Dangerous Ground: The Team Book Five Read online

  A POST HILL PRESS BOOK

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-173-9

  Dangerous Ground:

  The Team Book Five

  © 2017 by David M. Salkin

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Christian Bentulan

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Post Hill Press

  posthillpress.com

  Published in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  Writing The Team series has given me a tremendous amount of enjoyment. I can only write if you read, and so I give you, my readers, my heartfelt thanks for your continued support. Your reviews and e-mails keep me writing, and I truly appreciate each and every one of you.

  As always, this novel contains the names of many of my friends. During the writing of this book, several people made donations to the Veterans Community Alliance—Freehold Township Day Committee in exchange for having their names included in the manuscript. It was fun for them, and also ended up raising money for a worthy group that helps local veterans and their families, a cause dear to my heart.

  In no particular order, Jeff Dennis, Vince Norman (who left us all way too soon), George Burdge, Danielle Reynaud, Cheryl “Cookie” Cook, Tina Marie, Layne Gautreau, Kevin Israel, Valeria Jean Kozak, Jessica Coulter, Bill Gallo, Karl White, Steve Burstein, and others . . . thank you all for your generous donations to the VCA. You helped purchase two bikes this year, which two veterans rode from New Jersey to Walter Reed Medical Center. Ooh rah! I hope none of you are offended by your portrayal (or demise!). The characters Chris Cascaes and Apo Yessayan reappear, and are two of my best buds in real life.

  Special shout-outs to the Philip A. Reynolds Detachment of the Marine Corps League and ARMS, two other organizations that, like the VCA, serve American veterans. I’m proud to wear the red polo and cover as an associate member of the Marine Corps League.

  To the good people at Post Hill Press, thank you for helping me live the dream of being a full-time author. Anthony Ziccardi and Michael L. Wilson, thank you! Also, my thanks to editor Jon Ford for his assistance in making sure we get it right.

  For the latest news, follow me on Facebook at David M. Salkin, or on Twitter @DavidMSalkin, or visit DavidMSalkin.com.

  Dedication

  For ALL of my family and friends, who make me laugh and smile every day, I am so blessed to have all this love . . . and in particular, Patty, Rachael, and Alex, my Team!

  And for two very special people, both taken way too soon:

  Tom Antus, my teacher, my mentor, and most importantly, my friend.

  And

  Bruce Buscaglia, friend and classmate since kindergarten.

  You are both missed, but never forgotten~

  And finally, to our veterans and those still in the field, thank you.

  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

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  USS John Warner

  South China Sea

  Commander Vince Norman sat in his chair behind the two submarine pilots watching the outside world on computer screens that revealed five ships and a small island. The new Virginia-class John Warner (SSN-785) wasn’t equipped with a periscope. Rather, this next-generation submarine boasted a photonic mast that could view the world with high-definition and infrared cameras from below the surface.

  Norman’s XO, Lieutenant Commander George Burdge, sat at his console typing on his keyboard.

  “Logging ship IDs now, Commander,” he said quietly.

  Commander Norman studied the ships on his screen carefully. The vessels were all Chinese; three military and two that looked to be freighters bringing in more equipment, weapons, and supplies to the newest artificial island in the South China Sea.

  LCDR Burdge broke the silence again. “Got ’em, skipper. Two frigates, the Heng Shui and Liu Zhou, and a destroyer, the Wuhan. The other two are supply, but definitely government vessels.

  Master Chief Adams, a radar and sonar specialist who had a habit of always speaking in a whisper, turned his head toward the commander.

  “Lots of active sonar and radar out there,” he reported. The newest electronics equipment aboard the John Warner could do things that ninety-nine percent of the world’s ships couldn’t, including reading active radar and sonar, jamming enemy electronics, and cloaking itself to the most sophisticated sonar outside the US Navy arsenal. It was three hundred and seventy-seven feet of Bad-Ass.

  “Hold steady and slow, Mr. Talbot,” said the commander to his sub pilot. “We need to get a little closer to the pier area. Satellite pictures aren’t able to see what they’re bringing in so we need to take a peek ourselves.”

  “Aye, aye, skipper. On course at ten knots,” replied the pilot.

  “Enemy submarine detected, three miles, bearing two-seven-zero. They don’t see us,” reported Master Chief Adams.

  “Very well. Just keep tabs on it. Can you ID it?”

  “Negative, skipper. Best guess is a Yuan-class. It’s way too noisy to be a nuke.”

  “I concur. Tag it and stay frosty.”

