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  “Sabotage”

  A Corps Justice Novel

  Copyright © 2016 C. G. Cooper. All Rights Reserved

  Author: C. G. Cooper

  Editors: Andrea Kerr & Cheryl Hopton

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  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations and events are all products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual events or real persons are completely coincidental.

  Any unauthorized reproduction of this work is strictly prohibited.

  Dedication

  To my faithful readers: thank you for allowing me to continue this awesome writing journey. I could not do this without you.

  - CGC

  Table Of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  At the moment, Vince Sweeney looked nothing like an army colonel from the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta (Delta Force). Reclining happily in a pristine white leather chair, he wore what he now considered his business attire: khaki cargo shorts, an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt, and Timberland boots. His gnarled hand moved from a glass of whiskey and scratched his scraggly white beard. He'd gone gray early, but had never much bought into a normal man’s vanity. With what he did for a living, it helped provide a perfect disguise, when needed. Since his current “job” was almost over, the beard would soon have to go.

  As he closed his eyes and relished the cool breeze blowing from the air conditioning vent, he smiled at the thought of going home. How many times had he left? He'd have to go back through his military records to check, not that the records were complete. Being part of Delta Force meant that most operations weren't even classified, thus they were rarely documented. The operations just didn't exist, on paper.

  He'd just turned fifty and, because he continuously opted to stay in the field, refusing to play the game of Army career-building Monopoly, he’d be out soon—involuntarily retired. He didn't mind. He’d had a great career, led honest and courageous men and saved countless lives. So, as he took another sip of his well-deserved drink, Colonel Vince Sweeney was content.

  "Hey, you gonna drink all that, or are you gonna save some for me?" The man sitting across from him in a nearly identical outfit growled with mock indignation.

  Sweeney had known Karl Schneider for just under twenty years. They served together in Delta Force on and off throughout their careers. Although Karl looked like a washed-up bartender with one foot in the grave, he still was one of the toughest men Vince Sweeney had ever met. Karl could take on a man three times his size and win. It probably had something to do with his upbringing. His father had been a coal miner in West Virginia, and prior to enlisting in the army, Karl had worked in the mines for two hard years. That did something to a man, and as the senior enlisted soldier under his command, Karl was not only a superb fighter, but also Colonel Vince Sweeney's best friend.

  Vince passed the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black to Karl after he refilled his own glass.

  "Did you take a look at those listings I sent you?" Karl asked, handing the bottle back to Sweeney.

  "Yeah, I like that place with the little red roof. Looks like something out of a painting my grandma had hanging in her guest bedroom.”

  Karl nodded appreciatively, equally at the whiskey and Sweeney's choice.

  "You know what, Vince? You're not much to look at, but I'd say you're a pretty good judge of real estate."

  Karl was on his way out too. He had a couple years on Sweeney which had forced the army to take out its big, fat magnifying glass and give Karl the old up-and-down. Vince knew what the higher-ups were thinking; they had two washed-up soldiers ready to send out to pasture. Never mind the fact that they were Delta warriors. There was always a need to make space for the up-and-comers. Although Vince understood this fact, he was sadder for his friend than for himself.

  While the Army, and Delta Force, had been good to Colonel Vince Sweeney, it had been the blood coursing through Karl's veins for thirty years. However, the blood transfusion was about to be taken away. Thus, the two men had made a pact. When they got out and retired for good, they'd leave together. Neither man was married now, though both had each been previously: Vince once and Karl twice. Now neither had any prospects on the horizon, and that was okay with them.

  Karl had concocted a plan. They planned to do what a lot of the guys were doing - get out and set up shop on the civilian side. They had plenty of contacts, both active duty military and police forces, all more than willing to utilize their assistance and training. Besides, they each had enough money put away to last them for years; they'd been smart with their finances. Even if no jobs came their way, they'd be more than content living the simple life of hunting in the mornings, strolling to the lake to fish, and growing old together on rickety rocking chairs under that little red roof.

  "Yeah." Vince reflected, "That sounds fine. Damn fine."

  This journey home was one step closer to that goal.

  "You know, I bet if we wait a couple months we might be able to get that place for a steal. It's been on the market for over a year, and the agent said the owners are ready to sell. What do you think, Vince?"

  Vince looked over at his friend and smiled.

  "I say why wait? Let's do it."

  Karl grinned and held out his glass.

  “Here’s mud in your eye, Vince."

  They clinked their glasses and downed the rest of their drinks.

  And just like that the conversation was over. It was back to business.

