Extinction Red Line (The Extinction Cycle Book 0) Page 5

  Linh shrugged. “The photograph will be of something in the jungle,” he said. “It’ll be blurry. It’ll lead readers to speculate. They’ll talk about it over tea and biscuits. It could be fantastic.”

  Gertrude’s eyes lifted. She was looking above Jimmy Linh’s head into the newsprint ether. She slowly nodded her head. “Okay,” she said. “You’ve got your story. Talk to travel about a flight and a room. Get petty cash from my assistant. Find yourself a fixer. I want you leaving tonight.”

  “Tonight? I—”

  Gertrude narrowed her focused glare on Linh. “Is that a problem?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “No.”

  “You know a fixer?” she asked. “Someone who can guide you to where you need to be, keep you out of trouble, grease palms that need greasing?”

  “I know someone.”

  “Good, then. You have four days to have something in writing. You can overnight the film and your draft. I want something ready for Tuesday’s morning paper.”

  Gertrude shooed Linh from her office. “Close the door behind you,” she ordered and spun in her chair to light a cigarette. Linh nodded, almost genuflecting as he shuffled backward from the room. He shut the door and turned around to face the wide-open sweatshop of a newsroom.

  A rush of adrenaline coursed through his body as he hurried back to his cubicle. He almost skipped through the maze of desks and waist-high dividers until he reached his seat. He plopped into the leather and ran his finger along the phone extension directory he’d scotch-taped to the wall of his space, adjacent to a photograph of him with his parents. It was a graduation photograph. He’d never paid attention to the fact that nobody was smiling in the black-and-white three-by-five image.

  Linh found the travel desk extension and punched the numbers on his phone. He cradled the receiver against his neck. It rang twice.

  The woman who answered was pleasant sounding, like a flight attendant reminding passengers to buckle their seat belts. “Travel,” she said. “This is Harriett.”

  “Hello, Harriett. This is Jimmy Linh in the newsroom. I’ve got a travel request. It’s rather urgent.”

  Harriett giggled. “They all are, Mr. Linh,” she said. “How might I help you?”

  The words sped from his lips. “I’m going to Vietnam for a story,” he said. “It’s my first big assignment. It’s about Ma Trang, which translates to White Ghost. The legend says the ghost has been traveling up and down this one path for more than a decade and snatching people. So, Gertrude Wombley, the editor, you’re acquainted with Gertrude Wombley, she—”

  “Mr. Linh,” said Harriett. “Mr. Linh.”

  Linh exhaled. “Yes?”

  “I’m so pleased for you, but I needn’t know anything but where you need to travel and when,” she said. “My apologies.”

  Linh felt warmth flood his cheeks. “Of course,” he stuttered. “I should apologize.”

  “No worries,” she said. “Are you flying to Hanoi or Ho Chi Minh?”

  “Hanoi.”

  “When would you like to depart?”

  “As soon as possible, please.”

  “Return?”

  “Five days. No. Wait. Four days. Yes. Four days.”

  “Four?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be overnighting in Hanoi?”

  “Yes.”

  “Driver?”

  “Please.”

  “I’ll make a couple of phone calls and be right back with you,” she said and hung up.

  Linh pressed the switch hook and took a deep breath. He was dreading the next call, but he had no choice.

  He pressed the numbers and rocked back and forth in his chair as the phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. The line clicked and Linh unconsciously held his breath.

  “Chào,” said Linh’s father.

  “Chào,” replied Linh breathlessly. “I need your help.”

  His father sighed. “I am busy. Can this wait until after work?”

  “No,” said Linh sheepishly, “it cannot.”

  “Okay then,” said his father. “What is so important you bother me at work?”

  “I need a phone number for Uncle Due.”

  “My brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to Hanoi.”

  “For what?”

  “Work.”