  The master chief used the ship’s sophisticated computers to “tag” the submarine, and the smart little box kept track of the enemy sub automatically, remembering the ship’s name and details, while the
crewman continued monitoring the other ships.

  “Time to target six minutes, skipper. Going to get crowded,” said the pilot.

  “This isn’t bumper cars, Mr. Talbot,” replied the skipper with a small smile.

  “Aye, aye, skipper.”

  Above the sparkling surface, Chinese sonar operators scanned the ocean’s surface and depths for foreign vessels. Only a few months prior, the United States guided missile destroyer USS Lassen crossed within twelve miles of China’s newest artificial island. To the Chinese, it was an encroachment on their territorial waters and a clear violation of international law. For the Americans, it was a political statement reaffirming the United States’ position that China has no legitimate claim over the waters surrounding the artificial islands, and the Chinese threat to freedom of navigation posed an international destabilization of the region. In July of 2016, The Hague had sided with the Philippines that China’s historic claims to the South China Sea were not legitimate. China ignored the ruling and continued building islands.

  As usual, both sides rattled their swords and played a game of chicken. To complicate matters even more, Vietnam, Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, Brunei, and Taiwan all had their own list of disputes. Vietnam, Malaysia, Taiwan, and the Philippines had also built their own artificial islands, complete with airstrips. All of these new islands could prove to be very dangerous ground, indeed.

  At almost one and a half million square miles, the South China Sea just wasn’t big enough for everyone.

  Chapter 2

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Director Holstrum sat behind his desk drinking yet another large black coffee while he read a classified memo. His intercom snapped him out of his concentration.

  “Director, Mr. Yessayan is here to see you.”

  “Send him in.”

  Apo walked into the director’s office in his usual calm demeanor. Today he was dressed in black slacks and a crisp white shirt with Italian loafers. No socks—it was July. It was Apo’s “corporate look.” The man, often referred to as “the Chameleon” by his peers in the agency, could show up looking like anyone. A short, thick man with a dark complexion, the bald, middle-aged Apo posed no threat when he entered a room. Anyone seeing him in the hallways of CIA might mistake him for an analyst or accountant. The fact that he spoke fluently in Arabic, Farsi, Pashtun, Kurmanji, Spanish, and French and had a working knowledge of a half dozen other languages wouldn’t be evident. Nor would his hand-to-hand combat skills. Apo Yessayan was, very quietly, one the CIA’s most lethal and efficient agents. He had been to more countries than he could count, and quite often left multiple enemy dead behind him.

  “Morning, Mr. Director,” said Apo, crossing the elegant office and sitting in a high-backed black leather chair.

  “Coffee?”

  “That would be quite wonderful, actually.”

  The director pressed his intercom and spoke to his executive secretary. “Susan, can you please locate a Turkish coffee for Apo?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be back in five.”

  “Turkish, even? Is this a suicide mission?”

  Holstrum smiled and shrugged. “Maybe I’m just being courteous.”

  “This is why you’re in the office and I’m out in the field. You’re a shitty liar, boss.”

  “How’s your Malay?”

  Apo made a face. “Malay? Am I going to Malaysia or Thailand?”

  “Neither.”

  Apo sat back and crossed his arms. “That leaves Indonesia and Singapore.”

  “You left one out.”

  Apo furrowed his brow and thought for a second. “You got me.”

  “Brunei.”

  “Brunei?” Apo let that hang in the air for a moment. “As I recall, the same family has run the country for six hundred years. What’s got Brunei on your radar?”

  “First, your language skills. Any Malay?”

  “No. Tough language. I could probably find some Chinese speakers in a jam, but most Bruneians speak a little English anyway. What’s up?”

  “A very, very old piece of history.”

  “You have me intrigued.”

  “A broken arrow.”

  Apo sat back and crossed his legs, pursing his lips as he scanned his memory for missing nukes in that part of the world. “In Brunei? Closest I can remember was near Japan in the sixties.”

  “Very good. Yes. In December of ’65. A bomber flipped off the Ticonderoga and we lost the plane, the pilot, and a one-megaton nuke. The navy declassified it in 1980, although they gave the wrong location on purpose to avoid tensions with Japan.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s happened a few more times than we’ve admitted. There’s another one—two, actually—sitting not too far from Brunei very close to a brand new artificial island.”

  “The Chinese?”

  “The Bruneians, actually.”

  Susan knocked and opened the door with a small tray. There were two demitasse cups with dark coffee that perfumed the air. Apo closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

  “Marry me, Susan.”

