Rogue President. D.K. WildeЧитать онлайн книгу.
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1.
The twilight of the day had arrived. Wade crested the steep, dusty overgrown track that served as a fire access road during the brutal fire danger season of the Australian summer. He had just crossed the sixteen kilometre mark of his run; the final part of his addictive daily fitness regime, which also included surf paddling, Krav Maga, and swimming.
Sweating profusely in the sinking hot summer sun, he stopped short of the heavily tinted SUV parked across the track. Towering gnarled Eucalyptus trees provided limited shade. The sea breeze was trying desperately to fight against the forces of the hot desert, no more than one hundred kilometres away. Three men in their black suits, ties, mirror sunglasses, large black peak caps, with hands behind their backs looked distinctively out of character to the surrounding environment.
His black and white Kelpie, Kiwi, at his heels, stood panting as he looked up at his master and across to the strange sight blocking their running track. The same track they had been running everyday for four years and this was the first time they had met anyone other than the occasional fire truck on patrol.
Smallest of the three, suited men, stepped forward, removed his hat and glasses. “Hi Wade.”
“Joe!” exclaimed Wade as they shook hands.
Special Agent Joe Plant, previously CIA Station Chief, Istanbul, Turkey, had been indirectly seconded, to Langley, to work with Wade and his team on their last mission, five years earlier.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” asked Wade looking across at Plant’s two linebacker-size companions, whose jackets were ready to burst against their pumped up muscles. He saw the bulge of a pistol under their left arm. Their fingers slightly twitched hanging beside their jackets. The car parked at the exact angle to enable a clear line of protection should a firefight eventuate. Feet shoulder width apart and right foot slightly ahead of the left. Ready for the pistol recoil. ‘So, right handed’ he thought.
Bending down and patting Kiwi, Plant whispered, “I had to find you.”
“Well you could have used a phone. Anyway why … and why out here?” he asked, between pants, gesturing towards the sunburnt, dried grasses and trees. The dusty sharp rocky exposed track. Thorn bushes and shrubs fighting for survival. The whole area ready to ignite at the mere hint of a spark.
“A situation has arisen and we need your help.”
“My help! For gawd sakes … You know I’ve been out of that for nearly five years now?”
“I know, I know,” he whispered still looking down, patting Kiwi. “But we need to send an undercover team in to Guinea, to extradite a national, and you’re the best qualified to lead that team.”
“What! You can’t be serious,” questioned Wade. “You came all the way from the States, and more than likely Langley, to find me out here in the middle of ‘no-mans land’, to ask me that.”
“Wade please … I’m only the messenger, you know that,” said Plant stepping back.
“Maybe so. But the whole idea of you, or whoever sent you, turning up on my doorstep, and thinking I would suddenly rush back, is beyond stupid.”
“This is an important mission and national security could depend on it.”
“National security!” responded Wade raising his voice as he stepped forward. “Fuck Joe. I’m not even American,” With his left hand he grabbed Plant by the front of his jacket and shirt, bringing them closer. “What’s really going on here?” he asked lowering his voice.
The two guards instantly reached into their jackets and ripped out their Glock 17 pistols. Kiwi leapt to his feet, growled and bared his teeth. Plant could feel Wade’s unbelievable strength as the grip on his jacket got tighter.
“Tell your two meathead mates to drop their weapons and get on the ground,” said Wade calmly over his dog’s growling.
“Put down your weapons. Face first on the ground,” yelled Plant unable to move from the vice like grip. “Do it … now.”
With the two linebackers on the ground, Kiwi stopped growling and wandered over to check them out, sniffing at their heads and hands. Wade released his hold. He stood studying the situation. Here was somebody who had been with him when everything had been at its worst. Even though Plant was CIA, and not military trained, he had travelled with the team to multiple locations across the world. They had witnessed friends and colleagues die, missions go haywire, opportunities come and go. Wade stood like a cobra, watching Plant’s eyes, but his pupils remained rock solid; even with his eyelids flapping like a scarf in the wind.
“Joe, we’ve been good friends,” he said smoothing out Plant’s jacket. “So no more bullshit, out with it.”
Plant fumbled around. He looked at the sky and then to the trees. Desperately trying to avoid eye contact. Eventually he regained his composure. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this but … it appears the Colonel, and some of the team, have been shot down in Sierra Leone.”
Wade Ross had spent sixteen years as one of the most highly trained special forces operatives to have served with the SAS. Having consumed his youth studying and learning survival and tracking skills from Aboriginal elders he then joined the Australian Army.
He removed his tee shirt, wiped his face and looked out across the valley towards his home. Byron Bay, a beautiful country town on the north coast of New South Wales, Australia. A world renowned surf beach. Destination for backpackers, surfers and the rich and famous; all those seeking a bohemian and secluded holiday or lifestyle. Polar opposite to CIA headquarters Langley. This was a place Wade felt contented.
It had been five years since Wade, and his wife Crystal, had left Colonel Jacob Wine and the team. They had established a new life. Crystal teaching Yoga at her purpose built facility on their fifty acre beachside secluded property. Wade in the final year of his online psychology degree. His abstract paintings starting to attract interest.
Wade had often thought about the Colonel and all the ex-military friends he had left behind. He had wanted to contact them but was fearful the pull of the camaraderie would drag him back. He knew he couldn’t, nor wanted, to do that to the woman he loved.
“When and where?” he asked as the shock of the news subsided and he motioned to Plant’s assistants to get off the ground. Both men with their eyes glued to Kiwi.
“Don’t worry he won’t bite unless you piss him off,” said Wade.
Plant explained the information they had was sketchy. Reports suggested the team were aboard a highly modified Sikorsky UH-60 deployed from the aircraft carrier USS George H. W. Bush that had been undergoing exercises in the southern Atlantic. The helicopter had crossed from Guinea into Sierra Leone when it was locked on to by a surface to air missile.
“Surely the carrier was tracking the flight. Why can’t they just give you the coordinates? … Then you can send in a team,” asked a bewildered Wade.
Plant looked into the eyes of his friend as the sweat cascaded down Wade’s dark olive skinned face and across his hard toned body. Standing, like a jungle cat ready to pounce, his muscles tensed and tried to relax with each breath. Ice blue eyes had frozen like stone. His face scrunched up as he fought with the pain of the news. Fists opened and closed.
“It’s not that simple,” paused Plant whispering even softer. “They went in dark. No comms and when the black box signal was received on the carrier the data was apparently corrupted.”
“Corrupted? … That’s bullshit. You and I both know that’s impossible,” he said pausing and trying to fight back the demons of pain. “There’s more to this than you’re telling me, isn’t there?”
Looking around, Plant removed his glasses and cap a second time, scratched his head as he stumbled to find the words.
“We believe somebody at the top ordered the data destroyed.”
“Destroyed … why?” asked a perplexed Wade. “Who was on board?”
“Why we don’t know. We can