Thin Ice Page 2
“What the hell are you doing here, Sir?” Logan asked, not moving backward, still stunned at his visitor. His eyes quickly searched behind Greg, but ascertained there was no one else around. The only vehicle in the drive was a black sedan, rental.
“There’s no Sir anymore, Preacher…just Greg.” Jerking his head to indicate the house, he added, “You gonna let me in?”
Blinking, Logan stepped away from the door, setting the safety on his weapon and waving his arm to welcome his former Commander inside. “I was just at the store. You want a beer?”
“Wouldn’t turn one down,” Greg said, following Logan into his house. Looking around, he observed a living room to the left, furnished simply with a comfortable sofa and easy chair facing both a corner stone fireplace and a flat-screen TV on the wall. Warm paneling covered the walls, decorated with a few framed photographs of the Montana vistas in various seasons. A Native American, handmade blanket in reds and browns graced the back of the chair. A handwoven rug, of the same colors, covered the center of the wooden plank floor. To the right was a table, which appeared to have few meals eaten at it, since it was scattered with papers and a laptop. A map of the area was tacked to the wall nearest the table, post-it stickers denoting several locations. The kitchen, separated from the living room by only a counter, held wooden cabinets and older appliances, a testament that the owner was not a picky chef.
He moved to the sofa as Logan retrieved two beers and met him back in the living room, settling into the chair. They both took long swigs from their drinks before placing them on the coffee table.
“Comman—,uh, Greg,” Logan began, “sorry for how I greeted you. Don’t get a lot of visitors out here.” Shaking his head, he amended, “Don’t get any visitors out here.”
“I got that feeling, Preacher,” he chuckled. “I drove into town and, I have to say, I can’t imagine a more remote place in the country. When you decided to disappear, you chose really well.”
The use of his SEAL nickname Preacher sounded strange to his ears, having not heard it in almost two years. He still remembered the team giving it to him as a play on his last name of Bishop and…for other reasons. Shrugging off the memories, Logan replied, “Cut Bank’s a nice little town. Good people. They’d help anyone who needed it, but they stay out of my business and I stay out of theirs.”
“I notice you’ve got a hanger out back. That where you keep your birds?”
Nodding, Logan figured Greg had checked him out, for whatever reason, and therefore already knew the answer to that question, but he played along, curiosity outweighing all other thoughts. “I run tourists up to take pictures of the mountains and have a Lakota for rescues.”
“Get a lot of business?”
“Enough. Tourists can fill the spring through fall, but rescues can be anytime.”
“And how’s that working for you?” Greg asked, his eyes sharp as ever.
Logan leaned back, his body tight with the intrigue of the visit, but knew Greg would tell him his reasons when he was damn well ready. Answering the question, he replied, “It’s a living…I’m good with that. I turn down tourists when I’m not in the mood, but take all the rescues that I get called for.”
Nodding slowly, Greg took another long pull of his beer. Leaning forward, he pinned him with a steely stare and said, “I imagine you’re curious as to why I’m here, so I’ll get to it. I’ve got a proposition for you.”
Logan eyed Greg carefully, uncertainty and doubt filling his mind. Not saying anything, he simply let the silence fill the room.
Greg smiled, ignoring his look of incredulity. Plunging ahead, he said, “First off, what I say has to stay between us. You don’t like what you hear and don’t take the mission…I count on you as a former SEAL to keep this in confidence.”
Logan’s expression changed to one of annoyance, his eyes flashing fire, but Greg threw his hand in the air and said, “I know, I know. Once a SEAL, always a SEAL, but it had to be said.” Seeing the minuscule relaxation in his shoulders, Greg nodded, leaning forward, his forearms resting on his knees.
“I retired. About the same time as your knee gave out. Heard about it…the way your mission ended with your success but with an injury that would cut your career short. I never reached out to tell you I was sorry. Didn’t figure you wanted to hear bullshit sympathy anyway.” Sucking in a deep breath, he said, “And I had my own problems. Karen…I think you met my wife years ago…she was diagnosed with cancer right after I retired. Only lived a short while—”
“Fuckin’ hell, Greg,” he said, his breath whooshing out once more, shaking his head. “I am so sorry.”