  "What do you think the big man's going to say about what we saw?" Karl asked.

  Vince shook his head. "I know what he'll say, but it's what he'll do I'm most worried about."

  Their current mission came straight from the top. As two of the most seasoned veterans of the famed Delta Force, Karl and Vince were given first shot at the assignment. It didn't hurt that they had a personal reputation with the president of the United States. When he called them, they were only too happy to serve. Besides, masquerading as oil venture entrepreneurs wasn't such a bad gig. Yeah, Africa was hot as hell, but flying first class wasn't too bad, and the mission was important too. Why say no?

  Vince and Karl understood the consequences. They'd seen firsthand the developments that the world wasn't supposed to know about. So while Vince was anxious to get home and take his first hot shower in a week, he knew an uncomfortable conversation was coming. Decisions would have to be made, contingencies planned, but that was still hours away. As he and Karl had for years, they would enjoy their current time in the sun. It wasn't every day that you were the only passengers on a swanky private luxury jet, and that's what made the next moment so surreal.

  They had only been in the air for thirty minutes when a concussive blast rocked the small airplane. Years of reflexive action and phy
sical memory imprinted on their DNA, now saved both Karl’s and Vince’s lives. Their seatbelts had been unbuckled, but they clutched onto their chairs for dear life. There was the sucking wind. At the plane’s tail, Vince saw there was a gaping hole four rows back. He saw something fly through the hole and, for the briefest instance, he thought it was Karl. However, when he looked across the aisle Karl had assumed the same position as Vince.

  The plane veered off course as the wind tore through the passenger compartment. Vince could barely hear the blaring of the emergency sirens overhead. No one came out of the cockpit, and that was probably for the best. It was sealed, and it was the safest place for the pilots attempting to fly the doomed bus. Neither Vince nor Karl had parachutes or even weapons at their disposal, thus jumping from the plane was ruled out as an option. Instead, with grim nods, the two men climbed back into their chairs and strapped themselves in. It was going to be one helluva bumpy ride, Vince and Karl thought to themselves.

  + + +

  The pilot was good, really good. He'd somehow manhandled the nosediving aircraft to a safe and secure landing just beyond the edge of some storm-engorged lake. As Vince stepped outside, shielding his eyes from the scorching sun, he smelled leaking fuel. However, Lady Luck was smiling down on them because there weren't any flames. After he performing a quick inspection of the hull’s exterior, the only apparent damage was the jagged tear along the aircraft's left side.

  Both pilots climbed out of the plane into the bright sunlight. One held onto Karl's arm for support. Neither man appeared injured, but both were visibly shaken, and at first glance, they looked to be in shock.

  "Well that's number three for you," Karl said, pointing a finger at Vince. "Remind me to book a plane home without you on it."

  Karl smirked, but the joke was lost on the two pilots, who were looking at their surroundings as if they’d just landed on the moon.

  "You two okay?" Vince inquired.

  First one pilot and then the other nodded, dazed.

  "That was some amazing flying," Vince said with gratitude. "Thank you both. You saved our lives."

  The comment did little to shake either pilot from his stupor. It appeared they were in mild shock, which Vince had seen many times before. It was not the debilitating type. They just needed a couple of minutes and water.

  “Karl, why don't you go see if the stewardess can bring some water for the gentlemen first, please."

  Karl shook his head in dismay. "She's not in there, Vince; I think she got sucked out of the plane. I'll go get some water."

  One dead. That poor girl. She'd probably been on her way to see if they needed anything when it all happened. Couldn't do anything about that now.

  "Did you call for help?" Vince asked the lead pilot.

  The man looked confused, stunned even. Then he shook his head in dismay.

  "It was the strangest thing,” the pilot replied. "Right when it happened—well, not right when—but in the seconds before—we lost all our Comms. They went out when we started losing altitude. We tried to call MAYDAY-MAYDAY-MAYDAY! but we couldn't reach anyone. I've been flying for a long time, and have never encountered this before."

  Vince figured it probably wasn't the first time it ever happened. They were over Africa, after all. However, when he pulled out his satellite phone and tried to get a signal, he couldn't. That was a first for him as well.

  Karl was outside the plane again, giving water bottles to both pilots.

  "Hey Karl, you ever had one of these sat phones go out on you?" Vince asked, shaking his head in confusion.

  "Just the one that got shot out of my hand. You know, the one right outside Jalalabad."

  Vince hadn't been there, but he knew the story well. Karl had been calling in for close air support when an enemy sniper fortunately missed Karl's head, but unfortunately, put a bullet in the sat phone instead. BAM.

