Rogue Warrior: Dictator's Ransom Part 34

As I've gotten older over the years I've gotten pretty close to a lot of the shooters and other people who have worked for me at Red Cell International and in various other jobs. Sometimes I think of the younger ones almost as my kids: prodigal, for the most part, but I definitely felt affection toward them. But confronted with the possibility that Matthew might be my son, I didn't know what to feel or do.

I was still trying to figure something out when he knocked on the door again.

"Come," I said.

"How are you, boss?" he asked.

"Still in one piece."

I pushed myself up in the bed to take a good long look at him. He'd been eating since I saw him last. Not that he'd really filled out; he couldn't have gained more than three or four pounds. But he looked a lot less like a scarecrow, and more like a kid who'd just gone through a growth spurt and was about to fill out.

I'd been like that when I joined the navy.

"Are you all right?" I asked him.

"Fine. You were the only one hit when the flak got the chopper. There was a ton of blood all over the place. I thought you were a goner."

"I've taken it in the neck plenty of times."

Junior opened his mouth as if to say something. I waited. No words came out.

"Well, I just wanted to see if you were okay," he said finally. "I mean, I figured you were but, you know, just to check it with my own eyes."

He started back from the room.

"Hold on just a second," I said.

Junior turned around quickly. He had a look in his eyes, something I hadn't seen there before. It was fear.

Was he afraid of being my son?

"I want to offer you a permanent job," I told him. "If you're up for it. You'd have to go through real training. Trace would bust your b.u.t.t."

"She already is," he said. He was suddenly beaming. "She's got me running five miles a day, and that's just before breakfast."

Maybe at that point I should have said something, given him an opening in case he wanted to talk. But I didn't. Partly, it was because I was still confused about my feelings, and unsure whether he really was my son or not. I wasn't really ready to talk about it, even theoretically.

And partly it was because I didn't think he was ready either. There was no sense spoiling the moment.

"Don't let her run you down. Take two weeks off, then report to Rogue Manor," I told him. "We'll get you airfare."

"Yes sir, thank you sir. Thanks, d.i.c.k-you won't regret it."

Junior practically ran from the room before I could say anything else.

"You're not going to talk to him about it?" asked Karen.

"Eventually," I told her, putting my arm around her and pulling her close to give her a kiss. "In the meantime, I have other family business to take care of."

36 Were they nukes? Ask your congressman.

Turn the page for a preview of

ROGUE WARRIOR.

Seize the

Day

Richard Marcinko

and

Jim DeFelice

Available October 2009

from Tom Doherty a.s.sociates

A TOR HARDCOVER.

ISBN 978-0-7653-1794-0.

Copyright 2009 by Richard Marcinko and Jim DeFelice

[ I ].

PEOPLE ALWAYS SAY it's who you know that matters.

Let me tell you, children, it's not who you know, it's who you look like.

This is especially important when you're on the roof of the tallest building on the Havana sh.o.r.eline, hanging off the side by your fingernails while half the Cuban army points AK-47s at you.

But we should start at the beginning.

THE WHYS AND wherefores of my arrival in Cuba would fill a few hundred pages, and just as surely cure the worst insomnia known to mankind. So let's cut through the bulls.h.i.t and go to the executive version.

A recent vacation in sunny North Korea1 had left me so refreshed that I found myself locked away in a hospital ward, in traction and in a foul mood. Unable to spring me, my main squeeze Karen Fairchild nonetheless undertook to nurse me back to health, smuggling in copious amounts of Bombay Sapphire. Thanks to the care of Dr. Bombay, I rallied and managed to leave the hospital before the billing department figured out how to spell my last name.

Karen and I planned a nice Caribbean vacation in celebration. My friend Ken Jones at the CIA had other ideas.

Ken is a former admiral who defected to the Christians in Action, the government agency known to the incredulous as the Central Intelligence Agency. In my experience, it's neither central nor intelligent, though I have to admit that I've never looked to the government to be accurate in anything, let alone naming its various parts.