“Thanks. Guess I spent the next year feeling sorry for myself and making sure I was there for our kids. They’re now in college…don’t need their old man much anymore other than to help with tuition. Anyway, I did keep up with some old friends still working. They now send me to recruit for jobs. I supply them with individual persons who have the skill set to handle the special requests.”
“Individual?”
“Not a team. Individuals. Individuals who know how to plan and execute missions.”
Logan leaned back, rubbing his chin as he maintained eye contact with Greg, whose impassive expression held his. He knew what was being left unsaid. Covert missions. Not by the military. Not even a private team. But individuals. Who the hell is he getting to do these special jobs?
Seeing the unasked questions on Logan’s face, Greg knew he had to give more based on the last missions he had staffed. He said, “You’re not the only ex-SEAL trying to settle into a life that isn’t very rewarding. I find the men that I think are right for the job and make an offer.”
“I’m listening.”
Grinning, he nodded, “The President is worried about terrorists in this country. Active terrorist cells are popping up everywhere. Until recently, Alaska was the only state in the country that did not have them. But, now, they do. From what we’re hearing, they’re working on biological weapons…the kind that can wipe out cities very quickly. Not bombs. Not guns. But the type of weapons that when added to food, drinking water, or whatever the hell they think of, can cause death or illness to whole populations.”
“Why Alaska?”
“I asked the same question. Seems the remoteness, smaller populations, and definite smaller government policing agencies make it a perfect draw.”
“Specifics?”
Greg chuckled at his short questions and comments. Logan was never a man of many words and it looked like time away from the SEALs had not changed that. “We have identified a house that a cell has taken over in a small Alaskan town. The leader is a suspected terrorist and it appears he’s recruiting. We need someone to move in next door and find out what’s going on. Find out…and neutralize.”
“That’s it? Move in. Investigate. Eliminate. That’s the mission? Surely there’s someone else that can do that job. You don’t need an ex-SEAL for that.”
“Yeah, we do. Right now, the FBI and Department of Homeland Security aren’t convinced anything is going on there, so they aren’t allocating funds or personnel to find out what’s going on. But I’ve been tasked with finding out for sure, and then eliminating the terrorists after you find out what their plan is.”
Sighing, Logan dropped his chin to his chest for a moment, Greg’s words whirling in his mind. Looking back up, he asked, “How did you get my name? How did I come up in your search?”
“Fair question. I was given a list of recently retired SEALs, including some who retired due to injuries…just as your knee did for you.”
Logan grimaced, hating the reminder of why he had no choice but to retire. One last mission—successful but devastating. When he went back to get a fallen team member, his knee took the brunt of a fall, tearing it to shreds. He saved a life and gave up his career, all in the same minute. But if he had to do it over again, no question—he would have made the same decision.
“Did you talk to anyone else about me?”
Shaking his head quickly, Logan backtracked, “Never mind.”
Quiet settled over them before Greg stood. “You’ve got things to think about. I’ll let you do that—”
“Follow me,” Logan interrupted. Without any explanation, he walked toward the kitchen, stopping at a closet. Turning to make sure Greg was following, he opened the door, revealing a set of stairs. “Basement.”
He led the way downstairs, flipping the light switch as he went. At the bottom, he entered a code into a security panel and walked through the door that opened. Inside, a bank of computers lined two walls of the small room. A white screen filled the third wall, ready for maps, computer images, and intel to be projected. Turning around, he faced Greg, whose wide eyes were not hiding his surprise.
“I work missions…rescue mostly. At least overtly. But sometimes get called in by others to help plan or monitor situations. Other than using my computer skills for planning and my pilot skills for rescues, I don’t do active anymore. The last Commander I had in the Navy calls me occasionally.”
