Sword of God - By Chris Kuzneski Page 0,3

one."

"What kind?" Jones asked.

"International, domestic, political. We've got the potential for a world-class shitstorm, and right now we're missing our weatherman."

Payne deciphered the statement. "Does this weatherman have a name?"

"One you're familiar with: Captain Trevor Schmidt. I believe you trained him with the MANIACs."

Payne and Jones both nodded. They had run the unit for several years, and Schmidt was one of their favorites. A black-haired kid from Columbus, Ohio, who had a passion for war and a taste for revenge. Then again, that could have described anyone in the MANIACs. They were a special group with a unique assignment: Do anything necessary, but don't get caught.

"When was Schmidt last seen?" Jones asked.

"We aren't really sure."

"How about where?"

"We don't know that, either."

"Okay, Colonel, let's approach this from a different angle. What do you know?"

Harrington shrugged. "We know that he's missing. Him and his entire squad. Gone, like fucking ghosts."

Payne grimaced. "I don't believe in ghosts."

"Neither did I. At least not until recently. Now I'm not so sure."

Somehow the Department of Defense had managed to lose an entire squad, which was pretty tough to do with modern Combat Survivor/Evader Locator (CSEL) radios, technology that provided precise geoposition and navigation data to rescue parties. That meant Schmidt was running a classified black op, a covert operation that the Pentagon didn't want anyone-—not even Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR)—to know about.

"Tell me, how black was the mission?"

"Black as you can get," Harrington answered. "And it's my job to keep it that way."

"If that's the case, why bring us into it? Why go out of house?"

"Is it because I'm black?" Jones asked.

Harrington ignored him. "The reality is you trained Schmidt so you might be able to give us some insight into the way he thinks—where he'll go, what he'll do, who he'll rely on. The truth is you MANIACs are an interesting breed, one with a unique sense of warfare that no one fully understands but yourselves. Furthermore, two generals and an admiral assured me I'd be a fool if I didn't use you as a resource."

"Just a resource? Nothing more than that?"

"Actually, I'd welcome you aboard in any capacity. Whether that's here or in the field."

Payne glanced at Jones, who was nodding eagerly. That wasn't a surprise because Jones was always up for another mission. Upon his retirement from the military, he became a private detective, setting up shop in Payne's office building, a way for the best friends to grab lunch whenever possible. Unfortunately, the life of a Pittsburgh PI was not nearly as glamorous as Jones had imagined, especially compared to the missions he ran for the MANIACs. How could taking pictures of cheating spouses ever compare with killing terrorists or blowing up bridges?

Payne, on the other hand, was more reluctant. He wasn't fully comfortable in the corporate world, opting to donate most of his time to local charities instead of living at the office the way his grandfather had. But that didn't mean Payne was willing to risk it all. If he was killed without an heir, he knew Payne Industries would be dismantled, piece by piece, and sold to the highest bidder. And that was something he couldn't let happen. He loved his grandfather way too much to dishonor his life's work by doing something reckless.

Still, Payne felt a similar obligation to his military career, an unwavering devotion to his country and the men he trained. If one of them was in trouble, he knew it was his duty to help—whether that was as a behind-the-scenes resource or as an expert in the field. Hell, he couldn't live with himself if he opted to sit on the sidelines while one of his men needed him. In his mind, that would be far more irresponsible than risking his own life to help.

"Okay, Colonel. We're willing to lend you a hand. What do you need us to do?"

"I need you to come with me. We'll have plenty of time to talk en route."

"En route?" Jones asked. "To where?"

Harrington stood from his chair. "Korea."

Payne winced. He wasn't expecting such a long trip. "North or South?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. I need to know how much ammo to pack."

Harrington smiled an all-knowing smile. "Don't worry, Payne. Packing won't be an issue. I already sent some men to your homes. Your clothes are waiting at the airport."

* * *

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The plane departed from a cargo hangar at Pittsburgh International Airport, far away from the main terminal. It was a nonstop flight to Los Angeles followed