Nevertheless, he was a solider. It was his job to follow orders, not question them—no matter how poorly conceived he believed them to be. If headquarters wanted to accelerate the timeline, he would do what they commanded.
There would be consequences, though, of that he was sure. And he had a pretty good idea of where some of the worst might take place.
Removing his encrypted cell phone, he began to compose a message. The cell in Sweden needed to be warned.
CHAPTER 18
* * *
BRUSSELS SOUTH AIRPORT, BELGIUM
The prospect of flying back to Scandinavia, especially on another military transport, wasn’t very appealing to Jasinski. On the plus side, though, at least the flight would be short, less than two hours.
After thanking Nicholas for lunch, Harvath had driven her back to SHAPE. On the way, she had asked again why they were going to Gotland. Harvath told her he would explain once they were in the air. Dropping her at the front gate, he instructed her to pack a bag and meet him at Brussels South Airport at 7:00 p.m.
When she arrived at the address he had given her, she was shown through the lobby of a fixed-base operator and escorted outside. There, standing on the tarmac beside a sleek white business jet with gray pinstriping, was Harvath. He had his back to her and was sipping from a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee as he admired the aircraft.
“Nice ride,” she shouted, loud enough to be heard over a commercial aircraft taking off nearby. “Gulfstream G650?”
Harvath was impressed. “G650-ER,” he clarified, turning to greet her. “Extended-range package. Seven thousand five hundred nautical miles. Sleeps ten, can travel at Mach .90, has a kick-ass espresso maker and comes with cup holders and free Wi-Fi.”
“How’d you swing this?”
“Like I said—if it flies, floats, or fights—I’m your guy.”
“Apparently,” Jasinski agreed, as the copilot approached, politely took her bag, and added it to a stack of much bigger luggage near the tail. Much of it was hard-sided, plastic Storm cases. She could only imagine what was inside. She doubted they were full of toothpaste, razorblades, and clean underwear.
Looking back at Harvath, she asked, “How long are we planning on being away?”
“Those belong to the rest of the team.”
“Team?”
“They’re already on board. I’ll introduce you.”
Harvath led the way up the airstairs and into the cabin of the G650-ER. The first thing she noticed was how luxurious it was. The white leather seats were trimmed with gray piping and had individual controls for heating and cooling. The tables were crafted from highly polished Makassar ebony veneers. Plush gray carpeting with a swirling black design ran end to end. The fixtures were polished nickel. It even had the new-plane smell.
Scattered throughout the cabin, in various stages of shoes off, feet up relaxation, were four men and one woman who made up the “team.”
Leaning in close to her, Harvath confided, “They still refuse to wear nametags so I’m probably going to get a few of these wrong.” Straightening up, he pointed as he worked his way down the aisle and said, “You’ve already met Gage, Morrison, and Nicholas, who are holding down the fort back at HQ, so let me introduce the rest of the team. Everyone, this is Monika Jasinski. Monika, this is, Gimpy, Grumpy, Dopey, Drippy, and Sparkle.”
Each of the passengers held up a middle finger in response. Some of them held up two.
“Be especially nice to Sparkle,” Harvath added. “The entire cabin—lights, music, temperature—runs on an app and she’s the only one who has been able to figure it out.”
Rolling her eyes, the woman Harvath had identified as Sparkle stood up, came forward, and introduced herself. “Nice to meet you, Monika, I’m Sloane Ashby.”
She was a very attractive woman. In her late twenties, she had blond hair, smoky gray eyes, and distinctly high cheekbones.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Monika said, shaking Sloane’s hand.
“If you haven’t figured it out yet, Harvath’s superpower is being a smartass.”
“It’s pronounced jackass!” someone yelled from the back.
Sloane chuckled and continued. “So, like I said, I’m Sloane. Let me introduce you to everyone else.”
Gesturing with her hands as if she was giving an airplane safety demonstration, she pointed to each team member and gave their real name and background as they walked down the aisle. Each stood and politely shook her hand as they were introduced.
“First up,” said Sloane. “Mike Haney, USMC Force Recon.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the six-foot-tall, forty-year-old Marin, California, native said.
“Next, Tim Barton, US Navy SEALs, DEVGRU.”
The stocky fireplug of a man was in his early thirties. Despite only standing about five-foot-six, he looked tough as hell. He had reddish blond hair and a full beard to match.
“Then we have Tyler Staelin, Combat Applications Group, or simply CAG. Which used to be called Delta Force, but is still referred to as the Unit. I think. I can’t be sure. There may have already been another name change since we got on the plane.”
The thirty-nine-year-old from downstate Illinois smiled as he shook her hand. He stood five-foot-ten and had a book on the table in front of his seat called Beirut Rules by Fred Burton.
“I’ve heard of that book,” said Jasinski. “Is it any good?”
“That bearded refrigerator you met earlier today gave it to me,” he replied. “I’m only a couple of chapters in, but so far it’s excellent.”
“I’ll make sure to add it to my list. Thank you.”
Staelin smiled again and sat back down as Sloane introduced Monika to the plane’s final passenger.
“And last but not least,” she said, “we have Chase Palmer, also of Combat Applications Group, Delta Force, or whatever they’re calling themselves over the next half hour.”
“You forgot handsome,” Palmer stated, his voice identifying him as the one who had called Harvath a jackass.
He was in his early thirties and actually looked so similar to Harvath that the two could have passed for brothers.
“And what’s your background?” Jasinski asked, once Sloane Ashby had finished the introductions.
“U.S. Army, THTH,” she replied.
“THTH?”
“Too Hot To Handle,” Sloane explained. “The first soldier to ever be pulled from combat for being too damn good at her job.”
“You mean killing as many of the enemy as possible?”
“That’s what I thought I had signed up for, but being a woman in a—”
“Long story,” Harvath said, peeling Jasinski away from Sloane and steering her toward a seat near his up front. “Do you want anything before we take off?”
“Can I get a water?”
“Sure.”
Walking to the rear of the cabin, he pulled a bottle from the galley fridge, prepared another espresso, and returned as the jet began to taxi to the runway.
“Here you go,” he said as he handed the water to her.
“Thank you,” she replied.
Sitting down across from her, he placed his espresso atop the table between their seats and asked to see her cell phone.