“Robert? Holy shit,” Greg said, not expecting to hear that. “Then I think you’re just the man—”
“You need someone to plan, I’m your man. But, in the field? Greg, I just don’t do that. Haven’t since I got out.”
Greg turned to face the large man in front of him. There was a roughness about Logan. But, then, he supposed living in the wilds of Montana would give even the toughest of SEALs an edge. “I think you’re wrong, Preacher. You’re just the man. I don’t need someone who can run after terrorists or jump out of planes. I need someone who can move in next door and find out what is going on covertly. Someone who won’t get in their face. Someone who can set up cameras, monitor their chatter on phones and computers.” Snorting, he said, “If the fuckin’ FBI tried to send someone, they’d send Mr. All-American who’d try to get the terrorist neighbors to come over for a backyard barbeque. You? Hell, they won’t suspect a grumpy guy who acts like he could care less about his neighbors. Someone who’s not afraid, at the end of the day, to eliminate the target. Not arrest them. Not bring them to trial where they could possibly get off. But eliminate them.”
Logan stood with his hands on his hips, his eyes on his boots. Sucking in a deep breath, he lifted his head. “I need a night to think it over.”
Greg hid his grin and nodded. “Saw a bar in town earlier as I passed through. I’m staying at the Glacier Hotel tonight. I’ll meet you at the bar for lunch and you can give me your answer then.” With a pat on Logan’s shoulder, he turned and headed up the stairs.
Logan followed, standing on the porch watching him drive away. Lifting his gaze, his eyes settled on the snow-capped mountains in the distance, letting the cold night air fill his lungs.
4
“Jesus, Preacher, you crazy sonofabitch!” Sisco screamed.
Lying on the floor of the bird, it’s blades whirling as they lifted off the ground, I rolled over just enough to see if Devil was alive. Not seeing my squad member’s chest move, I rolled back, my heart pounding with adrenaline.
Devil had taken a bullet to the chest, dropping him like a stone, as we had moved through the rough, mountainous terrain. I was the closest, turning as I heard the cry. With the helicopter almost to us, I yelled ahead before turning back. Dropping down beside Devil, whose face was a mask of pain and anger, I leaned over my comrade’s body, trying to shield him from more gunfire.
“Goddamn fuckers got me,” Devil growled, his hands clutching his bloody chest. Bending low, picking my fellow SEAL up, I slung him over my shoulder. Jogging toward the helicopter, now on the ground, I ducked as bullets zinged through the air near my head. Just as we were fifteen feet from our destination, an explosion rocked the earth and I tumbled forward. Sisco grabbed Devil at the last second, keeping him from hitting the ground, but my knee gave out under the weight and angle of my fall.
Sisco leaned over, his face right in mine. “Hang in there, man. Hold on.”
The pain in my knee was excruciating but, as soon as the needle in Sisco’s hand hit me, the pain went away. Looking down, I knew. Fuckin’ knew. It was over. My career. Lifting a hand over my face, wanting to keep my squad’s eyes from seeing the despair, I sucked in a ragged breath.
Suddenly, a flurry of activity caused me to jerk my eyes open and I watched as some of the others worked on Devil. “He’s alive!” the shout came from someone, barely heard above the noise of the helicopter.
As the bird flew through the air, back to our base, I slowed my breathing, relaxing slightly against the hard, metal floor. Devil was alive. I saved him when I ran back to get him after he fell to enemy fire.
Turning my head, facing the open door, I watched as the land below rushed by, the knowledge this was my last SEAL mission filling my mind. But Devil was alive…and I knew, if I had to, I’d do it all over again.
Waking up in the early hours of the morning, Logan sat up in bed, his sleep disturbed by dreams of his last mission. Knowing sleep was now elusive, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, scrubbing his hand over his face. He dressed for the chill of the Montana morning before moving into the kitchen. Flipping the switch on his coffee maker, he leaned his hip against the counter, the aroma soon filling the air. Taking the black brew onto his porch, he sat in one of the old, wooden chairs, leaning back so he could place his feet on the rail and watch the sun rise.