  Vince was about to ask the pilot if he knew their location when a crackle of gunfire erupted from some distance away.

  At least a klick, maybe two, Vince thought as he dove to the ground.

  As he hit the dirt, he went to check the status of the lead pilot, also lying on the ground. Vince winced. Half the man's face was gone and blood poured from the wound onto the ground, inching its way toward Vince’s position.

  "Get down," Karl hissed at the copilot, who was crouched next to the cockpit.

  The man looked back at the plane furtively and then toward where the gunfire sounded.

  "Maybe if we surrender," the man puzzled, "maybe if we tell them who we are. It could just be all a mista—"

  He never completed the word. A flurry of bullets hit his body in rapid succession, metal tearing through and obliterating the man’s flesh. Vince knew the copilot was dead even before he hit the ground.

  Vince shot Karl a What should we do next? look. Their options were restricted. The terrain was vast, wide open, providing them no cover. If they moved away from the plane they would be sitting ducks; but hell, they already were sitting ducks. He could feel an invisible force of evil moving closer. He saw the rounds tearing through the sky overhead. Due to the seemingly endless barrage, Vince estimated there were at least twenty men, maybe more, raining bullets on them. That was a lot of firepower, especially considering Karl and Vince had no weapons to protect themselves.

  Then to his complete surprise, something both horrible and wonderful occurred. He hadn't noticed the sky turning black. It began as a couple of raindrops, but within mere seconds a torrential wave of rain poured from the heavens. He could barely see Karl, who was only ten feet away. Soon, Karl was able to locate him through the near-blinding rain and was yelling in his ear.

  "We need to go. We need to go now!”

  That's when Vince remembered that he had something that might help them, but not if he waited long. It had been a gift from a friend – a new but good friend. Vince had helped him in the recent past, and Vince harbored no doubt he would help them, if at all possible. He delved into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  Karl looked at him like he was nuts, but Vince ignored him. He tore through the packet. The already-sodden tobacco sticks fell to the ground and were washed away in the newly created, raging streams. Tucked inside the cigarette pack was something that resembled a credit card, but once Vince depressed his finger on the bottom right corner, a screen lit up. He'd been told he'd only get one shot at using this device. Once used, it would be useless. “One shot, one kill,” his friend had said. It was securely encrypted. It would send a signal up to a private satellite, after which Vince’s friend would receive its message.

  He typed out the message quickly, pressed the send button and waited for the green light to know the transmission was successful. Although its burst battery power was now expended, Vince snapped the card in half and shoved it back in his pocket. There was no sense leaving behind evidence.

  Now came the hard part. They needed to somehow find themselves a safe haven while trudging through the blinding rain, holding onto hope that the heavens would give them more than a few minutes of cover.

  Chapter 2

  Cal Stokes leaned back in his rust-encrusted metal chair and stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. The room he was sitting in stunk like elephant dung incense sticks and he winced as the taste assaulted his tongue.

  "Don't tell me you're getting tired of this already, Cal," boomed Master Sergeant (MSgt) Willy Trent's baritone voice from the corner. There was no need for them to be quiet. They were two levels underground and plenty of concrete stood between them and any prying ears. "Here," Trent said, as he tossed Cal something.

  Cal snatched it out of the air and examined the small package. "Gum?” Cal asked. Trent shrugged as if it was the only logical solution to the noxious problem. Cal sighed in resignation, popping one of the pieces of bubble gum out of its wrapper. Maybe it would help the smell. He placed it in his mouth and started chewing. Nope, still smells.

  He couldn't wait to get out of this pl
ace. Their hosts had been proud to exclaim that they had been given a piece of prime real estate—a place to accomplish good work. If this was prime real estate, Cal Stokes was a flying monkey with gossamer wings.

  "Man, remember the old days when we pumped in mariachi music, kept people awake, slapped them around a little bit, and just made their lives miserable until they told us the truth?" Gaucho asked from his location. There he'd laid out a bedroll and stretched his burly form to its just over five-foot potential. "Now you've got Doc in there with his potions and we don't get to have any fun. I don't understand why we all had to come out for this one anyway."

  The Hispanic former Delta operator was just ruminating aloud. Cal would never interpret a comment from any of these men as an accusation or direct threat to his authority. Together they'd been through too much and they all bitched and moaned. Well, except for Daniel. The Marine sniper had his chair leaning against the far corner of the room, his eyes closed, but Cal knew he was hearing everything. Daniel Briggs was just one of those guys who was so in tune with the world that his radar never stopped scanning.