  Linh’s father chuckled condescendingly. “Work? You don’t work. You tell stories. You don’t make anything. You don’t—”

  “Father,” interrupted Linh, “I don’t have time for a lecture right now. I have to get on a plane. Could I please have his number?”

  Linh heard his father put his hand over the phone and call to Linh’s mother. In muffled Vietnamese his father spat out his disapproval of his son’s career, his life, his trip to Vietnam. He was preaching to the choir. Linh’s mother surprised him by suggesting they give Linh the number.

  “He’s going home regardless,” she argued. “Maybe Due can talk sense into him while he’s there.”

  Linh rolled his eyes. “Ba,” he said loud enough that the reporter in the cubicle across from him shot him a dirty look before turning back to his work.

  His father pulled his hand from the phone. “Okay,” he said and gave Linh the number. They hung up. Linh sat there with his hand on the receiver, thinking about the conversation.

  Not once did his father ask why work was sending him to Vietnam. It was because he didn’t care, Linh believed. Unless he was working for the family business, any other employment was unimportant and a waste of time.

  Linh moved his hand to dial the long-distance number his father had given him for his Uncle Due when the phone rang. He picked it up on the first chime.

  “London Morning Reflector,” he said. “This is Jimmy Linh.”

  It was Harriett from travel. “Mr. Linh, I have your travel arrangements.”

  “That was quick. Thank you.”

  “Of course,” she said and gave Linh the details for his flight and hotel. “A car will meet you at your arriving gate. He’ll have your name written on a placard. Remember it’s six hours ahead in Hanoi. Plus it’s a thirteen-hour flight, so you’ll be landing at approximately two o’clock in the afternoon local time. I’ve got you booked in Hanoi for four nights. There are no international brand hotels, but I think you’ll be pleased nonetheless. The driver will pick you up at the hotel in time for your return flight next week.”

  Linh was scribbling down the information as quickly as he could transcribe it. Flight numbers, phone numbers, addresses—all of it looked good. He thanked Harriett and hung up before checking his watch. He had five hours until his flight.

  He looked at the number his father gave him, and dialed. It was early evening in Hanoi.

  A soft, kind voice answered the phone. “Chào ban,” said Uncle Due.

  “Xin chào Bác,” said Linh, greeting his uncle and asking him how he was. “Ban khoe không?”

  “Jimmy?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Linh said. “I hope you are doing well.”

  “I am good. Why are you calling? Is your father healthy?” Despite the opposite tones of voice, Due was like his brother in his direct approach. Linh remembered he didn’t suffer fools any more than his own father would.

  “Yes,” said Linh. “Everyone is healthy. I am calling because I am coming to Hanoi tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “For work.”

  “Your storytelling?”

  Linh took a deep breath before responding to the gut punch. “Yes, my storytelling. I was hoping you could meet me and help me with it.”

  Uncle Due paused before answering. “I could do that,” he said. “You arrive tonight?”

  “I arrive tomorrow afternoon. I have a car taking me to my hotel. I could have him bring me to you instead and we could get straight to work.”

  “How much?”

  Linh crinkled his nose. “How much what?”

  “How much are you going
to pay me?”

  “We’re family,” Linh stuttered. “You’re my uncle. I just figured—”

  “You have to pay me,” said Due. “I bet your storytelling boss gave you money.”

  “I have money,” said Linh. “I can pay you.”

  “One thousand pounds.”

  “One thousand? That’s—”

  Due interrupted. “One thousand.”

  Linh sighed. He was already wondering if calling Due was a mistake. He actually knew the answer. “Okay. One thousand.”

  Uncle Due agreed. He gave Linh his address and wished him safe travels. Linh was relieved his uncle hadn’t asked him about the topic of his reporting. He knew his uncle would think less of him than he already did, if that were possible. He’d also want more money.

  Linh reached into his drawer, pulled out a handful of spiral reporter notebooks, some disposable ballpoint pens, and a brand-new Ultra Compact Pearlcorder L400 Micro audio cassette recorder. He’d spent most of his first month’s salary on the hi-tech device and hadn’t used it for a story yet.