He had spent a long time the previous night weighing the pros and cons. His life in Montana was stable…if not exciting. He thought of his house, but knew that there were a couple of people in town he trusted to keep an eye on his property. He thought of the mission as explained by Greg and it sounded simple. Too simple.
Walking into Cutter’s Bar hours later, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the old building. Built on the outskirts of the small town, the watering-hole was a gathering place for locals. A few tourists came in, but rarely stayed long. It was a bar, not a nightclub. No jukebox. No fancy menu. No fancy drinks. Just a bar. Wooden plank floors, scuffed from years of boots walking on them, met plank walls adorned with a few old, metal beer signs. Booths were in the back and the bar was on the left, as plain as the rest of the building, with the exception of liquor bottles lining the shelf.
Nodding to a few of the regulars seated at the long bar, he spied Greg sitting in a booth on the right side. With a head jerk toward Sam, the bartender, he stalked to the booth and slid onto the wooden bench. Sam brought him a beer and headed back to the bar.
Greg’s gaze followed Sam, but cut back quickly as Logan said, “Told you, no one here gets in your business.”
The two men drank in silence for a moment before Logan began. “Got some questions.” Seeing Greg nod, he continued. “I’m on my own? My planning? My mission?”
Logan picked up on Greg’s hesitation. Leaning back, he lifted an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.
Clearing his throat, Greg said, “The Department of Homeland Security has biologists working for them, trained in ferreting out chemicals and biologics that could be used for terrorism. Drinking water. Food processing. They also have a few people who specialize in the types of biological warfare that could wipe out entire cities.”
Logan sat, his face impassive, as he listened.
“I know of the Saints, based out of Virginia,” Greg continued. “I know you ran a rescue several months back for one of their team and a scientist that was stuck in a snowstorm in Canada. I even know that scientist, Kendall Rhodes, worked for a lab identifying some of the threats.”
“What’s that got to do with this?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.
“You have the skills to identify the terrorists and to eliminate the threat, if proven there is one. But, what you don’t have, is the scientific background to analyze what the biologics are. You can’t just blow up a lab without knowing if any organisms there would be deadly if airborne. For that,
you need someone’s assistance.”
“So, I won’t be working on my own? I’ll have a bullshit civilian to contend with?”
Greg’s lips pinched together in frustration. “The DHS employee has a background in biology, but they’re not an agent. Just a biologist. They will simply be there to assist with the detection of a true threat. Once that is done, they’re out of there. It will be up to you to eliminate the threat.”
A frown knit his brow as Logan’s mind raced through the proposed mission. “Doesn’t the necessity of the other person negate the absolute secrecy?”
“Not at all. I’ve checked on them, fully vetted through DHS. They hold a security clearance. They don’t have your skills…at all,” Greg added for emphasis. “But they would be able to detect what the terrorists are cooking up. Then, like I said, they’re outta there and the elimination is up to you.”
Logan brought his beer to his lips but drank without tasting the brew. His mind, once more, was on the possible mission. The addition of a partner was troubling, but he understood the necessity. He did not have the scientific background to know what he would find. How to eliminate the threat would rely on what biological terrorism might be let loose in the process. “So, there’s little working together? I identify the terrorists, he analyzes then leaves, and I finish the job?”
“Yes, basically, you’re on your own,” Greg’s impassive face held steady.
“And when the terrorist cell has been identified as creating biological warfare…my job?”
“Terminate. Terminate with extreme prejudice.”
The chance to work a mission again. The chance to investigate. The chance to do something more than dealing with tourists or lost hikers. Sucking in a deep breath, he nodded, before lifting his gaze back to Greg. “Okay. I’m in.” He watched as a slight smile crossed Greg’s face.
“Good. Then I suggest we retire back to your house for planning. I’ll be assisting with the initial setup and then you’re on your own, unless you need me. Though, as a former SEAL, I doubt you will.”