with an Avjet logo taxied next to a larger one already on the ground.

  “Best of luck, gentlemen,” Cabrera said.

  Everyone rose. The two teams boarded both luxury jets, Coop, Kyle, Armando and Fredo staying together in the larger of the two. Cabrera boarded the other Gulfstream along with several members of his staff and a couple of Team Guys Fredo recognized from SEAL Team 8.

  After the initial quick tour of the boardroom, the rear bedroom, a full library, and galley kitchen, Kyle, Coop, Fredo and Armando took over the small cluster of seats at the rear near the back bedroom. Everyone else paired up and sat in clusters on the opposite side of the galley behind the crew quarters. The jet came with two male stewards. Everyone adjusted their seats and prepared for the roughly three hour flight to Gran Canaria.

  Chapter 18

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  AFTER THEY LANDED, Cabrera whisked the teams into black Suburbans and they were transported to a luxury hotel complex at the base of Las Palomas. The two presidential suites were adjoining, taking up the entire top floor of the hotel, with good visibility to the villa at the peak of the mountain. Kyle and several others searched the area with high powered scopes from their long guns and found no sign of activity. But going down the hillside, little houses and more modest villas dotted the countryside, any one of them within a few hundred yards of the grand estate.

  “Do they have the road blocked off?” Kyle asked Cabrera.

  “You see up there, the home with the turquoise roof?”

  Kyle nodded.

  “I have a man there. This is the house of my uncle who is vacationing in the US as we speak. If we can somehow get to that house, we will have an excellent vantage point. Angel, my niece, is available by phone. There are no roadblocks as of yet and no sign of any activity.”

  “How far up is that?” Coop asked.

  Cabrera thought about it for a second. “I think it’s about three miles, maybe four from here.”

  “That’s within range,” said Coop, picking up a black hard case. He opened it and held inside the grey foam padding was a tiny four-propeller drone with controller box. “This thing,” he held it up like holding onto a live a crab, “I can control with the unit here for up to six miles. If I can get it in the air, I can calibrate and take pictures to send to my computer here.”

  “When did you get this?” Fredo asked.

  “I made it.” Coop beamed to the flock who admiringly drew around him.

  “No shit,” said Kyle. “Thank God we didn’t go commercial. They’d have taken this thing away before we got out of the states.”

  Cabrera peered over the top. “How quiet is it?”

  “Oh, she purrs all right. Just like a kitten. Very quiet. Brushless motor. With just a tad of a buzz, which you might expect.”

  He showed the little camera installed with a remote lens.

  “Should we give it a try?” Kyle asked Cabrera. “Any local laws against it?”

  Cabrera’s smile lit up. “I don’t think anyone knows about these. Otherwise, all the local boys would be using them to spy on the rich ladies in the villas at the top who like to sunbathe naked.”

  “And just how do you know?” asked T.J.

  Cabrera removed his glasses, his grin wide and his teeth blindingly white. “But I’ve already told you. My uncle lives up there. There are advantages of living on top because you get the best view.”

  Several of the men chuckled.

  Coop was putting together the machine, clicking the wings and rotors in place and connecting the batteries.

  “We got a balcony up here we can test this a little?” he asked.

  “What’s wrong with the roof?�
�� asked Fredo.

  Coop handed him the laptop. Holding the drone, and with the controller unit under his arm, he followed the stairs one of the men found that led to the top of the building. Broken bottles littered the area along with an iron bedframe and a stained mattress left out in the elements for what appeared to be several years. Two plastic lawn chairs looked like recent additions to the litter.

  Coop gingerly set the drone down and took back the computer, logging in to the drone seeker software. A tiny beeping sound indicated the connection was made. He clicked the camera link and promptly viewed the crowd’s shoes and lower legs.

  He gingerly handed the computer to Fredo. “Keep it steady and don’t move around.”

  “Roger that.”

  Coop brought a plastic chair over and sat, placing the controller on his thighs. He adjusted the speed of the rotors, and the drone rose nearly twenty feet up and then with a push of a button, came back down, landing softly.

  “It has an automatic homing device on it and landing sensors. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Big improvement to the one we bought in Cupertino.”

  “I still have that one, but this one can run for nearly an hour and go wider in range. You’ll see.”

  He maneuvered the machine up and down several times, testing every control and adjusting the magnification on the lens. He glanced over to make sure the picture on his computer was of sufficient quality.

  “Now all we have to hope for is consistent internet.”

  Kyle piped up. “It won’t operate without internet?”

  “Oh, it will, but we won’t see a picture. But even without internet, the camera records everything. We’d just have to manually download it. The beauty of this thing is that with internet we can see it real time and therefore direct it to fly in certain areas.”

  “So let ‘er rip,” said T.J.

  With a steady hand, Coop directed the drone to rise one more time, and avoiding the heavy grid pattern of wiring that extended above the rooftops and occasional radio and TV antennae, sent the drone up the hill toward Las Palomas. Kyle and Cabrera followed it with small Swiss-made binoculars.