  Holstrum smiled. “He says that to everyone that makes good coffee—ignore him.”

  She smiled and placed the tray on the small table in front of him, then took one of the cups and gave it to her boss. “I figured you wouldn’t be opposed to one yourself.”

  “You sure you don’t want it?” asked Holstrum.

  “Oh you can be sure there’s already one on my desk. In a real mug.”

  Holstrum smiled. “You’ll be awake until next week.”

  She shrugged and closed the door quietly behind her.

  “So Brunei is in the island-building business now, too?”

  “It would appear so. But we have a few troubling facts that need follow-up. First, the Sultan of Brunei, Sir Hassanal Alam, has made some interesting changes of late. He instituted Sharia law last year. Since then, stoning to death, public whipping, sometimes to death, and the hacking off of limbs has come back into fashion. That said, none of the Sharia laws apply to him or his brother. They each have dozens of sex slaves, as well as multiple wives and children. They throw huge parties, with plenty of drinking and sex and other activities that would get anyone else in the country hanged in the town square.”

  “How nice. Maybe I’ll book a vacation.”

  “Drinking alcohol gets you forty lashes for the first offense. Double for the second.”

  “Well that crosses it off my bucket list.”

  “Sultan Alam is one of the richest men in the world. Twenty billion in the bank. As he’s gotten older, he’s become more devout. Might be to save face because of his brother’s embarrassing shenanigans, but whatever the reason, we’ve picked up some chatter.”

  “Ah. The plot thickens,” said Apo softly. He sipped his coffee and closed his eyes, enjoying the taste.

  “We believe that ISIS has been making overtures to the sultan. Malaysian police arrested a group last May who were planning an attack. You remember Jakarta was attacked.”

  “Right.”

  “Word on the street is, the sultan keeps pushing his country deeper into Sharia. Might make a nice training ground for ISIS.”

  “We have any intel?”

  “Nothing confirmed. Just rumors. But they make sense. Which brings us to our problem.”

  “A couple American nukes sitting by an artificial island controlled by Brunei, which might have Islamic fundamentalist leanings . . .”

  “Correct.”

  “I love this job. Never a dull moment.”

  “What if a Canadian petrochemical company was to go to the sultan and offer to lease some offshore oil platforms? If they go along with it, you’d have a base of operations from which to start looking at the bottom of the ocean.”

 
“Why bother? Can’t we just get a sub over there and look without asking?”

  “The sub already found the wreck site—the USS John Warner. It can’t recover the bombs, though. We’ll need a surface vessel for that. Problem is, there are so many Chinese subs and navy warships in the water over there, we’re likely to bump into one and start World War III. China, Vietnam, Malaysia, Taiwan, and the Philippines also have surface fleets all over the South China Sea. Yesterday, an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer, the USS William P. Lawrence, was buzzed by two Chinese J-11 fighters, scrambled out of Fiery Cross Reef, where they built a ten-thousand-foot runway. We didn’t even know they had fighters there.”

  “Seriously? Satellites didn’t pick them up?”

  “No. We have subs there now doing reconnaissance while the destroyers continue to cruise up and down the shipping lanes to make it clear to China that they don’t own the whole damn ocean. It’s a mess, Apo.”

  “Yeah, well maybe the president should have taken an actual stance five years ago. That horse is out of the barn, boss.”

  Director Holstrum wiggled his eyebrows a few times uncomfortably. He wasn’t a fan of the commander in chief, but the boss was the boss and the CIA didn’t always get its way. “I made it known a while back that the island could pose a problem. We’ll leave it at that.”

  “Okay, so now what? I go to the sultan and offer him some dough to build an oil platform—then what?”

  “Then your oil exploration team pretends it’s mapping the ocean floor. Mapping the bottom would be logical. You set up the rig at the wreck site, recover the nukes, and then we have a team pick it up by ship. The second the nukes are secured, you leave.”

  Apo nodded. “Okay. But why would the sultan make a deal with the Canadians? He’s a multibillionaire. He’s got his own oil platforms and specialists, doesn’t he?”

  “He does, but it’s not uncommon for larger companies to partner with these nations. It’s a good deal for the sultan. They control the mineral rights, and the company shares in the output. If they miss on a drill, it doesn’t cost the sultan anything. If they hit oil, the sultan keeps sixty percent. Big Oil usually has the best geologists and equipment for mapping the ocean floor and searching for deposits. We cannot have those nukes fall into the hands of terrorists.”