  He slid the supplies into his brown leather satchel and pushed himself from his desk. He slung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the exit. He had to pack. He had to get to the airport. He had to focus. Something in the back of his mind told Jimmy Linh his adventure was going to be life changing.

  — 8 —

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  April 18, 1980

  Nick Womack’s head was pounding. His tongue was thick with the hangover he hadn’t quite sweated out the night before. He didn’t want to answer the phone. He rolled over, semiconscious, and grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello?” he grumbled through the fog. His eyes were shut. He wasn’t even sure if he was holding the phone close enough to his mouth or if he was actually holding the phone at all. The cord was wrapped around his arm.

  The voice on the other end was gruff. “I’m calling for Nicholas Lincoln Womack.”

  Womack smacked his tongue against the top of his mouth and winced against the thumping bolts of pain flashing across his forehead and between his eyes. He tried to place the caller but couldn’t.

  “Is this Nicholas Lincoln Womack?”

  Womack blinked his eyes open. Only two people ever used his middle name, and his mother was dead. He elbowed himself onto his back and untangled himself from the phone cord.

  “Who is this?” he croaked, still bewildered by the remaining alcohol in his system.

  “Is this Nicholas Lincoln Wo—”

  “Yes,” said Womack. “Who is this?”

  “Please hold,” said the voice. “I have General Reed for you.”

  General Anthony Reed. When Womack’s phone rang and there was a job to do, it was always Reed calling. Womack rubbed the sleep from his eyes and listened to a series of clicks before a familiar voice boomed through the earpiece, sending another bolt of pain thundering through his head.

  “Nick,” said the general, “you got me?”

  Womack sat at attention. “Yes, General.”

  “I know you’ve been waiting on a call,” he said. “Sorry I haven’t gotten in touch sooner. I know it’s been a couple of months.”

  “It’s been four months, six days, and a few hours,” said Womack, clearing the phlegm from his throat. “But who’s counting?”

  The general laughed. He was a brick wall of a man, compact and powerful with a barrel chest and silver crew-cut hair trimmed high and tight. There were deep creases across his forehead that told the story of a man who fought in battle himself and bore the internal scars of sending other men to die.

  He’d commanded Womack a decade earlier, and when Nick decided to get out, it was General Reed who’d provided him a steady stream of off-the-books work and income. The men owed each other more than they could ever admit publicly.

  “I’ve got a job for you,” General Reed said. “Five men, including you. That’s the usual team, I suspect. You leave tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  “This isn’t a secure line,” said the general. “You can find your intel on the steps.”

  “Got it,” said Womack. “I’ll call the boys. I’ll pick up the package. We’ll be en route.”

  “Good.” The line went dead.

  Womack threw his legs over the edge of the bed and raked a handful of Tylenol from the bedside table. He downed them without water and fought the headache to his closet. He was dressed in a minute, slid a dark green Eagles ball cap on his head, and was out the door.

  He was within walking distance of the drop location, so despite the predawn chill, he marched with purpose west along Spring Garden Street. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and balled them into fists. It couldn’t have been more than fifty degrees, which was ridiculous for April.

  “I really gotta move south,” Womack mumbled as he crossed Kelly Drive and moved north of Eakins Oval. “Key Largo sounds good about now.”

  A young couple jogged past him. The man was carrying a Walkman cassette player in his right hand as he ran.

  Womack shook his head at the yuppie. “Two hundred dollars for a tape player,” he said to himself. “Lunacy.”

  He started humming Stevie Wonder’s “Higher Ground” as he approached the Philadelphia Museum of Art. He started up the steps slowly at first, but increased his pace as he moved higher up the incline. He reached the top of the steps and leaned over to catch his breath. He sucked in air and coughed against the rush of cold filling his lungs. His temples throbbed.