Ken is the agency's DCI, an abbreviation which I believe stands for Director of the Can't-c.u.n.t Inquisitors, though most people who haven't dealt with him say it means director of the CIA.

Ken called me the day I got home from the hospital and asked how I was.

"Admiral, f.u.c.k you very much for calling," I said in my pleasant voice. "Doctors say I'm contagious and can't see anyone from the government for at least a decade."

"You're a card, d.i.c.k. Let's have a drink."

"Sorry, but I've got a lot of other things to do."

"I was thinking the same thing when the invoice from Red Cell International hit my desk."

It was just like the admiral to bring up money. Red Cell International is my corporate umbrella, the security company that conducts various rogue and not-so-rogue activities across the globe. The CIA owed Red Cell a considerable amount of dough-re-me, including the not insignificant expenses we'd incurred in North Korea. Cash flow being what it was, even a short delay in paying the bills would be a problem: my accountant has three kids in college, and their tuition bills were due.

"You're not trying to blackmail me, are you Admiral?" I asked.

"d.i.c.k, I wouldn't do that. But I do have a lot of work to do. A lot on my plate, so to speak. You could lighten that load with a little favor. A tiny one, actually."

The smaller the favor, the bigger the problem. But Ken wouldn't take no for an answer, and a few hours later I found myself sipping gin with him at his favorite little bar outside of Langley.

Ken stuck to lite beer, a sure sign of trouble.

It took two rounds before he got to the point, reaching into his jacket pocket for a pair of photos which he laid on the table. One was a recent picture of yours truly snapped somewhere in what we used to call the Mysterious Orient before we all got PC religion and switched to more acceptable terms like "the a.s.shole pit of Asia." Shot somewhere in Pyongyang, the North Korean capital, the picture showed me with my beard more kempt than normal, though from the glint in my eye I knew I must have been enjoying myself, probably by planning what I would do to one of my government escorts when I didn't have to be polite anymore.

The other photo showed me in a more relaxed moment: face flushed, eyes bugging out, teeth poised for blood. It would have made a lovely yearbook shot.

Except it wasn't me. Ken reached into his jacket for another shot, showing me that it was actually an enlargement from a group photo. The group shot revealed that the florid face belonged to man who favored starched puke-green fatigues, a clothing choice that has never agreed with me.

"Recognize him?" asked Ken.

"We were separated at birth," I said, handing the photos back. "After the doctor dropped him on his head."

The great thing about Ken is that he has exactly no sense of humor, and it took him quite a while to figure out if I was joking or not. Which was my cue to leave, though I didn't take it.

The man in the photo was Fidel Alejandro Castro Ruz, dictator par deviance of Cuba. At the time, he was said to be ailing, though a dictator's health is never something you can count on. The favor Ken wanted was deceptively simple, as they always are: impersonate Fidel on a special tape el Presidente was leaving as his last will and testament. I didn't even have to talk-the words had been carefully spliced together by the CIA's technical dweebs. All I had to do was look menacing and pretend to rant for the camera.

"Do what comes naturally," said Ken. "Pretend you're talking to our accounting division about where your check is."

I SUPPOSE BEFORE going any further I should mention that I've had a warm spot in my heart and other body parts for the Cuban people. Most Cubans I know are expatriates, but I think even those still on the island are, as a general rule, happy, loving people who make loyal and open friends. They're certainly warm and gracious to strangers. The women are pretty, for sure; they're rarely demanding and grateful for small favors and a little bit of attention.

In my experience, of course.

Fidel . . . Well, maybe at one time his heart was in the right place, but his brain and a.s.s just couldn't provide. After he took power, rats replaced the chickens in every pot. Anyone who opposed him was imprisoned, tortured, and worse.

Before this op, I'd been to Cuba many times, but with one exception always to Gitmo-our base at Guantanamo. It may surprise you to know that a good number of Cubans work there. They were "shaken down" every night when they crossed back to go home-the government was anxious for any tiny rewards they might have reaped. Kind of a shame to watch.

The one exception I mentioned was a short stay in Havana. And then, of course . . . well, let's not get too far ahead of ourselves.