  Womack winced and stood up straight, planting his hands on his hips. He cursed himself for succumbing to the urge to run the steps like Sly Stallone. Stupid. Just stupid. He was preoccupied with the pain racking his head and didn’t notice the bell-shaped man approach him from the side.

  “You like Ansel Adams?”

  Womack spun around to face the man, who had a black backpack slung over one shoulder. He smiled at him. “I do. I understand I just missed the exhibit.”

  “That’s too bad,” said the man, pulling the pack from his shoulder. “His 100 Photographs was quite the show.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Womack said. He actually had heard about the exhibit at the museum. He’d thought about going to see it over Thanksgiving the year before but never got around to it.

  The bell-shaped man dropped the pack onto the stone ground and turned to waddle away. Womack watched him navigate the seventy-two steps with his short, pudgy legs. The man didn’t look back once he’d begun his descent.

  Womack picked up the pack, jostled it onto both shoulders, and walked down the steps opposite the way he’d approached. It took him fifteen minutes to get home and empty the pack’s contents onto his dining room table.

  On the table was everything he needed for the mission: false passports, cash in various currencies, maps, contacts, and a detailed timeline. They were going to Iran.

  The mission, as best Womack could tell, was large scale. It was approved at the highest levels of government and involved the rescue of the fifty-two hostages held inside the United States embassy in Tehran.

  His team was one of three off-the-books sets of operators who would join the military mission to free those held since 4 November 1979. It was called Operation Eagle Claw. There were eight helicopters, six C-130 transports, and an undisclosed number of personnel employed for the extraction.

  Womack and his men would use their Canadian passports only if needed. They’d enter Iran aboard an unmarked military aircraft disguised as a cargo plane delivering humanitarian aid. The team would disembark at an airstrip in Mashhad. They’d find needed equipment there and would base in the northwest region of the country before moving to the departure point for the action on 24 April.

  His headache dissipated as he looked at the maps and read through the plans that were available at his classification level. There were a lot of gaps. It seemed to Womack he was either out of the loop on a lot of intelligence or it was a bad plan. He couldn’t tell which. The seven-
figure payday he’d share with his team was more than enough incentive to shove his misgivings to the back of his mind.

  Womack moved to the easy chair and started calling his team members one by one. Each of them agreed to meet at the airport within three hours for their trip. Womack checked their names off one by one and made sure the false paperwork contained the appropriate photographs.

  He didn’t trust many people, but the four men with whom he’d fought and bled were among them. They were better than brothers. He’d picked them.

  William Cosgrove was the most experienced. He was a sharpshooter with an equally accurate wit. The team called him Wilco.

  Jack Ferguson was the demolition specialist. He was also deadly with a knife. Or a ballpoint pen. He was the most ruthless of the group. They called him Ferg.

  Ben Luster was a mountain of a man. His thick, wiry beard and Popeye-sized forearms were all anybody noticed about the operator. Womack called him Shine. Most others called him sir. He knew Shine better than most people knew themselves. Shine knew him too. They’d spent time together in some awful places, places that would have broken lesser men. In some ways it had broken them.

  The youngest member of the team was its most enthusiastic and most fearless. Wolf was the nickname for Rob Wolverton. He was in his mid-twenties and had only caught one tour in Vietnam. He liked to say the one tour was all the women could handle. Wilco liked to remind him the women could handle whatever he’d been willing to pay them.

  Womack, who didn’t have a nickname, stuffed the material back into the pack. He checked his watch. He’d leave for the airport in ninety minutes. He had a lot to do to get ready.

  — 9 —

  Hòa Bình, Vietnam

  April 18, 1980

  Lieutenant Trevor Brett still had dreams. They were the worst part of his life post-VX-99. In the past twelve years, he had learned to obey the voice in his head. He’d come to cope with the ubiquitous hunger pangs that clawed at his insides. He’d even rationalized his need to kill. He was an animal. He was carnivorous. He was a survivor.